She sobbed and lifted her arms to him.
He blinked, taken aback. Surely she didn’t want him. But another wail gave him very little choice.
He lifted the little girl from the cot, bringing her close to his chest as he’d seen Silence do. She was as light as feather down from one of his fine pillows. His chest wasn’t as soft as Silence’s, but the baby didn’t seem to mind. The fretful sounds stopped as she stuck a finger in her mouth and regarded him with wide brown eyes. Her eyelashes were spiked with tears, making them dark and long.
She’d be a beauty someday, he thought dispassionately, someone would have to guard her against the men who would be drawn to her. They’d swarm around her like bees to honey, wanting to lift her skirts, wanting to dishonor her, little caring of her feelings or who she was as a person. She’d be a piece of flesh to them, not a girl. Not someone’s beloved daughter.
He scowled again at the thought.
The child whimpered, her face crumpling, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.
“Hush now,” Mick whispered.
Silence was still asleep. He crossed to his own room and entered, holding the baby. He bent to set her on the bed, but she clung to his fine lawn shirt, rumpling it, and sobbed.
“Hush away, sweetin’,” he whispered. What did she want? He picked up a jeweled snuffbox lying on his dressing table and showed it to her.
She batted it away irritably and smashed her little head into his chest, still sobbing. He stared down at her, perplexed. She was so loud, so stubborn, and yet he could feel the delicate bones of her little ribs through her chemise. She was so small, so fragile, so easily hurt.
He walked to the fireplace and showed her in turn the items on the mantelpiece: an alabaster vase, a pink and white shepherdess, and a curved golden dagger that had once belonged to some Ottoman lord. She didn’t seem very interested in his treasures, but she quieted a bit, still rubbing her face against his shirt. She’d ruin it soon if he didn’t take it off. Her mouth opened suddenly in a wide yawn.
And he found himself singing to her softly, the words coming to him as naturally as breathing.
“Take me in your arms, my love
And blow the candle out.”
Chapter Eight
Well, a bird that turned into a woman startled Clever John very much, but he kept his hand about her neck as he examined her. She was young and lithe, her face lovely and unlined, and her hair waved gently about her head in every color of the rainbow.
He plucked the candle wax from his ears and said, “What manner of being are you?”
The woman laughed merrily. “My name is Tamara. I am daughter to the dawn and sister to the four winds. Let me go and I shall grant you three wishes.”…
—from Clever John
Silence woke from a dream of a singing angel. He’d been tall and stern—like an angel carved in the door of a gothic church. An otherworldly being of great virtue and little sympathy. But his voice had been low and sweet, warming her from within like hot honey, making her bones liquid with relaxation—even though she’d known that the angel was a dangerous being from another world. That she ought to keep on the alert.
For a moment she lay still in the big bed, blinking sleepily, loath to move.
And then she realized that the angel’s song hadn’t stopped on her waking.
Silence sat up. The tantalizingly beautiful voice was coming from the half-open door to Mickey O’Connor’s room.
She rose, drawing a shawl about her shoulders and glanced at Mary Darling’s cot. It was empty, but she felt no alarm. She thought she might recognize that voice. Moving as quietly as she could she crept to the connecting door.
The sight within made her draw in her breath.
Mickey O’Connor stood across the room by the fireplace, his back toward her. He was clad only in tight black breeches and jackboots, his upper body nude. His broad back was a smooth olive expanse, the muscles that delineated his shoulders and arms in firm, sensuous bunches. And he was singing, his voice a wonderful, soaring tenor. She’d never heard anything so beautiful in her life. How was it possible that Mickey O’Connor, a man with a soul as black as tar, should have a voice the angels would envy?
He half-turned suddenly and she saw that he cradled Mary Darling to his strong chest. The little girl’s pink cheek was laid trustingly against him, her eyes closed in sleep. His hand moved gently in her inky curls, stroking her soothingly.
Silence must have made some sound at the sight. His eyes flashed to hers, yet he never stopped singing.
“My father and my mother
In yonder room do lay
They are embracing one another
And so may you and I
So take me in your arms, my love
And blow the candle out.”
She felt her face heat at his words, even though they were part of his song. He didn’t mean them for her. They were merely the words to an old ballad.
She knew that, yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. His dark eyes seemed to be telling her something, something apart from the song he sang so beautifully. She lifted a hand to her belly and pressed to still the trembling there.
His song died on a low, liquid note and he continued to stare at her.
Silence cleared her throat, fearful her voice would come out a croak. “Is she asleep?”
He blinked as if he, too, were waking from a dream, and glanced down at Mary Darling. “Aye, I’m a-thinkin’ she is—she’s stopped fussin’ at me.”
Silence felt a huge smile of relief spread over her face. “She was fussing? Oh, how wonderful!”
He shot her a look, one eyebrow arching. “Ye’ve taught the child to bully me, too, now?”
“Oh, no,” she said hastily, embarrassed. Did he really think she bullied him? What a silly notion! “It’s just that she’d been so listless. If she’s well enough to fret, then she must be feeling better.”
“Ah.” He glanced down at the baby’s head, his look nearly tender. “Then I’ll rejoice when she starts bawlin’ again at the top o’ her lungs.”
“You should,” Silence said as she crossed to him and gently took the sleeping baby. Mary mumbled something and snuggled against her bosom. Silence examined her anxiously. Mary’s cheeks were pink, but they weren’t the hectic red of before and her little body no longer felt as if it burned. Oh, thank God.
Silence looked up grinning. “I know I will. Far better a screaming baby than one that’s too quiet.”
“Aye,” he said, watching them with a somber light in his eyes. “I can well believe ye.”
She gazed down at Mary’s sleeping head, avoiding his eyes. She should leave his room, but she was oddly reluctant to do so. “You have a beautiful voice.”
He snorted. “Do I now?”
She looked up at him, puzzled by his dismissive tone. “You must know you do.”
He grimaced. “Aye, I suppose I do at that. I spent enough time when I was a lad singin’ for me supper.” He caught her questioning look. “When there was naught in the cupboard, me mam would take me down to the street corner. She’d lay a handkerchief on the ground at our feet and we’d sing for pennies. It might take minutes or hours or all day afore we had enough to buy our supper.”
Silence swallowed. He talked of begging for food so cavalierly, yet she knew now that the experience must’ve scarred him terribly. “How old were you?”