“Oh, dear, the floor is rather a mess,” Silence murmured. She crouched, trying to wipe up the lake with some of the cloths.
“What,” came a deep male voice, “is this?”
Silence froze, her hand still outstretched, clutching a damp, dirty cloth. Oh, dear Lord. Slowly she raised her eyes and found herself face-to-thighs with Mickey O’Connor’s extremely tight breeches.
“Ah…,” she started, with absolutely no idea of what she was about to say.
At the same time, Harry cleared his throat. “See, I jus’ thought the dog—”
“Enough,” Mickey O’Connor interrupted Harry in that same much too calm voice. “Take the babe, Fionnula, and put her to bed. Everyone else, out o’ me kitchen.”
Silence started to stand.
“Ah, ah,” Mr. O’Connor said. “Not ye, Mrs. Hollingbrook.”
She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O’Connor and leaned against his leg.
Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. “I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook.”
Silence lifted her chin. “You’re a pirate, Mr. O’Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet.”
He gave her an ironic look. “Aye, amazin’, isn’t it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded.” He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. “And me dog smells like a whorehouse.”
Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. “The only soap we could find was rose scented.”
“Aye?” Mr. O’Connor glanced at the dog. Lad looked back, obliviously adoring, his tongue hanging from his mouth. “Poor, sad beast. He’s lost his bollocks and don’t even know it.”
Silence blinked. She’d braced herself for shouting and anger, but so far Mickey O’Connor hadn’t shown either.
She watched as he spooned tea leaves into the teapot and crossed to the fireplace to fill the pot with hot water.
“D’ye take sugar?”
“Yes, please,” she answered.
He nodded and placed the teapot and teacup on the table before fetching a little bowl of sugar.
Silence looked at the lone teacup. “Aren’t you having any?”
Mickey O’Connor snorted. “I’d be drummed from the pirate’s guild if’n I were seen takin’ tea.”
Her lips twitched at the thought. “Then why make it for me?”
He looked at her, his eyes black and a little tired. For the first time she wondered how his “business” had gone that night. “I thought ye’d like it, Mrs. Hollingbrook. After all, ye must be near starved after two days with only the food Fionnula and the others could smuggle ye.”
Silence bit her lip. “I asked her to stop today.”
He cocked his head curiously. “Did ye now?”
Silence sat and poured herself a cup, adding a spoonful of sugar. She did like tea. When she sipped, the tea was quite good. She glanced up to find him propped against the kitchen cabinets watching her with a brooding air.
“Thank you,” she said. “How did you learn to make a good cup of tea when you don’t drink it yourself?”
His mouth tightened and he looked down at his boots. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t reply. Then he sighed. “Me mam was fond o’ tea when we could get it. I’d make it for her.”
His words were terse, but the picture he drew was sentimental. What a lovely boy he must’ve been to be so thoughtful of his mother. Silence frowned. She didn’t like thinking of him like this—as a vulnerable child, a loving son. It was much simpler to only think of him as a pirate.
“Yer tea is gettin’ cold,” he murmured.
She drank some more and his mouth softened.
“Tell me somethin’,” he said, his voice a deep, quiet rumble. “I saw ye once with the Ghost o’ St. Giles almost a year ago.”
“So you were watching me.” She set her teacup down.
Last fall she’d been caught in a riot in St. Giles and only escaped harm when the Ghost of St. Giles had saved her. She’d seen Mickey O’Connor across the street at the time and wondered why he was there.
He shrugged, unperturbed. “Aye, sometimes. Ye had me daughter after all.”
“Oh.” His explanation was rather deflating.
“D’ye know him?”
“Who?”
“The Ghost o’ St. Giles,” he said patiently. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He wore a mask the night he saved me from the rioters.”
“And that’s the only time ye’ve seen him?” His question was intent.
“I’ve seen him from afar, but it was certainly the only time I talked to him, although he never spoke to me.” Silence looked at him, confused. “Why do you ask?”
He shook his head, frowning absently. “No matter.”
Lad sighed loudly and slid down to lie on the floor.
Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog. “I should put him out in the courtyard.”
“But we just bathed him.”
He shot a rather frightening look at her from under his brows. “Aye, so ye did. Be a shame, I guess, to let him roll in the mud so soon.” He tilted his chin at her teacup. “Are ye finished?”
She took a last sip. “Yes.”
“Good.” He nodded and shoved away from the cupboard. “I’ll escort ye to yer room, then.”
They walked all the way back to her rooms in silence, Lad padding happily behind.
When they reached her door, Mickey exchanged nods with Harry, sitting outside, and turned to Silence. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Silence said, her hand on the doorknob. “And thank you for the tea. It was truly delicious.”
One corner of his mouth curved. “Me pleasure.”
She began to close the door, but he stayed it with one broad hand. “One more thing. Tomorrow ye and the babe are movin’ rooms.”
Silence blinked. “Why?”
“We were followed tonight,” he said, his eyes angry. “I want ye closer to me so I can keep an eye on ye m’self.”
She frowned over that alarming news as he turned and ambled gracefully away. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the end of the hall that she remembered something.