All but one.
He was only a silhouette, standing without fear even in the midst of gunfire, and Mick sensed more than saw who he was.
“Charlie Grady,” he whispered.
“Charming Mickey.” The shadow dipped his head as if in acknowledgment. “How long will you stay in business if you lose a man or two every time you go out on a raid?”
“Fuck ye,” Mick breathed.
“The same to you,” Charlie murmured. “Oh, the same to you, Mickey O’Connor.“
Then the pirates were on the docks and Charlie Grady was gone.
“Who was that?” Bran panted by Mick’s side. “I couldn’t see in the dark. Did you know him?”
“Aye,” Mick said, his chest expanding and falling as he gulped air. “That was the Vicar o’ Whitechapel.”
BY THE TIME Mick and his men made it back to the palace, he was gritting his teeth to keep from chattering.
“Who was it?” he asked Bran as they came in the doors, trying to get a reckoning on the men he’d lost tonight. He’d sent the rest of his crew to store the barrels of tobacco and sugar. “I saw Pat Flynn, but didn’t make out the other.”
“Two others,” Bran said grimly. “Sean Flannigan went over the side and didn’t come back up again, and Mike O’Toole caught one in the face. Was dead at once.”
“Damn me,” Mick said, grimacing. Losing three of his best men in one night was enough to make him want to howl. “Pat had family, didn’t he?”
Bran nodded as they tramped through the dark halls toward the kitchen at the back of the palace. “Pat had a woman and two little girls.”
Mick shuddered, the cold shaking his bones. He’d taken off his wet shirt at the docks and put on his dry coat and boots, but the chill of the Thames seemed to have seeped to his very core. “Make sure Pat’s woman has enough to live on until she can find another man.”
Bran looked at him doubtfully. “That might take years.”
Mick shot him an evil look. “And if it do?”
Bran shrugged uneasily. “Makes no matter to me, but you’re throwing good money away—Pat’s woman would be happy with ten pounds and a pint of gin.”
Mick halted in the middle of the hall and swung on Bran. He thrust his face into the younger man’s and growled, “Pat Flynn died obeyin’ me orders. He was a good man. They all were. I’ll see them buried proper with black gloves and mourners and all. And if I want to keep his woman and children in enough style that they dine upon beef and sugarplums every night for the next three years, I’ll damn well do so.”
Bran had flushed under Mick’s diatribe. “Of course,” he said without any inflection in his voice at all. “We’ll do exactly as you wish.”
Mick narrowed his eyes. If ever he’d have a rebellion on his hands it would come from Bran. The lad was the canniest of all his men, and a natural leader as well—a fact that had made Bran Mick’s second-in-command at such a young age. Soon, Mick would have to give him more to do, guide Bran’s restless, clever mind.
But not tonight. The Vicar had made his intentions plain and Mick couldn’t afford any show of weakness—not even with Bran. The boy had to be reminded who was in charge.
“Good. See that it’s done,” Mick said, and turned to continue toward the back of the house.
Archie the cook was mopping the floor when they entered the kitchens.
“Start me some water boilin’.” Mick strode to the fire and began stripping off his wet clothes. “I want a hot bath and a fire roarin’ in me room.”
He was down to his smallclothes now and Mick took a ladle of water and began sluicing his body and hair to get the worst of the river stink out. He felt tainted, as if he stank not only from the river, but from contact with the Vicar, as well. Mick shuddered, pouring water over his head. He couldn’t let the Vicar destroy another woman. Her brown eyes had been haunted as she’d turned her tear-stained face from his. He shook away the phantom.
He wouldn’t let that happen with Silence.
Mick threw aside the ladle, caught up his coat again, and turned to the hall. God, he was tired and cold.
Cold to his very soul.
SILENCE LISTENED TO the commotion in the next room as she lay in bed that night. She and Mary Darling had been moved early this morning into a room that had a prominent door connecting it to Mickey O’Connor’s own room. She’d half-expected to see him all day—but apparently the pirate had been too busy with his own affairs. Only now, late at night, had Mickey O’Connor returned home.
Mary Darling was asleep in the corner, her railed cot having been brought with them. The new room was bigger and much finer than the rooms Mickey O’Connor had originally placed them in. The walls were a soft, feminine blue gray that suited her much better than the pink of the room upstairs, and an elegant arrangement of chairs stood before the fireplace.
Silence sighed and rolled over, fussing with the pillow under her head. Truth be told, she hadn’t been able to sleep because her belly was aching. She’d again refused the food that Fionnula and the guards had tried giving her today. It simply wasn’t right to put others at risk for her own needs.
Which might be true, but that lofty ideal didn’t help her hunger tonight. Silence pressed her palms to her aching stomach. She was so hungry that she’d even contemplated sneaking down to the kitchen to steal food. Her eldest sister, Verity, who had raised Silence and Temperance after Mama died, would be appalled.
Actually, Silence was appalled. Here she sat in the near dark cowering from Mickey O’Connor.
Was she a coward?
On that thought she rose and was across the room toward the connecting door almost before she could think. The sounds from the other room had stopped a while ago. Mr. O’Connor had either left or he was alone—perhaps enjoying an after-raid snack.
The thought made her stomach grumble.
Silence took a deep breath and opened the connecting door.
And then she had trouble exhaling.
Mickey O’Connor the pirate king was in the huge bath that they’d used the night before for washing Lad the dog. One arm dangled over the side of the tub, a goblet of amber liquid held carelessly in long elegant fingers. His ebony hair was wet and curling against his neck and shoulders. Those shoulders were broad, covered in smooth, olive skin, and spanned the width of the tub and more. And where before she’d thought that his chest was entirely devoid of hair, now she saw that small whirls circled his brown nipples and a thin line of hair trailed just below his naked navel, disappearing into the water where no doubt it led to other naked things.