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She didn’t ask where he’d gotten the deadly little knife. She took the dagger and saw that it was rather pretty. The blade had been engraved with flowers of all things. The hilt was curved and fitted her palm perfectly. She weighed it. The dagger was heavy for its size.
Michael stood in back of her and wrapped his right arm around her to hold her hand and show her how to thrust the dagger. With his left he held her by the waist and prompted her movements. After several minutes Silence was panting, but Michael was not even breathing hard.
“Ye can keep it in a pocket under yer skirts or in yer garter,” he said.
Silence wrinkled her nose. “Won’t it rub?”
His eyelids drooped. “It’d better not. I wouldn’t want yer tender skin chafed for the world.”
She turned in his arms, the dagger falling to the floor, and looked up at him. His black eyes were weary and she could see worry for her in his face. The blue-black stubble of his beard shadowed his jaw and his wide, sensuous lips were slightly parted. She reached up to stroke through his hair, feeling the locks curling around her fingers in welcome. He hadn’t told her what his business was in London, but she knew by his refusal to answer her question that it was something to do with his pirating—something dangerous. What if he were wounded—or worse, killed tonight? She might never see him again.
The thought sent an awful tremor through her belly. A world without Michael in it would be utterly dismal. Even if she lived apart from him, she wanted—always—to know that he was somewhere.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his warm mouth, tasting the wine they’d drunk at dinner.
She heard him mutter a curse, then he was sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed, placing her gently there.
“Why?” he whispered as he leaned over her, supported on one arm. “Why must ye be the one that haunts me dreams? I’ve seen ye weepin’ night after bloody night since the day I sent ye from me palace with yer dress half undone. If I had it to do over again, I’d cut me own right hand off rather than hurt ye so. Will ye never be able to forgive me, Silence love?”
“I already have,” she replied, cradling his cheek in her hand. “Long, long ago.”
And it was true. She understood now the man he’d been that day—and the man he was today. The two men were the same—her Michael, cruel and gentle, autocratic and kind. If she loved him for his best parts, then she must in some way love him for his worst as well.
“Darlin’.” He skimmed his warm lips over her cheekbone, down to her jaw.
“Michael,” she whispered, longing, hoping. “Can you not—?”
“Hush.” He turned his head, laying his cheek against hers. “Let us not argue.”
She swallowed past the thickness in her throat. They’d already been over this at dinner and come to an impasse: he refused to give up his pirating. There was no more to say on the matter—he was right: discussing it now would only lead to an argument and she didn’t want that just before he went into danger.
So she smiled—or tried to at least, with lips that trembled—and stroked her fingers through his beautiful hair. “Will you lie with me, Michael O’Connor?”
He rose to look at her and she thought she saw something close to love in his black eyes. “If I were at death’s door I’d stand and come to you.”
She’d love this man for the rest of her life. Silence sat up and drew her chemise over her head, baring herself entirely to him. Then she lay down and opened her arms. “Come to me then.”
He needed no further urging. He took her mouth like the marauding pirate he was. She opened gladly, accepting him, catching his tongue and sucking it. He growled and laid himself flat on her, pinning her to the bed. The feel of his coat and breeches against her bare skin was exotic. She wriggled a little, enjoying the friction on her thighs and belly, trying to push the coming sorrow from her mind. She couldn’t change him, after all, only Michael himself could do that. If he refused to act, then she must accept that fact.
Accept and try to recover from the grief.
But he was moving lower now, going from one nipple to the other, licking and gently biting. She grasped the sheets in her hands, gasping at his fierce lovemaking.
“Spread yer legs for me now, sweetin’,” he rasped as he sat back on his knees to unfasten his fall.
She complied, widening her thighs, watching him prepare himself for her.
He palmed his thick erection. “Will ye be wantin’ this now, madam?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered. She wanted to engrave the sight of him thus, about to make love to her, in her mind.
He nodded and taking her by the hips pulled her toward him. He settled her bottom in his lap and pushed the tip of his cock down to rub at her entrance.
She whimpered from the pleasure, the anticipation of what was coming next: joining her body with Michael’s. Submitting to him.
Slowly, slowly he inserted himself in her. The angle was extreme, but because of it, his penis seemed to slide against something sensitive inside her. She felt herself already beginning to break apart—and he wasn’t even all the way in.
“Is it sweet, m’darlin’?” he asked, panting.
She only sighed an answer—the act of speaking seemed too difficult.
Suddenly he was over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock sinking to the hilt in her. He was over her, in her, powerful and male. “Answer, m’love. Is it what ye want?”
Oh, she knew well what he really asked. She raised her eyelids languidly as he stroked out and then into her again, his penis rubbing against sensitive flesh, his body dominating hers. “Yes, it’s what I want.”
“And this?” he asked, face flushed, mouth grim. “Does this meet wi’ yer pleasure?”
He twisted his hips, grinding his pelvis against her, his hips widening her legs until she was completely open, completely vulnerable.
She swallowed, awash in a sea of pleasure, close to tears. “You know it does.”
“Ah, good,” he breathed as his great chest rose and fell faster. “For I cannot imagine a thing more sweet than me cock in yer cunny. This is everythin’ good and right in the world. This is what ye and I were made for.”
She blinked back tears, for he was telling her that he cared for her—as much as he was able.
“Is it enough?” he rasped, his strokes growing swifter, his cock grinding against her clitoris.
She closed her eyes, drowning in his lovemaking, pushing everything else aside.
“Silence,” he said. “Is it enough?”
She opened her eyes with an enormous effort and smiled up at him. “I love you.”
His eyes widened at her words and he roared, still pistoning in and out of her. The feel of his loss of control, the rush of emotion made her come as well, sudden and hard. A warm bubble expanded inside her, reaching her belly, her chest, her limbs and her fingers, until she shook with love and fulfillment.
Until she thought she might die of ecstasy and sorrow.
He collapsed on her, panting, and the rough abrasion of his coat on her tender nipples sent an aftershock to her center.
“Thank ye,” he said, stroking her hair. “Thank ye.”
But she turned her head away, afraid he would see the grief gathering in her eyes.
In a moment more he got up from her and set himself to rights as she lay there, her damp body cooling in the night air.
“I’ll be back by luncheon tomorrow, m’love,” he murmured and bent to kiss her mouth.
She summoned a smile, the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life, but she didn’t want him to remember her sad with grief.
He frowned. “Are ye all right?”
She raised her brows, saying lightly, “Your lovemaking can be quite devastating.”
He grinned and she stared at him greedily, trying to memorize the sight.
“I’ll wear yer scent on me body tonight,” he said wickedly. “And every time I smell it I’ll know yer waitin’ here for me.”
He turned then and left the room, his stride brisk.
Silence lay there, feeling the seep of his semen from her body, and counted to one hundred.
Then she got up and washed quickly. She dressed in the plain brown gown she’d had on when he’d come for her at Caire House—so long ago it seemed now. There was very little to gather—the Spanish dagger and some things of Mary’s. She hesitated over the little book with the courageous sailors, but in the end she took that, as well. He’d meant it for Mary, after all.
She made one quick trip to Michael’s room and then opened the door to the corridor—and found Harry dozing in a chair. She’d only taken one step when his eyelids rose.
“Goin’ for a midnight stroll, are ye?” he asked amiably, but she wasn’t fooled. Harry was eyeing the small bag she carried her things in.
She squared her shoulders. “I’m going home, Harry.”
THE DAWN WAS just breaking when Mick rode up the lane to Windward House, weary in both mind and body. He’d found a ship for Bran easily enough—bound for the West Indies, a long voyage. The boy had said never a word to him all the long way to London. He’d seemed beaten in both mind and body and Mick hadn’t the heart to try and talk to him.
Putting Bran on that ship had been the last thing that had gone simply. Through bribery, guile, and sheer ruthlessness Mick had been able to enter the Vicar’s house—only to find Charlie Grady gone. Either the man had been warned or his damned luck had held out. Mick had been forced to slink away and hope for another opportunity to strike. So it was with a sense of welcome relief that he caught sight of the house.
He pulled his nag to a halt and sat just looking at it a moment. The early sun made the brick glow pinkish-orange. The green shoots around the foundation had lengthened and grown yellow buds. Soon the daffodils would bloom. Mick smiled tiredly. How he looked forward to showing Mary Darling the pretty flowers when they bloomed. He and the baby would pick a posy for Silence and present it to her and then the three of them would sit down to luncheon or tea or some other meal and he would listen as Silence chided him about his food being too rich while he tempted her with some exotic dainty.
God, it was good to be home.
Mick rode around the back and impatiently threw the reins to a sleepy groom. He went in through the kitchens, waving to Bittner and Mrs. Bittner, enjoying their morning tea. Lad, who’d been dozing by the hearth, stood and wagged his tail.
“Sir—” Bittner called as Mick strode past, but Mick didn’t stop.
He took the stairs two at a time and then paused at the top. Where was Harry? Damn it, if Harry or Bert were sleeping, he’d dock them their portion of the next haul.
Mick burst into Silence’s bedroom in a rush, only to pull up short when he saw that the bed was empty. He went through the connecting door to find that his room was empty as well. Only a pair of stockings were laid neatly on his pillow.
Mick stood a moment, staring at the stockings, an awful foreboding crawling up his spine. Slowly he picked them up. They were of different sizes, the heel of one completely wrong. He recognized them as the stockings Silence had knit in the carriage all the way from her sister’s house. They hadn’t been done when they’d arrived at Windward House, but now they obviously were, folded neatly as if they were a present.
For a moment Mick held the ugly stockings in his hand, his mind blank. With an effort he made his legs move, climbed up the stairs to the next floor, and checked the nursery.
A maid slept in the bed next to Mary’s empty cot.
Mick shook her awake roughly. “Where are they?”
The girl rubbed her eyes. “They went away in the night wi’ Mr. Harry and Mr. Bert, sir.”
But Mick was already turning away, dazed, disbelieving.
idn’t ask where he’d gotten the deadly little knife. She took the dagger and saw that it was rather pretty. The blade had been engraved with flowers of all things. The hilt was curved and fitted her palm perfectly. She weighed it. The dagger was heavy for its size.
Michael stood in back of her and wrapped his right arm around her to hold her hand and show her how to thrust the dagger. With his left he held her by the waist and prompted her movements. After several minutes Silence was panting, but Michael was not even breathing hard.
“Ye can keep it in a pocket under yer skirts or in yer garter,” he said.
Silence wrinkled her nose. “Won’t it rub?”
His eyelids drooped. “It’d better not. I wouldn’t want yer tender skin chafed for the world.”
She turned in his arms, the dagger falling to the floor, and looked up at him. His black eyes were weary and she could see worry for her in his face. The blue-black stubble of his beard shadowed his jaw and his wide, sensuous lips were slightly parted. She reached up to stroke through his hair, feeling the locks curling around her fingers in welcome. He hadn’t told her what his business was in London, but she knew by his refusal to answer her question that it was something to do with his pirating—something dangerous. What if he were wounded—or worse, killed tonight? She might never see him again.
The thought sent an awful tremor through her belly. A world without Michael in it would be utterly dismal. Even if she lived apart from him, she wanted—always—to know that he was somewhere.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his warm mouth, tasting the wine they’d drunk at dinner.
She heard him mutter a curse, then he was sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed, placing her gently there.
“Why?” he whispered as he leaned over her, supported on one arm. “Why must ye be the one that haunts me dreams? I’ve seen ye weepin’ night after bloody night since the day I sent ye from me palace with yer dress half undone. If I had it to do over again, I’d cut me own right hand off rather than hurt ye so. Will ye never be able to forgive me, Silence love?”
“I already have,” she replied, cradling his cheek in her hand. “Long, long ago.”
And it was true. She understood now the man he’d been that day—and the man he was today. The two men were the same—her Michael, cruel and gentle, autocratic and kind. If she loved him for his best parts, then she must in some way love him for his worst as well.
“Darlin’.” He skimmed his warm lips over her cheekbone, down to her jaw.
“Michael,” she whispered, longing, hoping. “Can you not—?”
“Hush.” He turned his head, laying his cheek against hers. “Let us not argue.”
She swallowed past the thickness in her throat. They’d already been over this at dinner and come to an impasse: he refused to give up his pirating. There was no more to say on the matter—he was right: discussing it now would only lead to an argument and she didn’t want that just before he went into danger.
So she smiled—or tried to at least, with lips that trembled—and stroked her fingers through his beautiful hair. “Will you lie with me, Michael O’Connor?”
He rose to look at her and she thought she saw something close to love in his black eyes. “If I were at death’s door I’d stand and come to you.”
She’d love this man for the rest of her life. Silence sat up and drew her chemise over her head, baring herself entirely to him. Then she lay down and opened her arms. “Come to me then.”
He needed no further urging. He took her mouth like the marauding pirate he was. She opened gladly, accepting him, catching his tongue and sucking it. He growled and laid himself flat on her, pinning her to the bed. The feel of his coat and breeches against her bare skin was exotic. She wriggled a little, enjoying the friction on her thighs and belly, trying to push the coming sorrow from her mind. She couldn’t change him, after all, only Michael himself could do that. If he refused to act, then she must accept that fact.
Accept and try to recover from the grief.
But he was moving lower now, going from one nipple to the other, licking and gently biting. She grasped the sheets in her hands, gasping at his fierce lovemaking.
“Spread yer legs for me now, sweetin’,” he rasped as he sat back on his knees to unfasten his fall.
She complied, widening her thighs, watching him prepare himself for her.
He palmed his thick erection. “Will ye be wantin’ this now, madam?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered. She wanted to engrave the sight of him thus, about to make love to her, in her mind.
He nodded and taking her by the hips pulled her toward him. He settled her bottom in his lap and pushed the tip of his cock down to rub at her entrance.
She whimpered from the pleasure, the anticipation of what was coming next: joining her body with Michael’s. Submitting to him.
Slowly, slowly he inserted himself in her. The angle was extreme, but because of it, his penis seemed to slide against something sensitive inside her. She felt herself already beginning to break apart—and he wasn’t even all the way in.
“Is it sweet, m’darlin’?” he asked, panting.
She only sighed an answer—the act of speaking seemed too difficult.
Suddenly he was over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock sinking to the hilt in her. He was over her, in her, powerful and male. “Answer, m’love. Is it what ye want?”
Oh, she knew well what he really asked. She raised her eyelids languidly as he stroked out and then into her again, his penis rubbing against sensitive flesh, his body dominating hers. “Yes, it’s what I want.”
“And this?” he asked, face flushed, mouth grim. “Does this meet wi’ yer pleasure?”
He twisted his hips, grinding his pelvis against her, his hips widening her legs until she was completely open, completely vulnerable.
She swallowed, awash in a sea of pleasure, close to tears. “You know it does.”
“Ah, good,” he breathed as his great chest rose and fell faster. “For I cannot imagine a thing more sweet than me cock in yer cunny. This is everythin’ good and right in the world. This is what ye and I were made for.”
She blinked back tears, for he was telling her that he cared for her—as much as he was able.
“Is it enough?” he rasped, his strokes growing swifter, his cock grinding against her clitoris.
She closed her eyes, drowning in his lovemaking, pushing everything else aside.
“Silence,” he said. “Is it enough?”
She opened her eyes with an enormous effort and smiled up at him. “I love you.”
His eyes widened at her words and he roared, still pistoning in and out of her. The feel of his loss of control, the rush of emotion made her come as well, sudden and hard. A warm bubble expanded inside her, reaching her belly, her chest, her limbs and her fingers, until she shook with love and fulfillment.
Until she thought she might die of ecstasy and sorrow.
He collapsed on her, panting, and the rough abrasion of his coat on her tender nipples sent an aftershock to her center.
“Thank ye,” he said, stroking her hair. “Thank ye.”
But she turned her head away, afraid he would see the grief gathering in her eyes.
In a moment more he got up from her and set himself to rights as she lay there, her damp body cooling in the night air.
“I’ll be back by luncheon tomorrow, m’love,” he murmured and bent to kiss her mouth.
She summoned a smile, the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life, but she didn’t want him to remember her sad with grief.
He frowned. “Are ye all right?”
She raised her brows, saying lightly, “Your lovemaking can be quite devastating.”
He grinned and she stared at him greedily, trying to memorize the sight.
“I’ll wear yer scent on me body tonight,” he said wickedly. “And every time I smell it I’ll know yer waitin’ here for me.”
He turned then and left the room, his stride brisk.
Silence lay there, feeling the seep of his semen from her body, and counted to one hundred.
Then she got up and washed quickly. She dressed in the plain brown gown she’d had on when he’d come for her at Caire House—so long ago it seemed now. There was very little to gather—the Spanish dagger and some things of Mary’s. She hesitated over the little book with the courageous sailors, but in the end she took that, as well. He’d meant it for Mary, after all.
She made one quick trip to Michael’s room and then opened the door to the corridor—and found Harry dozing in a chair. She’d only taken one step when his eyelids rose.
“Goin’ for a midnight stroll, are ye?” he asked amiably, but she wasn’t fooled. Harry was eyeing the small bag she carried her things in.
She squared her shoulders. “I’m going home, Harry.”
THE DAWN WAS just breaking when Mick rode up the lane to Windward House, weary in both mind and body. He’d found a ship for Bran easily enough—bound for the West Indies, a long voyage. The boy had said never a word to him all the long way to London. He’d seemed beaten in both mind and body and Mick hadn’t the heart to try and talk to him.
Putting Bran on that ship had been the last thing that had gone simply. Through bribery, guile, and sheer ruthlessness Mick had been able to enter the Vicar’s house—only to find Charlie Grady gone. Either the man had been warned or his damned luck had held out. Mick had been forced to slink away and hope for another opportunity to strike. So it was with a sense of welcome relief that he caught sight of the house.
He pulled his nag to a halt and sat just looking at it a moment. The early sun made the brick glow pinkish-orange. The green shoots around the foundation had lengthened and grown yellow buds. Soon the daffodils would bloom. Mick smiled tiredly. How he looked forward to showing Mary Darling the pretty flowers when they bloomed. He and the baby would pick a posy for Silence and present it to her and then the three of them would sit down to luncheon or tea or some other meal and he would listen as Silence chided him about his food being too rich while he tempted her with some exotic dainty.
God, it was good to be home.
Mick rode around the back and impatiently threw the reins to a sleepy groom. He went in through the kitchens, waving to Bittner and Mrs. Bittner, enjoying their morning tea. Lad, who’d been dozing by the hearth, stood and wagged his tail.
“Sir—” Bittner called as Mick strode past, but Mick didn’t stop.
He took the stairs two at a time and then paused at the top. Where was Harry? Damn it, if Harry or Bert were sleeping, he’d dock them their portion of the next haul.
Mick burst into Silence’s bedroom in a rush, only to pull up short when he saw that the bed was empty. He went through the connecting door to find that his room was empty as well. Only a pair of stockings were laid neatly on his pillow.
Mick stood a moment, staring at the stockings, an awful foreboding crawling up his spine. Slowly he picked them up. They were of different sizes, the heel of one completely wrong. He recognized them as the stockings Silence had knit in the carriage all the way from her sister’s house. They hadn’t been done when they’d arrived at Windward House, but now they obviously were, folded neatly as if they were a present.
For a moment Mick held the ugly stockings in his hand, his mind blank. With an effort he made his legs move, climbed up the stairs to the next floor, and checked the nursery.
A maid slept in the bed next to Mary’s empty cot.
Mick shook her awake roughly. “Where are they?”
The girl rubbed her eyes. “They went away in the night wi’ Mr. Harry and Mr. Bert, sir.”
But Mick was already turning away, dazed, disbelieving.
