He shook his head. “This isn’t a whim.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me before you bedded me?”
He stared at her, tempted to answer that he’d been thinking with the smaller of his two heads before he’d bedded her, thank you very much.
But she was already continuing, her voice horribly gentle. “You and I have no similar goals or intentions. You told me less than a fortnight ago that you never intended to marry. You’re offering out of guilt or misplaced gallantry, neither of which is a solid foundation for a marriage. I’ve made a terrible mistake”—her voice wobbled, making his heart constrict—“but calling off my marriage to Mandeville would simply compound it.”
He gaped at her. When had she thought all of this out?
He could refute all of her points, given a night’s sound sleep, but one stuck out in particular. “You’re not going to marry Thomas.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Is that why you bedded me?”
“No!” he roared.
“Good,” she said, perfectly reasonable, perfectly perfect. “My arrangement with Thomas is between him and me. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I beg to differ,” he said, the words sounding stupidly pompous even to his own ears, standing there naked, arguing with the woman he’d ignobly deflowered. “I’m Thomas’s brother and the man you just fucked.”
She flinched. “I hate that word. Please don’t use it around me anymore.”
“Damn it, Hero!”
“I need to leave now,” she said politely, and did just that.
For a moment he stared, incredulous and stunned, at the closed door. What had happened? What had he done?
His eyes dropped to the white sheets on the bed, and he saw a small smear of blood there. The sight tore at his heart. Griffin swore and slammed his fist into the bedpost, splitting his knuckles.
Deedle came in the room, looking around brightly. “I passed a lady in the hallway, m’lord, in quite the hurry. Right pretty, though. Didn’t think you was up for it, if’n you know what I mean, after last night.”
Griffin groaned and dropped back to the bed, his aching head in his hands. “Shut up, Deedle.”
THE DAY WAS bright and sunny, even in St. Giles, and Silence Hollingbrook smiled as she made her way through the morning market.
“Mamoo!” Mary Darling cried from her perch on Silence’s hip, and stretched out plump baby hands toward a pile of shiny red apples.
Silence laughed and stopped. “How much?” she asked the bonneted apple seller. William had once praised her apple pie—long ago when they’d first been married.
The woman winked, the wrinkles in her tanned face deepening. “For you and such a bonny lass, only threepence a half dozen.”
Normally, Silence would bargain the seller down, but the apples did look good and the price was fair. “I’ll take a dozen.”
She handed over the coins and called Mary Evening over with the marketing basket she held. She watched as the seller carefully picked out and filled the basket for her. The apples would make a nice pie or two for the children.
She continued on her way through the stalls. Besides Mary Evening, she had Mary Compassion and Mary Redribbon to carry her purchases, and the girls trailed her like obedient ducklings. They’d already purchased onions, turnips, and a nice lump of fresh butter, and Silence was making for a stall with a pretty display of beetroots when a shout made her glance to the right.
A small gang of boys was there—a common sight in St. Giles and indeed all of London. These boys were intent on some type of dicing game on the ground, and one boy had obviously won or lost. He jumped up and down and was immediately cuffed by another lad. In a moment, both boys were rolling in the dust, no one paying much attention to them other than to walk around the scuffle. Then as she was idly watching, she saw something—someone—beyond the boys. A graceful male figure, inky black curls brushing broad shoulders, the hint of wide, cynical lips.
It couldn’t be.
She dodged to the side, trying to get a better look. He’d turned away, and there were other people, other stalls, between them. She couldn’t be sure, but if she could just get a good glimpse…
“Where are we going, ma’am?” Mary Evening panted.
Silence looked around and realized that the girls were running to keep up with her swift steps. She turned back, searching the place where she’d last seen that too-familiar face.
But he was gone.
Perhaps she’d imagined him; perhaps she’d mistaken another man with long hair worn undressed about his shoulders. Mary Darling fretted and reached for an apple in Mary Evening’s basket. Silence picked one out with fingers that trembled and gave it to the baby. She’d not seen him since that one awful night; surely she must be mistaken.
But she knew she wasn’t. She’d caught a glimpse of Charming Mickey O’Connor, the most notorious river pirate in London.
“It’s time we were home,” she told the children.
She turned, hurrying away from the market. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence that Charming Mickey should be in the market at the same time as she. He did live in St. Giles, as she had good reason to know. Except she really couldn’t see Mr. O’Connor doing his own marketing. Her steps quickened until she was nearly trotting. Her heart was beating in triple time, so fast and light she thought she might faint.
Mustn’t show fear before the wolf.
She half laughed, but the sound was more a sob. Mickey wasn’t anything like a wild, savage wolf—at least on the surface. The one time she’d seen him, he’d been dressed in velvet and lace, every finger of his hands adorned with jeweled rings. He’d been elegant and suave. But underneath, dear God, underneath he’d been exactly like a ravenous wolf.
Silence was panting by the time they made the home. Her fingers were clumsy with the key, and she nearly dropped it twice before getting it in the door. With a last nervous look over her shoulder, she pushed the girls inside the home and slammed the door shut behind her. Quickly she flung down the bar.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Mary Evening asked anxiously.
“Yes.” Silence placed a hand over her breast, trying to calm her breathing. Mary Darling munched messily on her apple, unconcerned. At least she hadn’t alarmed the baby. She smiled. “Yes, quite, but I’m dying for a cup of tea, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am!” was the general consensus.