Scandalous Desires (19 page)

Take me in your arms, my love

And blow the candle out.

A shouted curse made Mick open his eyes and spin to glare at a drover with a heard of sheep.

The man’s eyes widened and he was stuttering apologies even as Mick turned away. Mick walked the rest of the way home without conscious thought. When he got to his own door Lad trotted up the steps behind him. Mick shot him a look and for a moment the dog froze, one paw still lifted, and rolled his eyes sheepishly at him.

Mick sighed. “In with ye, then.”

Lad’s jaw dropped open in a grin and he happily capered into the palace.

“How were ye ever a bull-baitin’ dog?” Mick muttered to the animal as they tromped through the house. “The bulls must’ve laughed themselves silly when ye were thrown in the pit.”

Lad panted beside him happily, not a thought in his boneheaded brain.

They reached the upper floors and Mick strode down the hallway quietly. Bert was dozing outside Silence’s room, but straightened hastily as Mick neared.

“Are they awake?” Mick asked softly.

Bert blinked sleepily. “Fionnula left jus’ a minute ago to fetch some tea. I ’aven’t ’eard a peep.”

Mick nodded and entered his room, shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat. He preferred the freedom of just his shirt in his own home. He crossed to the
connecting door and cracked it carefully, peering in. Silence lay on the bed, her form still, save for the slow rise and fall of her chest. He was about to shut the door again when a squeak came from the cot on the far side of the bed.

Mick was across the room in a second.

The child lay on her back, her eyes open, yawning sleepily. She saw him and her tiny pink lips trembled, her mouth turning down.

Mick frowned at her. “Hush.”

His admonishment had the opposite effect from what he intended. Her mouth opened and she let out a fretful wail.

Mick glanced at the bed. Silence hadn’t moved at the sound. She was exhausted from hours of nursing the brat. Fionnula had left the room and might not be back for some time, and Bert would be very little help.

Mick scowled at the toddler. “What d’ye want?”

She sobbed and lifted her arms to him.

He blinked, taken aback. Surely she didn’t want him. But another wail gave him very little choice.

He lifted the little girl from the cot, bringing her close to his chest as he’d seen Silence do. She was as light as feather down from one of his fine pillows. His chest wasn’t as soft as Silence’s, but the baby didn’t seem to mind. The fretful sounds stopped as she stuck a finger in her mouth and regarded him with wide brown eyes. Her eyelashes were spiked with tears, making them dark and long.

She’d be a beauty someday, he thought dispassionately, someone would have to guard her against the men who would be drawn to her. They’d swarm around her like bees to honey, wanting to lift her skirts, wanting to dishonor her, little caring of her feelings or who she was as
a person. She’d be a piece of flesh to them, not a girl. Not someone’s beloved daughter.

He scowled again at the thought.

The child whimpered, her face crumpling, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

“Hush now,” Mick whispered.

Silence was still asleep. He crossed to his own room and entered, holding the baby. He bent to set her on the bed, but she clung to his fine lawn shirt, rumpling it, and sobbed.

“Hush away, sweetin’,” he whispered. What did she want? He picked up a jeweled snuffbox lying on his dressing table and showed it to her.

She batted it away irritably and smashed her little head into his chest, still sobbing. He stared down at her, perplexed. She was so loud, so stubborn, and yet he could feel the delicate bones of her little ribs through her chemise. She was so small, so fragile, so easily hurt.

He walked to the fireplace and showed her in turn the items on the mantelpiece: an alabaster vase, a pink and white shepherdess, and a curved golden dagger that had once belonged to some Ottoman lord. She didn’t seem very interested in his treasures, but she quieted a bit, still rubbing her face against his shirt. She’d ruin it soon if he didn’t take it off. Her mouth opened suddenly in a wide yawn.

And he found himself singing to her softly, the words coming to him as naturally as breathing.

“Take me in your arms, my love

And blow the candle out.”

Silence woke from a dream of a singing angel. He’d been tall and stern—like an angel carved in the door of a gothic church. An otherworldly being of great virtue and little sympathy. But his voice had been low and sweet, warming her from within like hot honey, making her bones liquid with relaxation—even though she’d known that the angel was a dangerous being from another world. That she ought to keep on the alert.

For a moment she lay still in the big bed, blinking sleepily, loath to move.

And then she realized that the angel’s song hadn’t stopped on her waking.

Silence sat up. The tantalizingly beautiful voice was coming from the half-open door to Mickey O’Connor’s room.

She rose, drawing a shawl about her shoulders and glanced at Mary Darling’s cot. It was empty, but she felt no alarm. She thought she might recognize that voice. Moving as quietly as she could she crept to the connecting door.

The sight within made her draw in her breath.

Mickey O’Connor stood across the room by the fireplace, his back toward her. He was clad only in tight black breeches and jackboots, his upper body nude. His broad back was a smooth olive expanse, the muscles that delineated his shoulders and arms in firm, sensuous bunches. And he was singing, his voice a wonderful, soaring tenor. She’d never heard anything so beautiful in her life. How was it possible that Mickey O’Connor, a man with a soul as black as tar, should have a voice the angels would envy?

He half-turned suddenly and she saw that he cradled Mary Darling to his strong chest. The little girl’s pink cheek was laid trustingly against him, her eyes closed in sleep. His hand moved gently in her inky curls, stroking her soothingly.

Silence must have made some sound at the sight. His eyes flashed to hers, yet he never stopped singing.

“My father and my mother

In yonder room do lay

They are embracing one another

And so may you and I

So take me in your arms, my love

And blow the candle out.”

She felt her face heat at his words, even though they were part of his song. He didn’t mean them for her. They were merely the words to an old ballad.

She knew that, yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. His dark eyes seemed to be telling her something, something apart from the song he sang so beautifully. She lifted a hand to her belly and pressed to still the trembling there.

His song died on a low, liquid note and he continued to stare at her.

Silence cleared her throat, fearful her voice would come out a croak. “Is she asleep?”

He blinked as if he, too, were waking from a dream, and glanced down at Mary Darling. “Aye, I’m a-thinkin’ she is—she’s stopped fussin’ at me.”

Silence felt a huge smile of relief spread over her face. “She was fussing? Oh, how wonderful!”

He shot her a look, one eyebrow arching. “Ye’ve taught the child to bully me, too, now?”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily, embarrassed. Did he really think she bullied him? What a silly notion! “It’s just that she’d been so listless. If she’s well enough to fret, then she must be feeling better.”

“Ah.” He glanced down at the baby’s head, his look nearly tender. “Then I’ll rejoice when she starts bawlin’ again at the top o’ her lungs.”

“You should,” Silence said as she crossed to him and gently took the sleeping baby. Mary mumbled something and snuggled against her bosom. Silence examined her anxiously. Mary’s cheeks were pink, but they weren’t the hectic red of before and her little body no longer felt as if it burned.
Oh, thank God.

Silence looked up grinning. “I know I will. Far better a screaming baby than one that’s too quiet.”

“Aye,” he said, watching them with a somber light in his eyes. “I can well believe ye.”

She gazed down at Mary’s sleeping head, avoiding his eyes. She should leave his room, but she was oddly reluctant to do so. “You have a beautiful voice.”

He snorted. “Do I now?”

She looked up at him, puzzled by his dismissive tone. “You must know you do.”

He grimaced. “Aye, I suppose I do at that. I spent enough time when I was a lad singin’ for me supper.” He caught her questioning look. “When there was naught in the cupboard, me mam would take me down to the street corner. She’d lay a handkerchief on the ground at our feet and we’d sing for pennies. It might take minutes or hours or all day afore we had enough to buy our supper.”

Silence swallowed. He talked of begging for food so cavalierly, yet she knew now that the experience must’ve scarred him terribly. “How old were you?”

He cocked his head as if considering. “I don’t rightly know. One o’ me earliest memories is going to the corner on a freezin’ night in winter.”

“How awful!”

He looked at her sardonically. “There be worse ways to make a penny.”

She bit her lip. There were indeed worse ways in St. Giles to make money. So many came to London from the English countryside, from Scotland and Ireland and even from the continent. There were far too many for the jobs available. She sometimes saw the women coming home in the morning after a night of walking the streets. And
it wasn’t just women who walked the streets. There were children, too, of both sexes.

Silence peeked at Mickey O’Connor from under her eyelashes. He was beautiful, his eyes dark and sensuous, his mouth mobile, his hair thick and black. He would’ve been a lovely child—too lovely.

“You’re Irish,” Silence blurted out and then felt the heat rise in her cheeks. The Irish were numerous in London—and almost universally despised.

He smiled, dimples creasing the corners of his mouth. “Aye, me mam came from Ireland lookin’ for work. She was one o’ ten children to a widowed mother, or so she told me. I never met me Irish kin. She came over alone.” He bent his head as he donned the shirt he’d taken from the back of a nearby chair. “ ’Tis a far cry from yer own family, I’ll wager.”

She nodded. “My father’s family has lived in London for generations. My mother’s people came from Dorset and live there still, though we don’t often see them.”

“Ye’ve a sister and a brother, I know,” he said.

“Two sisters and three brothers, actually,” she replied, smiling a little. “I’m the youngest of six children. There’s Verity—she brought up Temperance and me when our mother died, then Concord who took over Father’s brewery on his death. Both are married with families of their own now. Asa is my next brother, but I don’t know exactly what he does—he’s something of the black sheep of the family. Temperance used to run the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children before she married Lord Caire, and Winter is the next youngest above me.”

She stopped suddenly, a little out of breath. He probably thought her a ninny for prattling on about her family.
It occurred to her that although her family was not rich, compared to his, she’d been quite well off. Further, in his world—a world of beggars and thieves—he had risen quite far. In his own way, Mickey O’Connor was a successful man.