Bran had his hands over his face and was simply rocking as if too stunned to move away from his position beside Fionnula. His reaction was stronger than Mick would’ve expected—he’d never thought the boy as in love with Fionnula as she’d been with him. Perhaps it was the shock of her terrible death.
Or perhaps Mick simply didn’t understand love.
Mick felt Silence shudder within his arms as she stifled a sob.
He stroked her hair. “A brave lass indeed. We’ll give her a proper burial, Bran, never ye fear.”
“Damn you!” Bran looked up, his face white and clear of tears. His eyes seemed to burn in the parchment of his face. “The Vicar had her killed because of your damned war, because of your damned pride! You whoreson! You should’ve killed him years ago, simply taken over his business and been done with him. But you’re too high in the instep for gin.” He spat, the glob of phlegm hitting the floor with a loud splat. “Damn you, her death is on your soul.”
Mick watched Bran throughout this tirade, not bothering to defend himself, though he did put his body between the grief-stricken boy and Silence. He glanced at Harry and nodded.
“Come on now.” Harry reached down and took Bran’s arm. “Times like these’s good for gettin’ roarin’ drunk.”
“Damn you!” Bran tried to wrench his arm from Harry’s grasp, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it anymore. The big man drew him up easily and hustled him to the door.
Mick glanced at Bert. “See that the room’s cleaned and Fionnula’s taken to the cellars until we can bury her.”
Bert nodded, his hangdog face heavy with sorrow.
Mick turned and left the room with Mary and Silence. He wanted them away from the scent of death and tragedy.
His own room hadn’t been touched. For a moment Mick narrowed his eyes, considering. The palace was a large and deliberately labyrinthine building. Finding a specific room was hard for those not initiated into its secrets. Yet the Vicar’s men had found Silence’s room very rapidly and without error, it seemed. How—?
“Why did they kill her with vitriol?” Silence whispered.
Mick looked down, his thoughts scattered. “Because o’ me.”
Her face was turned up toward his, pale and weary. She’d been fond of Fionnula. She’d be in mourning, too, along with Bran.
Her brows drew together in dazed puzzlement. “Because of you?”
He nodded. This was not the time or place, but he was all out of deceits and whiles. “A long time ago I attacked a man with vitriol. Threw it in his face.”
She recoiled. Well, and why wouldn’t she? It was a horrific act, the action of an animal. Naturally she’d be appalled.
“Why?”
He felt his own eyebrows arch in faint surprise. To question why an animal would act in an animalistic manner seemed absurd, but he humored her anyway.
“Because I wanted to kill him and the vitriol was at hand.”
She stared at him and blinked it seemed with an effort. “I’m very tired,” she said carefully, “but I know there must be more to the story than that…” She trailed off and shook her head as if too weary to go on. “I can’t ask the right questions tonight, but tell me this: Why should your attack so long ago lead to Fionnula’s death tonight?”
“Because,” he said, “the man I scarred with vitriol was Charlie Grady, the Vicar o’ Whitechapel.”
SILENCE STARED UP at Michael O’Connor, pirate, thief, admitted murderer. He’d confessed to a ghastly crime, one that led naturally to deserved retribution.
And yet…
And yet she refused to believe the worst of him—even if he believed it of himself. She knew him better now. All she saw at this moment, late at night in a dark room, was the sorrow in his eyes.
“Oh, Michael,” she said, and laid her palm against his cheek.
His black eyes flared wide in surprise and she almost laughed. Was compassion such a strange thing to him? Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
The heat of his mouth was a shock. She held the baby between their bodies and she’d meant only a quick, careless kiss, but somehow nothing was careless with this man.
He opened his mouth and took control of the kiss, bending over her, surrounding her and Mary in a circle of protection. He tasted of the wine they’d drunk at the opera—so long ago it seemed now—and the memory made her want to weep.
She broke away, intending to lay Mary down, to seek his arms with nothing between them, to find out what it was like to kiss him as a woman kisses a man.
But an arm wrapped around Michael’s throat and yanked him backward.
Silence opened her mouth to scream and a hand was clamped over her face.
“Hush,” Winter whispered close to her ear. “Don’t be frightened. We’re here to take you away from him.”
She stood still, her eyes wide over her brother’s hand. No! They couldn’t separate her from Michael now. She watched as Asa took the long knife from Michael’s sleeve. Michael stood unnaturally calm.
He met her panicked gaze. “Don’t let it worry ye, love. They’ll not hurt me.”
Beside her, Winter made the strangest sound—almost a growl.
Behind them, an aristocratic voice drawled from the bedroom door, “Oh, don’t be too confident of that, O’Connor. Not if you’ve harmed my sister-in-law.”
She turned her head within Winter’s grasp and saw Temperance’s new husband, Lord Caire. He was an intimidating man even under the best of circumstances—Lord Caire’s hair was stark white, long and clubbed back, and he nearly always wore black in dramatic contrast. Tonight, though, his face was as grim as Silence had ever seen it, and her chest tightened in sudden fear.
She pulled Winter’s hand, unresisting, from her lips. “Please. Don’t harm him. He hasn’t offered me any disservice.”
“Oh, no?” Asa asked darkly. “Then what do you call the embrace we witnessed when we entered?”
Beside him, Concord scowled at Michael.
Silence could feel her face warming, but she tilted her chin up. “None of your business.”
“Silence—” Concord began in a heated tone.
Lord Caire coughed into his hand, interrupting him. “But you see my dear, it is, actually, our business—your well-being, both physically and spiritually. We’ve come to take you and Mary Darling away.”
Only a few days ago she would’ve welcomed their interference. Now things were entirely different. She was different. She simply couldn’t betray Michael. He’d been attacked and his palace invaded. He needed her.
Michael saw the torment on her face. “Go with them, love. ’Tis for the best. Me palace isn’t safe anymore. I cannot protect ye by m’self.”
Her eyes widened at the admission. He was backing down, conceding the field—for her. What must it have cost his pride to admit that he couldn’t protect her in his own house? Tears suddenly pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away fiercely. She wanted to keep his face in her sight as long as she could.
Lord Caire turned and gave Michael a considering look. Michael met his eyes and some male communication seemed to pass between them.
Her brother-in-law nodded. “Thank you, O’Connor.”
Michael returned the nod, but oddly it was Winter he spoke to. “Ye’ll need to guard her and the babe night and day. The Vicar o’ Whitechapel is me enemy and he’ll think either o’ them a fine prize.”
Silence looked up at Winter. It was obvious that he had no love for Michael, but he gave one jerky nod. “Understood.”
Michael was suddenly in front of her, having apparently moved so swiftly he’d taken Asa unawares. He took her face in his palms. “Remember me.” And then his mouth was on hers, hard and hot and open, his tongue thrusting into her mouth despite her brothers’ presence.
There was a growl and he was torn from her. Silence was hustled into the hall. She held Mary Darling close as Asa, Winter, Concord, and Lord Caire formed a phalanx about them and escorted her from Mi
chael’s grand palace. They met no resistance, whether because Michael’s men were busy elsewhere or because he’d called them off, she didn’t know.
Abruptly a door opened and she was once again out in the chill night air. She glanced over her shoulder at the palace’s shabby outlines, and then she was helped gently but urgently into a waiting carriage.
The door slammed, a man called something, and the carriage jerked forward.
“Silence,” Temperance said, and Silence made out the dear face of her sister in the seat opposite.
For the second time in her life Silence burst into tears as her sister bore her away from Mickey O’Connor’s fortress.
Chapter Twelve
Clever John put on his armor and went to the top of his mountain and called, “Tamara!”
At once the rainbow bird swooped down from the clouds and circled his head before alighting and turning into the girl Tamara.
She clapped happily at the sight of Clever John. “How have you been, my friend?” she asked. “Do you like your kingdom? Have you swum the sparkling lake?”
But Clever John merely frowned to the west where his neighbor was even now marching toward his castle. “I wish for an invincible army.”
Tamara threw up her arms. “As you wish!”…
—from Clever John
“I have a traitor,” Mick said quietly just after midnight. He watched Harry to see how the other man would react to the news. He was almost certain that the traitor was not Harry, but then until the events of tonight he would’ve said that none of his men would betray him.
That was patently not true.
And what was more, he’d had to let Silence’s brothers bear her away because the palace wasn’t safe for her or the babe now. Conceding to anyone was not something Mick was used to doing. If any man had told him a month ago that he’d let four men walk out of the palace with something—someone—he considered his, Mick would’ve laughed in his face. But that was before Silence and the babe had come to be important to him. More important than even his self-esteem and his reputation. If that made him a weaker man, well, then so be it.
Harry’s ugly face creased as he frowned. He looked troubled at the announcement of a traitor, but tellingly, not surprised.
“Ye figure ’twas a traitor let in the Vicar’s men?” Harry asked.
Mick nodded and leaned back in his chair. They were in his planning room—the safest place in the palace for a discussion such as this. The room lay against one of the outer walls, with thick interior walls on either side. The passage outside was the only entry point and Mick’s desk lay across the room and out of earshot of anyone listening at the door.
He’d always been a suspicious man, just, it seemed, not suspicious enough.
“Did ye find out how the kitchen fire started?” Mick asked.
The big man scratched his head while regarding the ceiling critically. “ ’Twere a bit ’ard to figure out, truth be told. ’Ole place is a mess and Archie in a right fit about it. ’E said ’e’d gone to fetch some turnips and other victuals from the cellar and when ’e returned the kitchens were boiling with black smoke.”
“The chimney wasn’t stopped?”
Harry shook his head decisively. “Naw. ’Tis drawin’ well now. But me and Bert we found a pile o’ greasy rags—or what were left o’ them—by the back door. They might’ve been lit and left to smolder while the traitor took to ’is ’eels.”
Mick nodded. “Who gave the alarm for the fire?”
Harry screwed up his face, thinking for a moment. “Bran. Or maybe Archie.” He shrugged. “Everyone were shoutin’ at once.”
“And when did you realize we were under attack?”
“We ’eard a scream—must’ve been Fionnula. They came at us as we tried to get back to the baby’s rooms.” Harry shook his head. “The ’all were full o’ them, must’ve been near two dozen or more armed men. We was fightin’ them when ye came from the other way and we finally got to the rooms.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “They must’ve got to Fionnula almost at once. That vitriol doesn’t kill fast like but she was already still when I found ’er.”
Mick nodded. “The guards at the front door were hit from behind—attacked from inside the palace.”
Harry scowled. “ ’E’s a right bastard ’ooever ’e is. Lettin’ men in to kill a babe and a ’armless lass. If it weren’t for Fionnula’s quick thinkin’ Mary might be dead as well.”
“No, not dead,” Mick murmured absently. “The Vicar wanted her alive. She’d be a good hostage against me—she’s me daughter. And the fact that he knows that, means the traitor has been tellin’ him secrets for a bit. The Vicar knew about Mary, knew where she slept in me palace, and knew that I was away tonight. Come to think o’ it, a traitor might be how the Vicar found out that she was hid at the orphanage in the first place.”
Mick steepled his hands before him and stared at the rings sparkling on his fingers while he thought it out. The traitor’s identity was obvious. He felt a small twinge of what might have been grief, but Mick ruthlessly shoved the useless emotion aside. The man had put both Silence and Mary Darling in danger. The only decision to be made was what to do about it. He could expose the traitor, have him killed as a warning to his other men. Or he could let the traitor think he was undiscovered and use the man against the Vicar.
Mick looked up at Harry, still standing patiently in front of the ornate desk. “We’re goin’ to strike fast and hard, mind. I want ye and Bert to see to the repairs to the kitchen. See to it that Fionnula is buried proper with a pretty carved headstone. This news o’ a traitor stays with ye and me—I don’t want it leavin’ this room, d’ye hear?”
“Aye,” Harry said slowly. “But where will ye be, Mick?”
“I’m goin’ after me lasses—Mrs. Hollingbrook and Mary Darlin’.” Mick grinned. “We’re goin’ to double-bluff the bastard. Whisper it about that I think the Vicar will be expectin’ an attack so I’m delayin’ me hand. Me leavin’ London will add truth to the lie. But once I’m gone and he’s restin’ easy I want ye and Bert to attack the Vicar’s gin stills. They blow easily, gin stills, nice and high. The Vicar will be thinkin’ I’d attack his person, not his stills. We’ll strike him where he earns his gold and cripple him.”
Mick stood and began gathering papers on his desk. He still had to have a hasty meeting with Pepper if he were to leave London in the morning. The investments Pepper had made for him were now more important than ever.
Harry was silent and after a bit Mick glanced up at the man, half-expecting a protest.
Instead Harry merely looked sad. “ ’Twould be kinder to let ’er be.”
Mick didn’t pretend misunderstanding. “Aye, and if I could leave me Silence alone, none o’ this would’ve happened in the first place.” He stood a moment, tasting the bitter irony on his tongue. Then he looked at Harry. “Can ye do all that while I fetch her from whatever country wilderness her family has hidden her in?”
“Oh, aye,” Harry said grimly. “We’ll blow that old bastard sky ’igh, never ye fear.”
“FOUR MEN KILLED and you didn’t even get the baby,” Charlie said softly. He looked at the carved marble headstone as he spoke, but he addressed the man at his side.
Freddy was standing close enough to hear Charlie’s murmured words, but far enough away that he could swiftly duck any sudden blows. No fool, he.
“ ’E’d ’idden the babe,” Freddy said.
“You should’ve found her.” Charlie stroked the cold marble. Grace had been a good woman—a loyal woman. “That babe means a lot to me, Freddy. I think I made that clear, did I not?”
Freddy shifted uneasily. “Yes, sir.”
“And the woman? The one you were supposed to kill with the vitriol?”
“She were out wi’ Charmin’ Mickey. Went somewheres in a fancy carriage, all rigged out in silks.”
Charlie glanced up slowly. “Did she indeed?”
Freddy looked alarmed at his tone
. “Sir?”
“Now that is of interest,” Charlie mused. “He’s never taken one of his doxies out before, has he?”
“She sits at ’is right ’and at ’is dinner table, too, so our spy says.”
“Ahh. Then I’m glad you didn’t kill her outright after all.” Charlie drew a deep breath and tilted his head back, feeling the dawning rays of the sun on the right side of his face. He felt nothing at all on the left side, of course. He traced the ragged ridges and furrows, the unnaturally smooth valleys, with his fingertips. Not since that day sixteen years ago when a small, beautiful boy with hatred in his black eyes had thrown vitriolic acid in his face.
“I’ve waited years for this day,” he mused.
“For what, Vicar?”
Charlie lowered his chin and smiled into Freddy’s horrified eyes. “For the day that Mickey O’Connor chose a woman of his own.”
THE DAY WAS well established when Silence woke from restless, dream-filled sleep. She lifted her head and immediately winced at the crick in her neck. Outside the carriage window the rays of the sun shone on gray fields rolling away to the horizon.
“We’ll make Oxford tonight,” Temperance said from across the carriage.
She held Mary Darling in her lap. Mary was cradling a brand-new doll, but she cast it aside when she saw Silence was awake and stretched out her arms mutely.
“Already?” Silence murmured as she took the babe. She’d not traveled much outside London in her life, but she knew they’d gone a great distance in the night. A great distance away from Michael.
“We changed horses in Chepping Wycombe,” Temperance said, “but you did not wake. Caire tells me that we’ll stop again in a bit for luncheon. There’s a lovely inn in the next town with a cozy back room where we can sup in private. We stopped there on our way to Caire’s estate in Shropshire after the wedding.”
“That’s where we’re headed then? Shropshire?”
“Yes, we thought it the safest place—away from London where we can guard you and Mary properly.”