She tilted her chin. “Going for a walk.”
He bent, thrusting his handsome face into hers. “When I gave ye orders to stay in yer rooms?”
“Yes.” She licked her bottom lip.
For a moment his gaze dropped to her mouth before snapping back up to meet her eyes. “No one disobeys me in me own home!”
For a moment she wasn’t sure she could speak. He was crowded into her, his very breath hot upon her cheek. He was so much bigger than she. So much more physically powerful.
But she had determination. “Evidently someone does now.”
His nostrils flared and for a moment all she could do was hold her breath.
Then he abruptly straightened and stomped to her door. He wrenched it open and glared at her. “Stay in this fuckin’ room or I swear ye’ll be regrettin’ it.”
The walls shook as he slammed the door.
Silence exhaled and flopped back on the bed. She felt as if she’d weathered a thunderstorm, but one thought rang gleefully in her mind:
She, Silence Hollingbrook, meek widow of no particular means, had just faced down Charming Mickey O’Connor, the most feared pirate in London.
SUCH A STUBBORN little thing she was! Mick stalked along the corridor to the stairs. When he came to a rag and bucket, carelessly left by a maid, he kicked it over. The clatter of the falling bucket was gratifying, but didn’t tame his foul mood. Why wouldn’t she sit meekly in her rooms? Why wouldn’t she fucking obey him? He hadn’t a bloody clue what he would do if she defied him again. The thought of giving her any sort of pain was simply out of the question and if he couldn’t physically punish her…
Mick stopped at the bottom of the stairs and glared sightlessly at a tiny picture on the wall. It was an ancient Madonna and child, their halos layered in gold, Mary’s face was pinched and disapproving and an odd shade of green. The widow had been in his home a mere two days and already she was overthrowing his orderly life.
There was the sound of a throat clearing behind him.
“What the bloody hell is it, Harry?” Mick growled without turning.
“Ah, beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Bert is upset that Mrs. ’Ollingbrook got past ’im and I was thinkin’—“
Mick shook his head once. “I’m not discussin’ her right now.”
“Ah…”
“Is there anythin’ else?”
“Bran was wantin’ to know when ye’ll be talkin’ to the owner of the Alexander.”
Mick turned at that. “After me supper, but afore midnight. Let the man get sleepy in his great house a-thinkin’ Mick O’Connor has forgotten that he didn’t pay tithe on his last bloody ship.”
Harry pursed his lips. “Sleepy or not, ’e’d be a great fool not to be well guarded in ’is own ’ome.”
“No doubt.” Mick started down the corridor. “Which is why I’ll be bringin’ Pat and Sean as well as Bran.”
“Think that’ll be enough?” Harry hurried to keep up with him.
“Aye. We’ll be a-waitin’ in his room for him when he goes to bed.” Mick reached his rooms and flung open the door. “The shock of seein’ four armed men in his bedroom will, I think, be enough to soften him up right finely.”
Mick stopped dead in the middle of his bedroom. His bed was a huge piece of furniture with posts as big around as a man’s thighs. He’d slept comfortably there with two other bedmates—and had he wished, could’ve fit another three. The bed was so massive it usually dwarfed whoever occupied it. But not the big dog draped over both his pillows. The animal lay with its pale belly exposed, forepaws up in the air, its great head turned to the side, jaws agape and tongue lolling.
“What,” Mick said softly, “is Lad doin’ in me bed?”
Hearing his name, Lad opened small, piggish, upside-down eyes, gazing with idiotic adoration as his whip-thin tail thumped the covers.
“Ah.” Harry scratched behind one ear. “Well, see, ’e was lookin’ so forlorn, like, out in the courtyard by ’imself. Seemed an awful shame to leave ’im there all alone.”
“Off!” Mick roared at the dog.
Lad’s transformation was instantaneous. His tiny triangle ears folded back, his eyes narrowed worriedly, and he rolled so that he could crawl toward the edge of the bed on his belly.
“Is that mud on his paws?” Mick asked in outrage.
Harry glanced at the dog. “I do believe it is,” he said as if making a discovery.
“Christ!” Mick watched disgustedly as Lad made the edge of the bed and slithered off, thumping to the floor. The dog seemed to think that his apology was done—or perhaps he’d already forgotten that Mick was mad at him—for he gamboled over as frisky as a lamb.
“He’s not even me dog,” Mick muttered.
Lad sat, one back leg sprawled out to the side, tongue hanging from his mouth, and grinned up at him. He completely ignored Harry, his supposed master.
“The dog ’as a wonderful affection for ye,” Harry said brightly.
“Well, I haven’t for him,” Mick said. “Take the beast out to the courtyard and get the maids to clean me bed.”
“O’ course, o’ course,” Harry said, not moving. He cleared his throat delicately. “And Mrs. ’Ollingbrook?”
Mick swung on him. “What about her?”
Harry blinked. “Ah… I thought a nice walk about the place wi’ the babe might make ’er feel less cooped up.”
Mick snorted so loudly Lad cocked his head. “That woman isn’t goin’ anywhere until she bends to me will.”
“Then she won’t be joinin’ us for supper this evenin’?” Harry asked, hope dying hard in his hangdog eyes.
“Not unless she has a sudden change o’ heart,” Mick said sourly. “In fact both she and that hellion babe will be stayin’ in her rooms with only food for the babe until she makes up her stubborn mind to come sup at me table.”
Harry tilted his head back to study the ceiling.
“What?” Mick demanded.
“Well, it’s jus’ that I’ve noticed in dealin’ wi’ the fair sex that it sometimes does a man well to show a little kindness.”
“Have I not given her a bed and a room fit for a queen?” Mick asked softly, dangerously.
“Ye-es—”
“And have I not been most accomodatin’ o’ her?”
“Well—” Harry looked doubtful.
Mick sliced his hand through the air. “All I ask is that she sup wi’ me. No other wench has disobeyed me thus to me own face.”
“Aye, but most wenches ye be dealin’ wi’ are doxies or servant girls,” Harry pointed out in a reasonable tone. He took a step backward nonetheless. “Mrs. ’Ollingbrook is neither.”
For a moment Mick merely stared at his henchman. Jaysus, when had his life become so complicated that he took to pleading his case with Harry? He had Silence in his house. He had her where he wanted her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to turn his life upside down.
“Why can’t she live in me palace and be happy?” Mick muttered.
Harry shrugged massive shoulders. “Mayhap because she’s a woman. They do ’ave minds o’ their own, I find.”
“Me orders stand,” Mick declared. “She may not be a whore or a servant, but she’ll bloody well learn to obey me.”
Harry and Lad stared at him with strangely similar bloodshot brown eyes, sad reproach in both their gazes.
Mick flung out a hand irritably. “Get on with ye!”
Dog and man turned toward the bedroom door.
“And keep that dog out o’ me house!” Mick roared after them.
BY THAT NIGHT Silence was going quietly mad in her bedroom.
“He can’t keep me locked up here like some prisoner!” she muttered to Fionnula.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said with admirable equanimity considering she’d been listening to Silence complain for most of the day.
Silence grimaced. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is so… so medieval. Who does Micke
y O’Connor think he is? Some pagan god?”
“Oh no, ma’am,” Fionnula replied earnestly. “I don’t think he considers himself a god. Now a prince or even one of those sultans they have about in those heathen lands…”
“It’s thinking like that that makes him as arrogant as he is.” Silence paced to the windows. They were draped in lovely rose curtains, perhaps to hide the fact that they’d been boarded up. She could just make out a sliver of the street below if she applied her eye to a crack in the boards. “This is impossible! If he doesn’t care if I go mad from confinement, he should at least think of his daughter.”
Mary Darling whimpered as if in answer. Already this evening the little girl had thoroughly explored the room, been warned away from the fire a half a dozen times, and been rescued out from under the bed twice. Now she sat, fretfully playing with the spoon and dish leftover from her supper.
Silence’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the empty porridge dish. She’d told Fionnula that she could no longer accept her smuggled food—not after defying Mickey O’Connor this morning. Fionnula, Bert, and Harry were already in enough trouble because of her.
“Ye could come down to sup with him,” Fionnula pointed out cautiously.
Silence turned to glare at the girl. “Not as long as he orders me to do so.”
Fionnula ducked her head.
“I’m sorry.” Silence winced. It was hardly the girl’s fault that Mr. O’Connor was such a despotic beast.
Silence wrapped her arms about her waist. She’d already acquiesced to living with him. She was a lone woman with very little power in Mickey O’Connor’s palace. Refusing to dine with him really was the only way she could assert herself.
“It’s too much,” Silence muttered to herself and stomped out the door.
“What are ye about?” Fionnula cried as she scooped up Mary and hurried after.
“Ma’am?” Harry rose in alarm from the chair outside her room. Bert was apparently in disgrace—she hadn’t seen him since she’d escaped this morning.
“I’m going to have a word with the sultan,” Silence said with determination to them both. She turned and marched down the stairs before they could voice any more protests.
A moment later she opened Mickey O’Connor’s bedroom door with a jerk, bracing herself. It was with something of a letdown that she realized the room was empty.
“He’s off on his business,” Fionnula panted from behind her, Mary still in her arms. “They were all talkin’ about it at supper tonight. Come away now, ma’am. ’Twouldn’t do to be found in here.”
Silence ignored the warning, transfixed by the room. She’d been in here, of course, on that night nearly a year ago. He’d led her into this extravagantly decorated room, fed her, bid her enter his huge bed, and while she’d watched, had begun to unbutton his fine lace shirt. His long, elegant fingers had seemed to mesmerize her. She remembered staring, her mouth going dry with fear, as he’d bared his upper chest and then, his sardonic eyes locked with hers, he had lifted his arms, grabbing his shirt behind his back to draw it—
A sudden movement on the bed nearly made her scream. As it was Silence was unable to suppress a squeak of alarm. “What in God’s name is that?”
Fionnula peered around her. “Lad! Do get off the bed.”
An enormous dog raised its head, tiny eyes looking worried. The animal jumped clumsily to the floor and started for them.
Silence backed away quickly, ready to slam the door shut. “Is it dangerous?”
“Naw,” Harry said, “I’ve never seen Lad ’urt anythin’—unless ye count an old soup bone.”
“But he’s so big.” Silence eyed the animal worriedly. Lad was a none-too-clean fawn color, his little flop ears much too small for his massive head. She could see each rib on the dog’s side—as well as the muscles that moved beneath his tawny coat. A sudden thought struck her. “Mr. O’Connor has a pet?”
Fionnula scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know that I’d call Lad a pet. More like he just hangs around the place.”
Harry cleared his throat. “Lad’s me dog, actually.”
“But he sleeps in Mr. O’Connor’s bed?” Silence began skeptically, but at that moment the inevitable happened—Mary Darling caught sight of the dog.
“Gog!” she cried and bounced so hard that Fionnula set the baby at her feet.
Lad ducked around Silence and made straight for the baby.
“No!” Silence started forward to haul the animal back by the scruff of the neck—Lad wore no collar.
But before she could reach him, the animal stopped before Mary and wagged his tail tentatively as he looked down at her.
Mary chortled with glee and grabbed his muzzle with both her hands. “Gog!”
“Oh, my God,” Silence breathed, her hand hovering over the big dog’s neck. She’d throw herself on him to tear him away from her baby if she had to. She wrinkled her nose. Even if the beast smelled like a stable.
Lad stood still, save for his tail wagging ever faster. Mary had his jowls in her tiny fists, but the big dog didn’t seem to mind. As Silence watched he swiped the baby’s chin with an enormous tongue.
“Told ye ’e’s not dangerous,” Harry said proudly.
“He might not be a danger,” Silence conceded, “but he certainly needs a bath. He reeks.”
“Well, he does usually spend most of his time in the courtyard,” Fionnula admitted.
“Then what was he doing in Mr. O’Connor’s bedroom?”
“Lad has taken a fair likin’ to Himself,” Fionnula said, shrugging. “Even though it was Harry who rescued him from the bull-baitin’ pits.”
Harry nodded in agreement.
“Lad was a bulldog?” Silence asked in horror. The sport was a popular one, particularly among the poorer denizens of London, but Silence had always thought it terribly cruel.
“ ’E was bred a bulldog,” Harry rumbled, “but ’e were no good at it. Seems ’e were afraid o’ the bulls. I took ’im off a man about to drown ’im.”
“Oh,” Silence said softly. Lad was large and ugly and very smelly, but it seemed a shame to drown any creature, even an especially unbeautiful one.
As if he knew her thoughts, Lad sat and wagged his tail.
Silence placed her hands on her hips. “Well, no matter how he came here, one thing is for certain. This dog needs a bath.”
“D’YOU THINK HE’LL pay the tithe now?” Bran asked Mick that night.
They were tramping back to the palace in the company of Pat and Sean, four abreast down the middle of the street. Any they ran into in the dark made a wide berth around them.
“Aye,” Mick replied with satisfaction.
The owner of the Alexander, a large, round man with sallow, hanging cheeks, had gone a rather sickly green when he’d walked into his bedroom to find it full of pirates. He’d nodded vigorously to everything Mick had said to him, while clutching his banyan about himself like a frightened virgin.
“Then that’s done,” Bran said.
“Not quite,” Mick replied as they turned into an alley. They were nearly to the palace now, but he couldn’t help but feel that they were being trailed. Well, this was as good a place as any—and he had his men at his back. Mick flexed his arm, feeling the sheathed knife bound to his forearm. “He’s agreed to me tithe, but I don’t think he understands the error o’ his ways. We’ll be raidin’ the ship when it makes port.”
“Aye,” Bran began, nodding.
A shape suddenly dropped from above, landing just in front of the four men.
“Jaysus Christ!” Sean shouted, leaping back.
Mick had his knife already drawn and was looking around warily, watching to see where the other attackers might come from. Several yards back two shadows drifted into the entrance to an alley. Mick shifted, keeping both the attacker in front and the men behind in his sight.
The shape in front straightened and became a man. Mick squinted. The figure wore a harlequin’s motley and
a wide-brimmed hat with a feather. Beneath the hat the upper part of his face was concealed by a black half-mask, the nose grotesquely long and curved.
In one hand he held a sword.
“The Ghost o’ St. Giles,” Pat whispered, crossing himself.
“We’re right honored,” Mick drawled. Pat might be superstitious, but the man before him looked real enough to him. “But yer barrin’ our path.”
The ghost cocked his head, eyes glittering behind the mask.
Mick’s eyes narrowed. “What do ye want?”
At that the ghost smiled and pointed to his eyes. Slowly his forefinger swiveled until it was pointed at Mick. The message was quite clear.
“Fuck that.” Mick lunged for him.
The ghost made an impossible leap, grabbing a balcony overhanging the alley. He swung himself up, nimble as an acrobat, and continued climbing up the side of the building.
“Jaysus,” Sean breathed. “I’d ’eard ’e could climb where no mortal man can.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Bran snapped. “Anyone with enough training and practice could do that.”
Sean looked doubtful. “Don’t think I could.”
“Nor I.” Pat backed a couple of steps, looking up the building’s side. “Couldn’t jump like that if me life depended on it. Were almost as if ’e ’ad wings, it were.”
“Aye.” Sean sounded admiring. “Right nimble ’e was, if ’e weren’t a ghost or phantom or some such. Think ’e were givin’ ye the evil eye, Mick?”
“No, I don’t,” Mick said shortly. He glanced behind him, but their followers seemed to have disappeared without making any move on them, perhaps made cautious by the Ghost. Uneasiness crawled up Mick’s spine. He could handle an attack against himself, but that wasn’t his weak point.
And the Vicar knew it.
Mick looked at Bran. “On the morrow we’re movin’ Mrs. Hollingbrook and the babe.”
Bran nodded without comment.
“Best we were back,” Mick said.
So saying he continued down the alley, though he didn’t sheath his knife again. His thoughts turned to the unexpected confrontation. The ghost wanted him to know that he was keeping a watch on Mick.