The two men left.
Mick took one giant stride forward and hit Bran in the jaw, putting all the force of his shoulder—and his pain—into the blow.
Bran staggered, struck the back of the stall and abruptly sat.
“Why?” Mick rasped.
Bran had his hand to his face. A blow like that could break a man’s jaw, make it impossible to properly eat or talk ever again.
Mick didn’t care. “I brought ye up from the streets, boy. Took ye into me own home, fed ye me food, put clothes on yer back. And this is how ye repay me? By betrayin’ me to me enemy? By lettin’ his men into me house to kill an innocent lass?”
Bran licked at the blood seeping from a split on his lip. “I didn’t know he’d kill Fionnula.” His voice cracked on her name.
Mick shook his head. “What did ye think he’d do?”
Bran shrugged, glancing about the stall vaguely. “Take you down.”
“Ye wanted me crew.”
Bran looked at him finally and Mick was surprised to see defiance still in his eyes. “You told me, over and over again, about how you’d made your way. About how you’d taken down the leader of that pirate crew when you were merely a boy. What did you expect from me but that I would do the same?”
Mick squatted on his haunches, feeling weary to his soul. “I expected loyalty.”
“Loyalty?” Bran shook his head and then winced at the movement. “You told me never to trust anyone. That any man who does so is a fool. You taught me that no one would champion me but me. That I must look out for myself and only myself. I could recite your lessons in my sleep. Not once did you mention loyalty, but now you expect it from me?”
“Aye!” Mick remembered those offhand remarks, the lessons given casually as they’d raided ships and analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of their men and of their enemies. But he’d considered Bran one of his own—his lieutenant, damn it. His friend. How could Bran have taken his words and turned them against him? “I expected loyalty from ye and every man under me command.”
“Under your command, exactly,” Bran said. “I had no way of bettering myself. I wanted to be like you.”
“Ye were like me,” Mick roared. “I took ye into me confidence, made ye a man. What the fuck were ye thinkin’, Bran?”
“I was thinking of freedom!” Bran shouted. “You kept us under your thumb, made us live in your house, eat at your table. You dealt out the spoils as you saw fit and consulted no one else. You never listened to my suggestions or plans. I was nothing but a lackey to you when what I wanted to be was your equal.”
Mick stared. He’d spent years never knowing where his next meal would come from. He’d made the palace into a fortress, not only to guard his wealth, but to guard his men. And now Bran threw back his generosity in his face?
Mick turned his head away in disgust and stood. “Try and put the blame for yer betrayal on me, but it won’t work. Fionnula is dead because o’ ye and ye alone.”
“Oh, God.” Bran squeezed shut his eyes, moaning so low Mick had to lean close to hear the words. “Oh, God, don’t you think I know that? Her pretty face was burned off. I keep seeing her in my dreams. I can’t sleep at night.”
Mick grunted. “How did ye find me house?”
Bran shook his head. “I snuck a look in Pepper’s book.”
“And have ye told the Vicar where I am?” Mick asked, low and deadly.
“No!”
“Why come here?”
Bran opened his eyes, the tears stark upon his face. “I thought to warn you about the Vicar. He wants Mrs. Hollingbrook. He talks of nothing else now.”
Mick laughed though he felt no mirth. “And don’t ye think I know that well enough? Why did ye really come, Bran?”
“I’m sorry, Mick,” Bran whispered. “I didn’t know what he was like. If you’d told me…”
“What?” Mick sighed. “If I’d told ye he was mad ye wouldn’t have betrayed me to me own father?”
Bran stared, the color leeching from his face. “Your father? The Vicar is your father?”
“Aye.” Mick inclined his head, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Come full circle, hasn’t it? Betrayed by me father, and betrayed to me father. The old man’s probably right pleased.”
“Mick—”
Mick threw out a hand, stopping the other man’s words. “Get out o’ me sight afore I kill ye.”
Bran rose wearily. “Will you forgive me, Mick?”
His words cut a cord within Mick, letting loose the grief within. Mick drew his dagger and before Bran could move he had the knife at his throat.
Bran froze as a drop of blood welled under the dagger.
Mick looked into the face of the boy he’d held dear as a friend. “I can’t forgive ye, Bran, no. Ye banished that hope the moment ye put Silence and Mary Darlin’ in danger. They might’ve died because o’ yer stupidity. For that, for puttin’ them at risk, I should slit yer throat here and now and throw yer rotten corpse in the river.”
For a moment he stood, the knife against Bran’s neck, staring into the other man’s light blue eyes. They’d once laughed together, drunk brandy, and planned raids. Bran had been as close to him as a brother… or a son.
It could’ve been Silence with that ruined face.
Abruptly Mick swung away, putting the length of the stall between him and Bran as he strode to the stall door.
“Harry!” he roared.
The guard appeared a second later. He glanced in the stall and blinked, looking confused to see Bran still alive.
Well, and hadn’t Mick killed for far less than Bran had done to him? “Take him.” Mick jerked his head back at Bran.
“Take ’im?” Harry asked cautiously.
Mick winced. He wouldn’t put the burden of Bran’s death on Harry, either. No, Bran was his own responsibility and he’d see him out of England himself. He sighed and stretched his neck. “Take him to the cellar and lock him in well. I’ll be bringin’ him back to London and a ship bound for a distant shore tonight.”
The relief was plain to see on Harry’s face, but it was fleeting. When the big man turned to Bran his expression was as cold as Mick had ever seen it.
“Come on, then.” Harry took a firm hold of Bran’s arm and marched him from the barn.
Bran cast one helpless look over his shoulder, but Mick ignored it. He’d made up his mind.