Clever John Read online

  Harry looked away uneasily. He’d been the one to find the body. “Aye, but Mick, the Vicar don’t know ye fancy ’er, does ’e?”

  “I don’t know.” Mick felt his jaw clench at the admission. “I thought the babe secret and safe as well—and she wasn’t, was she?”

  Harry shook his head soberly.

  “Either he knows already or he soon will—he’s not stupid is the Vicar. It’s very necessary that I keep Mrs. Hollingbrook here with me,” Mick said softly. “Do we have a problem?”

  Harry swallowed. “No.”

  “Good.” Mick nodded. “And Harry?”

  Harry, who had turned to the door, froze. “Aye, Mick?”

  Mick smiled thinly. “Whatever else I might be doin’ with Mrs. Hollingbrook, I’m not playin’.”

  The information didn’t lighten Harry’s expression. He was wearing a frown on his ugly face when he left the planning room.

  Mick cursed and flung himself onto a velvet settee. Months of scheming had finally born sweet, juicy fruit and yet he still had a feeling of… What? Some strange emotion, some odd sense that he hadn’t truly won. Mick snorted. And what sort of pirate felt any emotion at all? He had the wench in his grasp, held fast in his own domain where he might examine her at his leisure. Find out why the little widow Hollingbrook brought such an uncommon itch to his skin, making him as restless as a caged wolf. He’d forgotten the face of the lass he’d bedded just the night afore, yet Silence Hollingbrook’s wide hazel eyes had haunted his sleep for months.

  Muttering to himself, Mick rang for his accountant, Pepper. The balding sparrow of a man came to him promptly enough and for the next hour or so Mick listened to the man drone on about ships and building materials until his head fairly ached. Yet at the end of that time, had anyone asked, Mick realized he wouldn’t have been able to report what Pepper had said.

  Sighing, Mick sent the accountant away again, then washed his face and hands and headed to supper.

  The dining room was a cavernous hall—Mick liked to have all his people eat the evening meal together—and thus the room was usually quite loud. But as Mick entered tonight, what conversation there’d been quickly quieted.

  He looked about. Bran was seated next to Fionnula. Pepper was across from him, a book open on his empty plate. A couple of Mick’s current women tittered together in the corner, while Bert glared at them from across the way. And a dozen or so of Mick’s night crew took up the far end of the long tables set end to end. To a man they were a dangerous, shifty lot—and yet not a one could meet his eye. Even the sweetmeats boy, Tris, was seated behind Mick’s chair, ready to serve him.

  Everyone was there in fact, except Mrs. Hollingbrook.

  Mick strode to Fionnula. “Where is she?”

  The girl trembled. “She said that she couldn’t come down to sup.”

  Mick bent and whispered softly, “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

  The girl gulped and said bravely, “Wouldn’t”

  Mick inhaled, feeling rage boil within his breast. He turned heel and left the room without a word. No one ignored his summons to supper—a fact Mrs. Hollingbrook was about to learn the hard way.

  SILENCE HAD JUST finished feeding Mary Darling her dinner when Mickey O’Connor burst into the bedroom without so much as a knock. She glanced up, startled, and then stiffened at the grim set of his mouth.

  Mary Darling frowned sternly, looking quite a bit like her sire at the moment. “Bad!”

  Mickey O’Connor narrowed his eyes at the baby and then turned to Silence. “ ’Tis supper time—or hadn’t ye heard?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I’d heard. Fionnula informed me.”

  “Then why aren’t ye downstairs with everyone else, darlin’?” he asked much too gently.

  He stood preternaturally still, his head cocked as if listening to her breathing.

  Silence found herself licking her lips nervously. She reminded herself of the promise she’d made just this afternoon: she would not blindly obey this man again. Refusing to dine with Mickey O’Connor might seem like a small defiance, but it was the only one she had. “I prefer to eat in my room with Mary.”

  “All those who live under me roof dine together downstairs.”

  She tilted her chin. “Do they?”

  “Yes, they do,” he said. “Get up.”

  His tone was so commanding that she almost did just that. Silence exhaled carefully and lifted Mary from her lap. She set the toddler on the floor and Mary immediately began exploring the room, holding on to the settee seat as she went.

  She met his eyes. “No.”

  “What?”

  He’d heard her well enough so Silence merely folded her arms in answer. The posture also served to hide the trembling of her hands.

  He stared at her a moment and there was anger on his handsome face, but there was also a kind of animal curiosity as well. “Why not?”

  She inhaled, trying to calm the rapid beat of her heart. “Maybe I don’t want to break bread with pirates. Maybe I don’t want to dine with you. Maybe I simply prefer my quiet room. Does it matter? Whatever my reasons I will not obey you.”

  He’d stilled and she found herself holding her breath, as if waiting for an attack. He stood in front of the fire, the light limning the tight fit of his breeches on muscled legs, his hands fisted by his sides, his big shoulders bunched and ready. His face was absolutely motionless, and she thought again how beautiful he was—beautiful and dangerously feral.

  “Well, then, Mrs. Hollingbrook,” he finally drawled, “that’s yer choice sure enough, but ye’ll not be eatin’ at all until ye grace me supper table.”

  Her mouth dropped open in outrage. “You’ll starve your own child?”

  He sliced the air with the blade of his palm, his rings winking in the firelight. “I never said the babe won’t be eatin’. I’ll have enough victuals sent up for her, but not yerself, me darlin’. Feast on that fact, why don’t ye?”

  And with that he stalked from the room.

  Of all the absurd, autocratic commands! For a moment Silence stared at the closed door, shocked. He couldn’t just order her starved, could he? Except, of course, he could. Mickey O’Connor lived like some primitive king and like a king he was obeyed absolutely in his own home. Her gaze darted to the small tray that had been sent up earlier with Mary’s supper. A few bits of cheese, and a bowl smeared with the remains of stewed apples still sat there. Silence could nibble on that, but Mary often decided to have a snack before bedtime. Silence would never deprive the baby of her food.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. Why did Mr. O’Connor care anyway where she chose to dine? If he truly was surrounded by his gang and a bevy of beautiful females, he’d hardly notice if she were there or not. The whole thing came down to control: Mr. O’Connor wanted to have her at his supper table simply to show that he could make her do as he wished. Well, it would do such a dictatorial man good to find that he couldn’t always have his way.

  Besides, he wouldn’t truly starve her, would he?

  On that rather disquieting thought Silence finally roused herself to ready Mary for bed. Mary only fussed a little bit as her hands and face were washed and a clean chemise was pulled over her head. Halfway through their bedtime game of patty-cake Mary yawned and by the time she was settled in her little cot she was nearly asleep. Silence sat by the cot, quietly rubbing Mary’s back until the little girl’s knuckle crept to her mouth and her rosebud lips pursed in sleep.

  Silence smiled ruefully. Mary was so angelic in sleep. One would never realize the tyrant the toddler could be when awake. And Silence had come so close to losing her today. Her breath caught on the thought and she leaned down to carefully brush a kiss against the tiny flushed cheek.

  She rose then, and went to look at the tray before the fireplace. The last bits of cheese had been eaten before the game of patty-cake, but there was still a puddle of stewed apples in the bowl. Silence rubbed her stomach. She’d missed luncheon in the fran
tic search for Mary and now her stand against Mr. O’Connor’s despotic ways seemed a bit… shortsighted.

  She was reaching for the bowl when the door to the room opened. Silence snatched back her hand guiltily and whirled to find Fionnula creeping into the room.

  “Oh!” the maid said, gasping softly at Silence’s sudden movement. “I didn’t mean to startle ye, ma’am.”

  “That’s all right.” Silence exhaled. “I was just preparing for bed.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” the maid said shyly. “I’ll just tidy up, shall I?”

  Silence watched wistfully as Fionnula picked up the tray and brought it to the door, handing it to a servant outside.

  “Thank you,” Silence murmured.

  “Not at all,” Fionnula replied. “Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” Silence began.

  But Fionnula hastily answered. “Oh, but I fetched ye a fresh cloth with which to refresh yerself. I knew ye’d use the one here to wash the wee babe.”

  The maid had come closer as she said this and she now handed Silence a bundled cloth. Silence took it and immediately realized that something was hidden in the folds. Her gaze darted to Fionnula’s face in question. The maid’s eyes widened in warning as she glanced significantly toward the still-cracked door.

  “If that’s all, I’ll just be biddin’ ye good night.”

  “Yes.” Silence hastily set the bundle on a table. “Thank you, Fionnula.”

  The maid went into her own bedroom and Silence crossed to the outer door. Bert was sitting in a chair against the wall on the opposite side of the hall.

  Silence nodded to him. “Good night, Mr…. er, Mr. Bert.”

  Bert scowled, but nodded grudgingly.

  Silence closed her bedroom door very firmly. Goodness! She was beginning to wonder if the guards were there to ensure her and Mary’s safety or to keep them from wandering. Shaking her head, she went to the bundle on the table and carefully unwrapped it. There lying on the pristine cloth was a slice of seedcake and a bit of roasted beef. Her stomach growled at the sight. What would Mr. O’Connor do if he learned of Fionnula’s disobedience? Silence would have to talk to the maid tomorrow—tell Fionnula that she must not risk herself on Silence’s behalf. But for now…

  Well, right now she was very grateful for the supper.

  She ate the cake and meat and washed it down with water from a pitcher on the table by the bed. Then she bathed as best she could. She doused the candles and removed her clothes in the dark. Clad only in her chemise, she climbed into the big canopied bed.

  For long moments Silence lay, staring sightlessly in the dark. This morning she’d woken to a usual, chaotic day at the home. Tonight she lay cut off from all her family and friends. As she listened to the soft whisper of Mary Darling’s breathing she made this vow: she would endure whatever she must for the baby’s sake.

  And whatever happened, she would not break under Mickey O’Connor’s rule.

  MICK WOKE IN the darkest part of night, the time when men forgot their bravery of the day and wonder if their souls still lived upon this lonely earth. He stared into the blackness, listening to the breathing of the wenches in his bed, thinking about the dream that had disturbed his sleep.

  Her hazel eyes had been weeping, great teardrops of sorrow and accusation, which was a damned funny thing considering she’d never wept on that night over a year ago now. Why she should haunt his dreams so, he could not fathom. He’d killed men, some so young they still grew only down upon their cheeks. If he were to be haunted, surely it was those ghosts, long consigned to hell, that should be drifting through his sleep.

  Not the color-shifting eyes of a woman who yet lived.

  She was a part of him now somehow, whether he wanted it so or not. He’d not felt so close to a female since his mam—his mind skidded away from the thought. The heat and the stink of sex from the girls on either side of him suddenly made his stomach turn. Mick rose silently, padding on bare feet to pull on a pair of breeches. He left his room and stole through the darkened corridors of his palace until he reached Silence’s door. Harry watched as Mick approached, though the guard didn’t say a word. Carefully Mick turned the door handle. The door opened without squeaking for he’d ordered the hinges oiled well.

  Her room was smaller than his, but somehow the air seemed fresher, less close. He could hear the sound of the child’s heavy breathing in sleep and softer, slower, the woman’s. He went to stand next to the bed and even though the room was unlit, he could make out, faintly, her slight form beneath the covers. The sight somehow calmed his soul. She lay in his bed, in his house, and no matter what bargain she thought she’d made with him, he knew the truth.

  He had no plans to let her go—ever.

  Chapter Three

  The king roared with royal rage and called his three nephews.

  “Whomever of you can find this nighttime thief shall be my heir!” cried the king.

  Well the nephews all looked at each other and then they each gathered weapons and settled themselves beneath the cherry tree to wait for night and the thief….

  —from Clever John

  Silence’s third meal of the day came just after two of the clock the next afternoon and from a quite unexpected source.

  “Mum’s the word, mind,” Bert said gruffly, laying his finger aside of his nose.

  Silence didn’t even have time to thank the guard before he hurriedly stomped from the room.

  She blinked, rather bemused at the bounty she’d received from Mickey O’Connor’s servants. She’d never thought that the pirate’s own people would defy him to bring her food. Uneasily she wondered what Mr. O’Connor would do if he found out about the underground rebellion against his orders not to feed her.

  Shaking her head, she opened the rather grimy handkerchief Bert had thrust into her hands and contemplated the contents: three walnuts, a crumbled bit of pigeon pie, and a smashed cake with pink icing. Earlier she’d been given a slice of gammon and a muffin from Fionnula, and a scandalously out of season plum and a duck’s wing from Harry.

  The outer door to the room began to open and Silence hastily shoved the kerchief and its contents beneath a pillow on the bed. She turned, half-expecting to see the pirate himself, but it was a younger man who faced her. He was quite good-looking—nearly as handsome as Mickey O’Connor, but much more solemn, a bit shorter and only about twenty years old, if that.

  The young man looked startled to see her as well. “Ah… er, I was looking for Fionnula.”

  “Oh,” Silence said. “You must be her friend.”

  He blushed at her blurted words and looked suddenly even younger.

  “I’m Mrs. Hollingbrook,” she said to set him at ease. “Fionnula has gone down to fetch some hot water for Mary Darling’s bath.”

  He nodded curtly. “I’ll just be going.”

  “She’ll be back soon,” Silence said. He really did seem ill at ease. Perhaps he wasn’t overly used to talking to outsiders? “Why don’t you wait?”

  “Ah…” He blinked, glancing past her. “Well, I—”

  Suddenly he darted around Silence and scooped Mary Darling up. “Mind the hearth, lass. ’Tisn’t safe for pretty little fingers.”

  “Goodness!” Silence hadn’t noticed Mary near the fire, but the toddler had been quite inquisitive this afternoon. Mary had soon bored of remaining in one room and had been fretful and restless since noon.

  Silence looked at the young man gratefully. “Thank you, er…”

  “Bran,” he said, smiling down at Mary Darling. “Bran Kavanagh.” The little girl usually protested mightily at strangers, but she seemed charmed by Bran, looking curiously into his face.

  Silence had to admit that when he smiled he was quite dashing. “She likes you.”

  “Aye.” He fished a bit of string from his pocket and tied it in a loop before deftly threading it through his fingers and showing Mary the resulting cat’s cradle. “Th
e little ones often do. My mother had a dozen children and I looked after the ones younger than me.”

  “You’re Irish?” His accent wasn’t nearly as strong as Fionnula’s or Mr. O’Connor’s.

  He glanced up warily, a lock of auburn hair falling over his forehead. “Bred and born right here in London, but, aye, both my mother and my father were from Ireland. Father was a weaver in Spitalfields.”

  “What happened—” Silence started, but Fionnula came in the room carrying a kettle of steaming water at that moment.

  The maid stopped short on sight of Bran, her face lighting up. “Oh! I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I just came to tell you I’d be gone tonight.” Bran set Mary gently down by the settee and gave her the loop of string. “I thought you might want to know.”

  Fionnula knit her eyebrows, looking worried. “Is it the Vicar again?”

  Bran frowned, darting a glance at Silence.

  “What vicar?” Silence asked, looking between the two. “You have pirate business with a man of the cloth?”

  “No, no,” Bran said hastily. “The Vicar of Whitechapel isn’t part of any church. He’s a gin maker and he’s…” Bran paused as if trying to find the word that wouldn’t offend Silence’s delicate ears.

  “He’s evil,” Fionnula said. She crossed herself. “Pure evil.”

  Silence shivered at the solemn dread in Fionnula’s voice and glanced at Mary, happily playing on the settee. “He’s Mickey O’Connor’s enemy, isn’t he? One of the people Mr. O’Connor thinks might hurt Mary.”

  Bran didn’t reply, but his grim glance at Mary was answer enough.

  “Ye’d best be off, then,” Fionnula said softly.