He barked a laugh to cover the bloody pain her words drew from his breast. “Perhaps in yer world—”
“In yours as well!”
“A person cares about himself, and only himself,” he said, suddenly weary of this conversation, “in yer world or mine. Me mam was no better or worse than any other and I didn’t deserve more. Yer silly to think otherwise.”
“No.” He felt the touch of her hand on his arm and looked down in surprise to find her gripping his arm with feminine strength. He raised his gaze and saw that her eyes blazed greeny-brown at him. “I may not be as sophisticated as you. I may not have constant, changing lovers, I may not carelessly disregard the law and common morals, I may not live the romantic life of a river pirate, but I know this, Mickey O’Connor: all children deserve a loving mother. And a mother who truly loved her child would do anything—anything—to protect and save him.”
He looked into her fierce face, her delicate cheeks flaming with passion, her lips stained a rose red, and the small child she still held protectively in her arms and felt himself fall, tumbling helplessly, all thought stopped in his head. She took his breath away with her simple avowal: A mother should protect her child. Something came loose in his chest.
Dear God, he wanted this woman.
He remembered, as he stared down at her, the cold nights on the streets, the leather strap against his back, and that final, terrible confrontation.
“Perhaps me mother didn’t truly love me then,” he whispered.
Her magnificent eyes suddenly swam with tears. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean that you didn’t deserve to be loved.”
And he couldn’t help it. She wept—for him.
He touched his lips to hers and unlike their first kiss, this one was nearly chaste. He couldn’t draw her body near because the baby was still between them. Still, he could savor her softness. He hid his claws and brushed his mouth against hers, as delicately as a butterfly’s wings on a petal. She breathed a sound and he tilted his head, licking softly, tenderly, over her mouth. His cock was straining against the fabric of his breeches, but he made none of his usual decisive moves to take this further. He was strangely content simply to savor her lips. To savor Silence herself.
When at last he raised his head, her beautiful eyes were dazed.
He smiled a little, and stroked one finger over her soft cheek. She tilted her face toward his hand, as if without thought. He watched his finger stroke down her elegant neck, over her collarbone and onto the upper slope of her left breast, just revealed by the top of her chemise.
He swallowed, staring at his swarthy finger against her creamy skin. “Ye should go.”
He raised his eyes to hers.
He didn’t know what she saw there, but whatever it was, it made her turn away without speaking. She fled the room.
Mickey cursed under his breath, letting his head fall back against the wall. His cock still beat angrily against his clothing. Once he would’ve simply sent for a whore. Now that thought was oddly unsatisfying. He could have a willing woman, a woman who would do anything he might request of her, even the most exotic acts of sex, but instead his flesh wanted just one woman.
A woman who was as fierce in her maternal love as he had been as a boy in his will to survive.
Just thinking of her—the flush that had lit her face, her lips rose red from his kiss—made his cock leap eagerly.
Mickey swore and unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. He’d never been one to deny himself pleasure of any sort. He reached inside his breeches now and drew out his swollen flesh and looked down. Liquid had oozed from the tip of his randy member, making the dark plum head glisten. He spat on his palm and took the thing in his hand.
Jaysus, what would she do if she knew what he was doing right now? Her stormy eyes would widen in shock, he knew, if she could see him, but mightn’t they also show a bit of interest as well? He chuckled breathlessly at the thought, and imagined her sitting in the chair before his fireplace, watching as he fisted his cock. Her eyelids would droop with desire. She might let her head fall back, revealing the vulnerable heartbeat in her throat.
He groaned and slid his palm faster over his straining rod.
Would she let her legs fall open? If she did he’d come closer. He might kneel at her feet, still achingly hard, and slowly lift her tattered chemise. He’d reveal white thighs, the tender crease separating leg and stomach, and that place between where soft, curly hair grew. Would her bush be full or merely a few wisps at the top of her slit?
Mickey lifted his lip in a snarl, canting his hips, stroking his other hand over his own belly and thigh, to reach his bollocks drawn up tight in lust.
He’d take his thumb and run it through that sweet cleft, watch the tender petals part, inhale the scent of her desire. And when he placed his mouth on her and suckled, she’d arch beneath his hand. He’d need to press his palm on her belly to hold her, but still she’d scream—
His crisis hit him hard and fast, making him groan as he spilled his seed on the floor.
He rested against the wall, still caressing his aching flesh. If merely thinking about the act with Silence was that explosive, then how would it be to actually lick her? A small smile curved his lips. He’d bet his next haul that her puritan husband had never showed her that particular pleasure. He’d give much to be the first one to lick her sweet pussy.
If she’d ever let him…
DEAR LORD.
Silence carefully, quietly, closed the connecting door to Mickey O’Connor’s room and leaned back against it, her hand to her breast. She could feel her heart beating much too fast under her palm.
She’d known the moment she’d cracked the connecting door and peered inside that the scene within was not for her eyes. When she had entered her own room, she’d put Mary down and come back to say something to him—what she could no longer remember. The sight within had driven all thought from her mind. Mickey O’Connor’s head had been arched back, his strong neck corded with strain, his black breeches unbuttoned and his hand had been working his manhood.
He’d been simply… mesmerizing.
She should’ve closed the door at once. Should have never dared to peek at what had obviously been a very private moment. But somehow she couldn’t make herself close the door. It wasn’t just curiosity. It had been something more. She’d talked to Mickey O’Connor. Not as supplicant to pirate, but as one human being to another. That simple act—talking—had changed everything. She no longer thought of him as just a pirate. He was a man now, a living, breathing man. A man who could be hurt.
A man she could be attracted to.
And once that line had been crossed, she could never go back. He was real to her now, and while the pirate evoked fear and dread and even revulsion, the man—the real man beneath—was infinitely alluring.
So she’d stayed at the crack in the door, watching breathlessly as Mickey O’Connor did something very earthly indeed. She’d remembered his kiss as she watched. It hadn’t been like their first kiss. That had been wild and erotic and tinged with anger. No, the kiss he’d just given her was sweetly gentle—so gentle she’d found herself falling helplessly. He had been the one to pull back, he had been the one to tell her she must leave.
Silence tiptoed to her bed and lay down, still breathing fast. What had he been thinking as he stroked the shaft of his penis? Had he thought of her? She was hot just wondering, but surely it was not coincidence that he’d done that just after they’d kissed. The thought of bringing such a strong man, such a viral man to the point of using his own flesh—because of her…. well, it was arousing.
She gazed at the canopy over the bed, remembering. His penis had looked very big in his hand and it’d gleamed in the firelight as if wet. She’d been married for two years, but William had been a properly modest man. She’d only glimpsed him nude once or twice. Sometimes, late at night, lying beside him as he slept, she thought about what he must look like, but she’d quickly shoved the speculations from her mind as immodest.
This must be the sin of Onan. She’d spent long hours as a young girl wondering what exactly Onan had done to spill his seed upon the ground. Later, when she’d been older, she’d heard whispers of this act that men performed. She’d even once broached the subject with William, in a single, stuttering question. He’d made it quite plain then that her curiosity over the matter was not proper.
But what Mickey O’Connor had done did not seem particularly sinful. It had actually been rather wonderful. He’d gripped himself with casual certainty. Obviously he’d performed this act before. She clenched internally at the thought. Did he not have enough women to satisfy him? Or was the act particularly pleasurable for him?
Dear God. She ached, wanting something that she knew was a sin.
Wanting a man who was sin itself.
“THE OWNER OF the Alexander has paid his tithe,” Bran said later that day.
“Has he?” Mick replied disinterestedly.
He’d not seen Silence since he’d sent her away this morning, but their kiss haunted him. Even after taking care of his lust, his flesh still demanded her. He smiled wryly to himself. A kiss. A simple kiss and he was panting after Silence.
“Mick?”
And forgetting where he was it seemed. Mick glanced at his lieutenant. “Ye’ll have to repeat yerself, Bran, me lad, I’m afraid me head is in the clouds.”
“Your head has been in the clouds since you brought Mrs. Hollingbrook here,” Bran said in a voice that cracked at the end of his sentence.
Mick had been sitting in his desk chair, his long legs carelessly flung over the arm. Now he slowly straightened and let his booted feet hit the floor heavily. “Have ye somethin’ ye wish to say to me?”
The boy held his gaze—a feat that many older and brawnier men had failed to do. Mick noticed that Bran’s jaw was darkened with his beard. A year or so ago, one could hardly make out the fuzz on Bran’s cheeks. His shoulders seemed heavier, too—and was he an inch taller? Perhaps it was past time Mick stopped thinking of Bran as a boy.
“You always told me that a man must make his decisions with his head, not his cock,” Bran said. “You said that a man entangled by a wench couldn’t think straight. That he lays himself open to misstep and misstep leads to ruin.”
Mick tilted his head, studying Bran thoughtfully. “Why, Bran, me lad, I had no idea ye’d taken me words so to heart.”
Bran merely stared at him, looking a little sullen. “She’s distracted you.”
Mick felt a prick of irritation. “And what o’ yer fair Fionnula, now? Hasn’t she caught yer cock and yer attention?”
“No.”
“No?” Mick laughed. “Come, Bran, ye needn’t lie to me. Our pretty Fionnula loves ye true.”
“She might,” Bran said coldly, “but that doesn’t mean I love her.”
Mick narrowed his eyes. “Then ye’d give her up, were I to order ye to?”
“Aye.”
“And if I told ye to bring her to me bed?” Mick asked softly. “Would ye bring the lass and sweetly hand her over to me?”
“In a thrice,” Bran said stubbornly. “Is that what you want?”
Mick felt his mouth curve. “Oh, not at the moment, no, but I am that glad to hear ye’d whore out yer sweetheart should I want her. Such loyalty is more than a man should expect.”
Finally Bran showed unease. A mottled red flush rose on his neck. “It’s what you asked for.”
“Was it?” Mick asked gently. “I wasn’t exactly sure.”
For a moment Bran stared at Mick, some kind of emotion working behind his features.
Mick watched him thoughtfully. They were all on edge after the deaths of Sean, Mike, and Pat, but something more seemed to be bothering Bran.
