Bran had flushed under Mick’s diatribe. “Of course,” he said without any inflection in his voice at all. “We’ll do exactly as you wish.”
Mick narrowed his eyes. If ever he’d have a rebellion on his hands it would come from Bran. The lad was the canniest of all his men, and a natural leader as well—a fact that had made Bran Mick’s second-in-command at such a young age. Soon, Mick would have to give him more to do, guide Bran’s restless, clever mind.
But not tonight. The Vicar had made his intentions plain and Mick couldn’t afford any show of weakness—not even with Bran. The boy had to be reminded who was in charge.
“Good. See that it’s done,” Mick said, and turned to continue toward the back of the house.
Archie the cook was mopping the floor when they entered the kitchens.
“Start me some water boilin’.” Mick strode to the fire and began stripping off his wet clothes. “I want a hot bath and a fire roarin’ in me room.”
He was down to his smallclothes now and Mick took a ladle of water and began sluicing his body and hair to get the worst of the river stink out. He felt tainted, as if he stank not only from the river, but from contact with the Vicar, as well. Mick shuddered, pouring water over his head. He couldn’t let the Vicar destroy another woman. Her brown eyes had been haunted as she’d turned her tear-stained face from his. He shook away the phantom.
He wouldn’t let that happen with Silence.
Mick threw aside the ladle, caught up his coat again, and turned to the hall. God, he was tired and cold.
Cold to his very soul.
SILENCE LISTENED TO the commotion in the next room as she lay in bed that night. She and Mary Darling had been moved early this morning into a room that had a prominent door connecting it to Mickey O’Connor’s own room. She’d half-expected to see him all day—but apparently the pirate had been too busy with his own affairs. Only now, late at night, had Mickey O’Connor returned home.
Mary Darling was asleep in the corner, her railed cot having been brought with them. The new room was bigger and much finer than the rooms Mickey O’Connor had originally placed them in. The walls were a soft, feminine blue gray that suited her much better than the pink of the room upstairs, and an elegant arrangement of chairs stood before the fireplace.
Silence sighed and rolled over, fussing with the pillow under her head. Truth be told, she hadn’t been able to sleep because her belly was aching. She’d again refused the food that Fionnula and the guards had tried giving her today. It simply wasn’t right to put others at risk for her own needs.
Which might be true, but that lofty ideal didn’t help her hunger tonight. Silence pressed her palms to her aching stomach. She was so hungry that she’d even contemplated sneaking down to the kitchen to steal food. Her eldest sister, Verity, who had raised Silence and Temperance after Mama died, would be appalled.
Actually, Silence was appalled. Here she sat in the near dark cowering from Mickey O’Connor.
Was she a coward?
On that thought she rose and was across the room toward the connecting door almost before she could think. The sounds from the other room had stopped a while ago. Mr. O’Connor had either left or he was alone—perhaps enjoying an after-raid snack.
The thought made her stomach grumble.
Silence took a deep breath and opened the connecting door.
And then she had trouble exhaling.
Mickey O’Connor the pirate king was in the huge bath that they’d used the night before for washing Lad the dog. One arm dangled over the side of the tub, a goblet of amber liquid held carelessly in long elegant fingers. His ebony hair was wet and curling against his neck and shoulders. Those shoulders were broad, covered in smooth, olive skin, and spanned the width of the tub and more. And where before she’d thought that his chest was entirely devoid of hair, now she saw that small whirls circled his brown nipples and a thin line of hair trailed just below his naked navel, disappearing into the water where no doubt it led to other naked things.
Well, of course he was naked, Silence thought, trying to pull herself together. He was in his bath. Who took a bath fully clothed?
She had some vague idea of backing out of the room again, but he’d already seen her.
“Mrs. Hollingbrook,” the pirate drawled, taking a sip from his goblet. “I was jus’ sittin’ here wonderin’ if ye’d spent the day powderin’ and curlin’ Lad’s fur and here ye are. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice had suddenly assumed an upper crust English accent on the last sentence, making the words even more mocking.
Silence lifted her chin. She wasn’t going to turn tail and run from a pirate—even if he was naked. She darted a look at Lad—snoring in front of the fire—and decided it was best not to answer Mr. O’Connor’s mocking inquiry. “I’ve come to demand you tell me what is going on.”
He looked at her from under heavy eyelids. “Have ye, now?”
“I have.” She set hands upon hips. “It’s positively medieval, locking me up, refusing me food, never bothering to ask what I want or need.”
“Need,” he mused, his gaze slowly examining her form in a manner that caused her to go hot all over, “now that I’m thinkin’ we might not agree upon—what ye need—but do tell me what ye might be wantin’.”
She threw her hands up. “I want—and need—to eat!”
“Ah, but I’ve said more than once that yer welcome to sup with me.”
She was shaking her head. “You know—”
“I know that Fionnula and Harry and half me staff o’ bloody servants have seen fit to go against me by smugglin’ food to ye.” His voice suddenly held a nasty edge.
She froze, her eyes widening in fear for the others. “You can’t—”
“I can’t what?” he drawled. There was something dark in him tonight—something she’d not seen before. “I can’t turn them off, can’t toss them into the street, can’t make them disappear? The Thames is an easy place to lose a body. A man can slip beneath those dark, cold waters and sink without a trace.”
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
He shrugged one elegant shoulder, making the water ripple in the tub.
She took a step closer. “What happened on your raid tonight?”