The sound of the pirate’s heels as he led her and the smell of fresh beeswax on the panels suddenly made the memory of that night rise up, overwhelming her like water closing over her head.
William, her dear husband, had been accused of stealing the cargo from his ship—the cargo that Mickey O’Connor had taken.
So Silence had come to St. Giles, wrapping herself in foolish bravery, love for William, and a fatal naïveté. She’d pleaded with Mickey O’Connor for William. She’d thrown herself on the mercy of a wolf, forgetting that wolves didn’t understand even the idea of mercy.
Mr. O’Connor had told her that he would replace the cargo—but that in return she’d have to spend the night with him. He’d stood up from his throne and led her from the throne room and through these very hallways.
By that time she’d been very nearly in a panic. She was a good woman—a virtuous woman—and she had no choice but to think that he would debauch her. Instead, he’d brought her to his magnificent bedroom, seated her by the fire, and called for supper. Servants had brought the most beautiful meal she had ever seen. Sweets and rich meats and hothouse fruits. He’d insisted she eat and she’d obeyed him, though the food had tasted like ashes in her mouth.
Afterward, he’d bid her lay in his big bed, stripped the shirt from his body… and then he’d ignored her, reading papers by the fire, half unclothed. When she couldn’t stand it any longer she’d sat up. “What do you mean to do with me?”
He’d glanced up in feigned surprise, the shadows the firelight had cast across his face making him look nearly demonic. “Why, nothin’, Mrs. Hollingbrook. What did ye think I’d do with ye?”
“Then why did you bring me here?”
He’d smiled—not a nice smile. No, this was a smile such as a wolf would give just before he tore into the doe’s throat. “What will ye tell yer husband when ye return to his arms tomorrow?”
“Tell him? I’ll tell him the truth: that we dined together, but that nothing else happened.”
“And he’ll believe ye?”
“Of course!” She’d been outraged. “William loves me.”
He’d nodded. “If he loves ye, he’ll believe ye.”
His words had been like a curse. Even then—sitting on that ridiculously lush bed, just beginning to feel the relief that she wouldn’t have to sacrifice her pride to this man—even then, she’d shivered with foreboding.
The next morning Mickey O’Connor had made her undo the front of her dress until her breasts were nearly revealed. He’d had her take down her hair and tousle it about her face. And then he’d made her promise to walk up the street like that.
As if she were a common whore leaving his bed.
It had been hard—until then the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life—but she’d walked up that street, past the catcalls of the whores returning home for the night. She’d found her sister, Temperance, waiting for her at the end of the street, worried sick about what had happened to Silence over the night. Silence had collapsed in her sister’s arms, hoping that the terrible spell was over.
But that walk up the street in disarray had not been the worst—not by a long shot. For after that night she’d found that no one believed her. Not Winter, not Temperance, not the butcher on the corner, not her neighbors in Wapping.
No one.
Not even her darling husband, William. They all had thought Charming Mickey O’Connor had raped her. William had hardly been able to look at her before he left on that last voyage. He’d turned his head aside as if the sight of her shamed him—or as if she repelled him. And as she had watched her love leave, that last time on a ship that in six months’ time would be lost at sea, Mickey O’Connor’s words had echoed in her mind:
If he loves ye, he’ll believe ye.
Silence blinked and saw that they were climbing past a wide landing. She caught sight of familiar gilded double doors and glanced hastily away. Mickey O’Connor led her to the next floor up and then to the first door in the hallway there. He opened it with a flourish to reveal a neat bedroom with pink walls and white trim. Silence stopped short in astonishment. A bed with embroidered flowered hangings stood in one corner. Beside it was a cot with spindled rails all around the outside—obviously a child’s bed. There was even a small sitting area with a settee before the fireplace. Harry was already placing her trunk at the foot of the bed while Bert took a chair outside the door.
All in all the room was very nice—and terribly out of place in this den of iniquity.
Silence turned to Mr. O’Connor with a frown. “Who usually resides in this room?”
He’d leaned a broad shoulder against the fireplace mantel as he watched her examine the room. “Why, no one, darlin’. Did ye think I kept a passel o’ virgins here to sacrifice to me wicked lust?”
She could feel herself color at his mocking words. “I merely wondered.”
“Ah, well, wonder no longer. This room is for ye and ye alone.” He arched one satanic eyebrow. “Have ye any other questions?”
“Um… no.”
“Then I’ll leave ye to make yerself at home. Supper’s at eight o’clock. Sharp, mind. Harry’ll show ye the way.” He’d straightened from the mantel as he spoke, and now he strode out the door without so much as a backward glance.
Silence stared, rather stunned, as the door closed softly behind the river pirate. “Wretched man!”
There was a soft gasp from near the bed and Silence noticed for the first time that a girl sat by the cot. It was the same maidservant who had brought Mary Darling into the throne room.
Behind Silence, Harry cleared his throat with a sound like boulders rubbing together. “This ’ere’s Fionnula, ’oo’s been set to carin’ for the babe.”
“Ma’am.” Fionnula dipped in an awkward curtsy, abandoned halfway down. She was a pretty girl, perhaps no more than eighteen, her fair skin freckled, her hair a lovely reddish blond, springing out from its pins in a cloud of curls about her face.
“Mrs. ’Ollingbrook is goin’ to stay ’ere with the little lassie, Fionnula,” Harry said. “Orders o’ ’Imself, so mind what she says, ’ear?”
Fionnula nodded, apparently struck mute by Harry’s instructions.
“Well, then,” Harry said after an awkward pause. “Ah… I’ll jus’ push along. ’Imself ’as given orders that me and Bert’ll be watchin’ after ye while yer ’ere, Mrs. ’Ollingbrook, so if’n ye need anythin’, jus’ give us a ’oller. We’ll be outside the door.”
And Harry left, as well.
Silence scowled at the door through which the men had disappeared. “Sometimes I suspect that men are great idiots.”
Fionnula gave a surprised giggle, hurriedly muffled.
Silence smiled sheepishly at the girl. It was hardly Fionnula’s fault that Mr. O’Connor was such an autocratic pirate.
“The babe’s fair worn out,” Fionnula said, nodding at Mary still in Silence’s arms. Her Irish burr was pronounced.
“She is, isn’t she?” Silence whispered. She carried Mary to the cot and gently laid her down, hovering a moment to see if the toddler would wake.
But Mary was exhausted from her crying bout and slept deeply.
Silence straightened and moved to the fireplace, motioning Fionnula to follow. “So you were looking after Mary today?”
“Aye,” the maid said shyly. “She was fair mad to’ve been taken from her home. She’s a handsome lass, though. The spittin’ image of Himself.”