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.