Scandalous Desires by Elizabeth Hoyt
She drew in her breath—to deny or confirm, she didn’t know which—but a squeak came from the orchestra.
Michael lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm, his lips warm and intimate.
Silence stared at him, her heart fluttering in her chest.
He smiled into her eyes, placed her hand gently back on her lap, and turned his gaze to the stage. “Hush. It begins.”
MICK SMILED TO himself as he turned to watch the stage. He could hear Silence’s quickened breathing, still saw in his mind’s eye the pink tingeing her lovely chest. He was rock hard from their play and were she a doxie he might’ve pulled the curtains and taken her there.
But she was a lady true and he had no intention of making her flee. No, he’d take this slow, seduce with voice and imagination, and when he finally took her to his bed, well then, the victory would be all the more sweet for the anticipation. He sat back and swiftly made his breeches more comfortable as the music swelled.
The musico stepped out on the stage to calls of approval from the audience. The opera singer was Italian, well known, and had quite a following in London. He was unnaturally tall and a bit fat and he stood woodenly on the stage, his body ungraceful. But when he opened his mouth… what delight!
Mick closed his eyes as the mezzo-soprano voice flew, high and precise, confident even when the notes were rapid and complex. Mick had come to the opera a little more than a year ago on a whim and had been instantly enthralled. That a man could produce such a wonderful sound almost made him believe in a God.
Almost, but not quite.
Mick opened his eyes and turned to watch Silence. She was leaning against the rail, her expression utterly rapt. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes wide, and a curl of her hair drifted against her fair cheek. It occurred to him that he was very content thus, watching Silence and listening to the opera. Was this what happiness was? Strange thought. He’d never considered happiness before. That kind of prosaic life was not for him, he knew. But here, now… he had a glimmering glimpse of what happiness might be.
At the intermission he left her and fought through the crowds to a certain hawker he’d seen outside the opera before.
“What’s this?” Silence asked when he returned with laden hands.
“Cream cakes and wine,” he drawled, and felt the warmth light his chest at her delighted gasp.
He watched her eat the pretty cakes he’d found for her and drink the sweet wine and the satisfaction was so pure that it gave him pause. Was this all an illusion? Could he trust her as he’d trusted once before, long ago?
That time had ended in tragedy. Would this?
She glanced up at that moment, licking the cream from her sweet lips, and frowned. “What is it?”
He sat back, looking away. He’d break in half and die if she treated him as the other had. “Nothin’.”
He felt her gaze for minutes that seemed to drag like an hour, but then, thank God, the orchestra began.
Mick hardly paid mind to the second half of the opera. It was time. Tonight he would take her to bed and end his restlessness. Once she was his, he’d no longer have this womanish worry that she’d betray him.
The decision made, he waited out the rest of the opera impatiently. Silence was hiding a yawn behind her hand by the end, so Mick gave her his arm and led her into the night air.
The carriage was around the corner and he was conscious as their footsteps echoed off the buildings on either side that this would be a grand spot for an ambush. He breathed a sigh of relief when they made the carriage and he grimaced ruefully to himself as he followed her inside. He was becoming a silly old woman it seemed.
He settled beside Silence, very aware of her smaller size and of the delicacy of her profile. Tonight he’d have her in his bed. Tonight he’d discover all that smooth, soft skin, and the woman beneath.
“Thank you,” she said sleepily. “That was the most delightful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Ye liked it then, m’love?” he murmured.
“I did.”
He smiled in the dark. He’d had years of practice with seduction, but this was different somehow. Final and just. After tonight he’d have no need to seduce any other. “What did ye like the most?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I liked the lady singer and the dancer—imagine dancing without stays!” She stifled a yawn. “So scandalous, and yet she was terribly graceful as well, like watching swan’s down float on the wind.” She was quiet a moment. “It must be nice to see the opera or the theater whenever you might wish.”
He tilted his head toward her. “Perhaps I’ll take ye again.”
He waited like a lovesick schoolboy for her reply and it took several moments for him to realize that she’d fallen asleep. He smiled in the dark. Best she get her rest now. Still, he could not help the impulse to carefully put his arm around her and gently tilt her head so that it lay more comfortably on his shoulder.
She murmured something and snuggled into his chest.
They rode thus through the night, she fast asleep trustingly against him, he with the smell of her hair in his nostrils. He was erect and throbbing in anticipation, but oddly he was content to sit thus with her.
More than content, if truth be told.
The ride must end at last, though, and the carriage shuddered to a halt before his palace.
She stirred and looked up, her eyes suddenly wide. “Oh! I’m sorry. I must have been a terrible weight.”
“Not at all, m’love,” he murmured. “Not at all.”
He bent his head toward hers, drawn by her plump, parted lips, but the carriage door opened.
Immediately she moved away from him and he sighed. “Come inside and I’ll give ye a taste o’ some fine Spanish wine.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said as he handed her down.
“Naught but a sip, I promise ye,” he whispered into her ear.
He was so wrapped up in their gentle flirtation that it took him a moment to notice what he should’ve seen at once.
There were no guards outside the palace.
Chapter Eleven
Well, being a king was quite lovely, and for many years Clever John was happy with the arrangement. But as time went on, it became a bit… monotonous. Every morning Clever John ate his breakfast off plates of gold. He strolled his royal garden—ten times the size of his uncle’s—and then went riding about his kingdom. By afternoon he’d usually exhausted all there was for a king to do and was forced to take a nap.
So it was with more interest than trepidation that he heard the news that his neighbor had invaded his kingdom….
—from Clever John
Silence was sleepy from the carriage ride, but Michael’s sudden stillness brought her to full alertness. “What is it?”
“Get in the carriage,” he ordered quietly and drew a long, wicked-looking dagger from his sleeve.
“Michael?” she whispered. She couldn’t see anything to alarm him. The street was quiet, the moon high and full overhead. Their carriage had stopped directly in front of the palace’s nondescript door. It looked the same as usual except—
“The guards are gone,” Michael murmured. “Me palace is under attack.”
“Dear God,” Silence said. “Mary Darling—”
He turned swiftly, his eyes burning with intense emotion. “No. Don’t even think it. I’ll get her and bring her to ye alive and safe. Wait here in the carriage.”
“But—” She was suddenly filled with fear—not only for herself and Mary, but for Michael. He thought himself invincible, but he was only a man after all, made of flesh and blood and as mortal as any other.
She bit her lip, knowing that she couldn’t distract him from his task, and started for the carriage.
“No, wait,” he took her arm, halting her. “Might be this’s a diversion to separate ye from me.”
Her eyebrows drew together. Why would Michael’s enemies care particularly about her?
“Follow me
She nodded mutely, gathering her skirts in trembling hands.
He looked over her head at the coachman. “Stay behind her and guard her with yer life, ye hear?”
“Aye, Mick,” the man replied.
Then Michael opened the door to the palace.
It was dark inside, the candles that should’ve been waiting already lit, had been snuffed. The coachman retrieved one of the lanterns from the carriage and held it up high behind Silence.
The gaudy golden walls jumped out in the flickering light, the multicolored marble floor sparkling. The entry hall seemed deserted—that is until Silence noticed a smear of blood on the rainbow marble. Michael advanced swiftly and bent over the two bodies lying in the shadows behind an ornamental urn.
He straightened almost at once. “Dead.”
Silence clapped a hand over her mouth to still a cry of fear. What would the intruders do to Mary Darling?
Michael was already moving swiftly and quietly through the hall and she hurried to catch up, trying to keep the heels of her delicate embroidered slippers from tapping on the marble. Instead of taking the main, grand staircase, Michael drifted past it and pushed on a panel half-hidden in the shadows. The panel opened to reveal a narrow staircase. Swiftly he mounted the twisting steps and Silence found herself panting as she ran after him.
A minute later he abruptly halted before a small landing and another door.
“Remember to stay close,” he whispered to her and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Before she could reply he’d opened the door.
The intruders were standing immediately on the other side.
Michael lunged soundlessly and the first man fell. Two other men turned, cudgels raised, and Michael made a flurry of swift jabs and darts. Someone grunted and Silence was pushed aside as the coachman came up the stairwell behind her. She saw now that they were in a hallway around the corner from the room she and Mary Darling shared. There were a few candles lit, but the hall was mostly a mass of violent, heaving male bodies. Silence gasped as the coachman was pushed back against her. He grunted and kicked the assailant away.
“Steady on, ma’am,” he growled, but she wasn’t reassured.
She’d lost sight of Michael and because of the melee she couldn’t move closer to her rooms and Mary. A wild-eyed giant ran at the coachman, a cutlass raised over his head. The coachman somehow deflected the larger man’s attack. But the coachman stumbled back onto Silence. For a moment she couldn’t breathe beneath the man’s weight.
Suddenly Bert appeared, his face ghastly white beneath a wash of scarlet blood. With a foul curse he bashed the giant over the head and pulled the gasping coachman off Silence.
“Are ye all right, ma’am?” Bert asked and for a moment Silence was simply stunned by the honest worry in the guard’s ugly face.
Then there was a shout from behind Bert and Michael reappeared. His fine velvet coat was ripped at both shoulder seams and a line of blood trailed from the inky black of his hairline.
“We make for the babe’s room!” he roared and seized Silence’s hand, plunging into the mass of twisting bodies.
She gasped and fought to keep by his back as he hacked and kicked his way bodily through. For the first time she realized what sort of man it took to become a successful pirate. He was ruthless as he fought, a wolf made entirely of sinew and ferocity. He never hesitated, never seemed to rethink a thrust or hit, he simply fought with single-minded savagery. It was rather awe-inspiring, his primitive violence, like a lightning storm. And like a natural force, he was graceful, too, his body moving with sure and simple brutality.
Within a minute they were in sight of her room. The door burst open and a huge man ran out.
Michael bellowed.
The man took one frightened look at them and turned and ran.
Michael started after him, but Silence dug in her heels, halting him.
He turned on her, his face savage.
“Mary!” she said.
He blinked as if coming out of a dream state and nodded.
The other intruders, though greater in number, had fallen away from Michael’s attack. Now they were retreating with Bert and the coachman in pursuit.
Michael ignored the stragglers. He turned and tried the door to her rooms and when it didn’t open, backed a step and kicked it in.
The room was lit only by one candle. In the middle, Harry crouched over a body. Silence could hear Mary Darling crying, though, and she pushed past Michael.
“Silence!” he called behind her, but she was intent on the baby. She couldn’t see her. Where was Mary? A low whimper came from somewhere near her feet. Silence looked down and saw nothing.
Almost instinctively, she dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. Two pairs of eyes stared back at her. Lad gave a low growl, but Mary held out her arms. Sobbing.
“Oh, baby!” Silence cried.
Lad stopped growling as he recognized her voice. Silence reached under the bed and caught Mary Darling by the shoulders as the dog crawled out.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Silence murmured once she had the baby in her arms. Mary was sweaty and grimy from the dust under the bed, but she was entirely whole, entirely alive. Silence felt tears of relief flood her eyes as she buried her face in the baby’s curls.
“What a good dog you are, Lad,” she murmured wetly to the mongrel as he wagged his tail. “What a good guard dog.”
She rose and turned, smiling, only to freeze in confusion.
Michael still stood by the door, staring down at Harry and the figure on the floor. Now she saw that it was a woman—and her heart began to beat faster. “Who—?”
She stepped closer and then gasped and turned Mary’s face away. The body on the floor had no face. Or rather what had been a face was now a mass of blood and melted tissue. Silence squeezed her eyes shut. She knew who it was even before she felt Michael’s arms close around her and Mary.
“It’s Fionnula, I’m afraid,” he said into her hair. “I’m sorry, love. She’s dead.”
MICK FELT THE tremor that went through Silence’s body. He closed his eyes a moment and simply held her. The baby was bawling in his ear and he didn’t give a damn. She was alive. They both were alive and unhurt. They weren’t lying on the floor like Fionnula, her face a horrific mess. He grit his teeth at the thought and knew suddenly: this was fear. This terrible, cold hand clenching at his inner organs. This wild urge to scream at the awful thoughts running through his head.
What if—?
What if he’d delayed ten minutes longer at the opera? What if they’d thought to post an ambush by the front door? What if he’d been cut down as he’d entered? What if, at this very moment, Silence was in his hands?
Mick wanted to laugh. Doubts, worries, and fear of his mortality—those were all problems that other men had to deal with. He’d never bothered with them himself. Why should he? If he died, well, then he died. He’d led a good life—a fighting life. He’d leave no regrets behind.
But that was before. Now he had Silence to protect and worry over—and Jaysus a baby, as well. If he fell who would take his place to guard them? Who was as ruthless as he?
He looked up and his eyes met Harry’s.
Harry nodded soberly at Bert, standing in the doorway panting. “Bert says the Vicar’s men ’ave been run out o’ the ’ouse.”
“Good,” Mick said.
“What did that man d-do to her?” Silence asked, her face was still turned into his chest.
“Vitriol,” he said starkly. He didn’t have to look at Fionnula’s corpse again to see the effects.
He remembered the results of a vitriol attack well enough.
The caustic liquid was used in the production of gin and was in common enough supply in St. Giles. Vitriol burned any surface it touched except glass, and that included flesh and bone.
&
He stroked her hair. “It was quick,” he lied.
In fact Fionnula had probably suffocated as the terrible liquid ate into her nose and the tissues of her mouth and throat. Her death would’ve been agonizing.
“Poor, poor Fionnula,” Silence said. The baby had quieted into an exhausted slump against her shoulder. “Do you think Mary saw it?”
“Nah, she didn’t. Fionnula must’ve saved the babe,” Harry said somberly. He gently spread a handkerchief over the girl’s ruined face. “The baby was already under the bed wi’ Lad when I got ’ere.” He nodded to the connecting door to Michael’s room. “I came through there. Saw the Vicar’s man standing over ’er, jus’ lookin’. Then ’e turned tail and ran.”
“And why weren’t ye here afore the Vicar’s men to stop them from enterin’?” Mick asked coldly.
Harry flushed. “There were a fire in the kitchen. We went down to ’elp put it out afore it spread to the rest o’ the ’ouse.”
“A diversion,” Mick grunted.
“Aye,” Bert said. “A diversion right enough, Mick.”
Harry nodded. “The ’ole ’ouse was roused to carry the buckets. Weren’t until we ’eard a scream from above that we realized we was under attack. By that time they’d made the upper floors and ’twas ’ell to fight our way through.” He averted his eyes from Fionnula’s pathetic body as if he couldn’t stand the sight. “She were already dead by the time we made it ’ere.”
“How did the fire start?” Mick asked.
But at that moment Bran shoved past Bert in the doorway. Bran’s face was blackened, his hair straggling about his shoulders. He saw the still form on the floor and froze.
“No.”
Harry turned. “Aw, Bran—”
“No!” Bran batted aside the hand that Harry would’ve set on his arm. “No, no, no!”
He sank to his knees beside Fionnula and carefully lifted the handkerchief from her face. For a long moment he simply stared at the horror and then he abruptly jerked aside and vomited.
“She were a brave lass,” Bert said thickly, his eyes reddening. “Must’ve jus’ ’ad time to shove the babe under the bed afore they were in the rooms.”