A man she could be attracted to.
And once that line had been crossed, she could never go back. He was real to her now, and while the pirate evoked fear and dread and even revulsion, the man—the real man beneath—was infinitely alluring.
So she’d stayed at the crack in the door, watching breathlessly as Mickey O’Connor did something very earthly indeed. She’d remembered his kiss as she watched. It hadn’t been like their first kiss. That had been wild and erotic and tinged with anger. No, the kiss he’d just given her was sweetly gentle—so gentle she’d found herself falling helplessly. He had been the one to pull back, he had been the one to tell her she must leave.
Silence tiptoed to her bed and lay down, still breathing fast. What had he been thinking as he stroked the shaft of his penis? Had he thought of her? She was hot just wondering, but surely it was not coincidence that he’d done that just after they’d kissed. The thought of bringing such a strong man, such a viral man to the point of using his own flesh—because of her…. well, it was arousing.
She gazed at the canopy over the bed, remembering. His penis had looked very big in his hand and it’d gleamed in the firelight as if wet. She’d been married for two years, but William had been a properly modest man. She’d only glimpsed him nude once or twice. Sometimes, late at night, lying beside him as he slept, she thought about what he must look like, but she’d quickly shoved the speculations from her mind as immodest.
This must be the sin of Onan. She’d spent long hours as a young girl wondering what exactly Onan had done to spill his seed upon the ground. Later, when she’d been older, she’d heard whispers of this act that men performed. She’d even once broached the subject with William, in a single, stuttering question. He’d made it quite plain then that her curiosity over the matter was not proper.
But what Mickey O’Connor had done did not seem particularly sinful. It had actually been rather wonderful. He’d gripped himself with casual certainty. Obviously he’d performed this act before. She clenched internally at the thought. Did he not have enough women to satisfy him? Or was the act particularly pleasurable for him?
Dear God. She ached, wanting something that she knew was a sin.
Wanting a man who was sin itself.
“THE OWNER OF the Alexander has paid his tithe,” Bran said later that day.
“Has he?” Mick replied disinterestedly.
He’d not seen Silence since he’d sent her away this morning, but their kiss haunted him. Even after taking care of his lust, his flesh still demanded her. He smiled wryly to himself. A kiss. A simple kiss and he was panting after Silence.
“Mick?”
And forgetting where he was it seemed. Mick glanced at his lieutenant. “Ye’ll have to repeat yerself, Bran, me lad, I’m afraid me head is in the clouds.”
“Your head has been in the clouds since you brought Mrs. Hollingbrook here,” Bran said in a voice that cracked at the end of his sentence.
Mick had been sitting in his desk chair, his long legs carelessly flung over the arm. Now he slowly straightened and let his booted feet hit the floor heavily. “Have ye somethin’ ye wish to say to me?”
The boy held his gaze—a feat that many older and brawnier men had failed to do. Mick noticed that Bran’s jaw was darkened with his beard. A year or so ago, one could hardly make out the fuzz on Bran’s cheeks. His shoulders seemed heavier, too—and was he an inch taller? Perhaps it was past time Mick stopped thinking of Bran as a boy.
“You always told me that a man must make his decisions with his head, not his cock,” Bran said. “You said that a man entangled by a wench couldn’t think straight. That he lays himself open to misstep and misstep leads to ruin.”
Mick tilted his head, studying Bran thoughtfully. “Why, Bran, me lad, I had no idea ye’d taken me words so to heart.”
Bran merely stared at him, looking a little sullen. “She’s distracted you.”
Mick felt a prick of irritation. “And what o’ yer fair Fionnula, now? Hasn’t she caught yer cock and yer attention?”
“No.”
“No?” Mick laughed. “Come, Bran, ye needn’t lie to me. Our pretty Fionnula loves ye true.”
“She might,” Bran said coldly, “but that doesn’t mean I love her.”
Mick narrowed his eyes. “Then ye’d give her up, were I to order ye to?”
“Aye.”
“And if I told ye to bring her to me bed?” Mick asked softly. “Would ye bring the lass and sweetly hand her over to me?”
“In a thrice,” Bran said stubbornly. “Is that what you want?”
Mick felt his mouth curve. “Oh, not at the moment, no, but I am that glad to hear ye’d whore out yer sweetheart should I want her. Such loyalty is more than a man should expect.”
Finally Bran showed unease. A mottled red flush rose on his neck. “It’s what you asked for.”
“Was it?” Mick asked gently. “I wasn’t exactly sure.”
For a moment Bran stared at Mick, some kind of emotion working behind his features.
Mick watched him thoughtfully. They were all on edge after the deaths of Sean, Mike, and Pat, but something more seemed to be bothering Bran.
Mick came to a decision. “I want ye leadin’ the next raid.”
Bran’s eyes widened in shock. “You’ve never let anyone lead but yourself.”
“Aye, and perhaps it’s time I did,” Mick said. “Ye aren’t tryin’ to back out now, are ye?”
“No! I’d be happy to lead in your stead.”
“Good,” Mick said. “Ye’ll need to make a plan and report back to me on it, hear?”
A grin split Bran’s face. Suddenly he looked more like the oversmart scamp Mick had taken on so long ago. “Aye, Mick!”
He was out the door in an instant.
Mick chuckled to himself. He should’ve given Bran the responsibility months ago. Well, at least he’d done so now.
The door opened again and Harry’s ugly mug appeared. “Mr. Pepper would like a word.”
Mick nodded. “Send him in, then.”
Harry made to leave, but Mick called, “Harry?”
“Aye?”
“How’s the lass?”
Harry’s broad face relaxed into a grin. “Mrs. ’Ollingbrook sent down for more vittles this afternoon—the babe is eatin’ like a starvin’ wolf cub.”