She stared down at the worn gold and the rich beauty of the dark red ruby. It was his first ring, she remembered, touched by his gesture. The ring was a little big, so she wrapped a piece of thread about it to hold it on her thumb. She had to blink hard then because it all seemed like both a dream and a nightmare. They were married—and he’d be hung by the neck in only a few hours.
Michael beckoned George over and had a whispered consultation with him at the end of which he gave the rest of his rings to the soldier.
“Only for an hour, mind,” George said.
Michael held out his hand to Silence. “Spend a little time with me, Mrs. O’Connor.”
She went into his arms gladly, and the cell door was locked behind her.
She sighed, laying her head on his warm chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart. He stroked his hand through her hair, his touch gentle, but she felt the tremble in his fingers. Suddenly it was too much, the sentence, the marriage, all the years after tomorrow without him.
“Oh, Michael.” She closed her eyes, despair overwhelming her. “I… I don’t know if I can live if you—”
“Aye.” His voice was firm, commanding. He took her face between his big palms and looked into her eyes. His black eyes were fierce even in the dim light. “Aye, ye can live. For me, for Mary Darlin’, for yerself. Promise me that, love. Promise me, ye’ll live, and ye’ll thrive, no matter what comes tomorrow.”
She swallowed. She couldn’t be weak when he needed her strong. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“That’s me girl.” He brushed his lips over her forehead, breathing the words. “That’s me love.”
The tears overflowed, coursing down her cheeks. “I love you, Michael.”
He laid his cheek against hers. “I’ve written out a will for Pepper, me man o’ business.”
She tried to protest, but he pulled back to look her in the eye. His face was grave. “Hush, now, love, ye must listen to me words. I’ve left instructions for Pepper to manage yer money for ye. I think it best ye and Mary go to live at Windward House. It’s quiet there and secret. Me servants and Harry and Bert can take care of ye. I’m hopin’ that the Vicar might see it in himself to be satisfied once I’ve gone, but we can’t take that chance. I’ve made arrangements for me men to guard ye until Charlie Grady is dead. And that, too, I’ve arranged for.”
Silence stared at him, stunned. He’d planned it all, made sure she and Mary Darling would be well taken care of after his death. He hadn’t said he loved her, but his actions spoke much louder than any words could.
“Silence?” he asked. “Do me plans meet with yer approval?”
“Yes,” she gulped. “Yes, of course.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I want ye to be happy, me love. Ye and Mary Darlin’.”
She choked then, unable to speak. What words were beautiful enough, sublime enough to convey all her heart wanted to express in this moment? They simply didn’t exist.
His eyes were sad as he watched her as if he knew somehow what she was thinking. “Come lie with me, m’love.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him close.
But when Michael began to tug her toward the back of the cell and a pallet, she clutched at his shirt. “What if they look? The soldiers?”
He shook his head. “I paid them well not to peek. Bert and Harry will make sure o’ it.”
Silence glanced over her shoulder and saw that all the men outside had moved away from the barred window in the door. The only light in the cell came from the little window, leaving the back wall—and a pallet against it—in near darkness.
She looked back at Michael, peering in the gloom.
His voice was deep as he squeezed her hand. “Come and be me wife.”
He was her husband now.
Despite the sorrow of this place, despite what would happen all too soon, that small fact lit a spark of joy within Silence. She was married to Michael O’Connor.
She was married to the man she loved.
And since time was short, she lifted up on tiptoes and drew his face down to kiss him.
“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “I love your voice and your Irish burr. I love the way you look at me just before you say something outrageous. I love the way you hold Mary Darling so tenderly. And I love that you wanted to make me your wife. I love you, Michael O’Connor, I love you.”
The words made him tighten his hands on her waist and pull her closer. “Silence, me love. When I knew ye’d left me it felt as if a chunk o’ me heart had been torn from me body. Only yer presence here can stop the bleedin’.”
His mouth opened over hers and he took control of the kiss, biting at her lips, impatient and savage. She was aware that a dozen men stood only yards away, but she shoved the thought from her mind. She wouldn’t let modesty keep her from showing her husband how much she loved him.
How much she would always love him.
So she took her mouth from his and skimmed it over his strong neck, tasting the salt of his skin. His hands rose to her shoulders, but he made no move to stop her. She tongued the V of his chest, revealed by his shirt, and as she did so she slid her hands to the front of his breeches where his erection was trapped. Feeling, learning in the dark she began unbuttoning his fall.
“Silence?” he whispered.
“Shh,” she admonished as he had once done to her. “You mustn’t say a thing.”
And then she dropped to her knees.
She heard the harsh intake of his breath. He stood very still as she finished unbuttoning him and pulled his breeches and smallclothes open. She leaned forward, blind in the darkness, but she could scent his male musk. Her hands found his cock, stiff and ready, and so beautiful that she wished she could see it. She didn’t have time for modesty or shyness. For slow learning. This would be the last time—
But no, she would not think about that. Instead, she explored the man before her. She slid the fingers of her left hand down his shaft, memorizing each veined ridge until she reached the spot where his penis met his body. His sack was drawn up tight under his cock and she fondled it gently, feeling the stones within.
He made a muffled sound above her and she thought that perhaps he liked to be touched there. Or perhaps it was what she did with her right hand. She was squeezing gently on his thick shaft. In any case, she certainly wasn’t done. If this were to be their—
No, don’t think about it.
She swayed forward and licked the head of his cock.
Michael went absolutely still.
His hands dropped to her hair and for a moment rested there as if stunned. Then she opened her mouth and took him inside. When she began sucking gently, his hands clenched. He tugged her hair as if to pull her away from himself. But since he was only tugging carefully, she stayed just where she was. She drew back and licked around the head of his cock. Without sight her other senses were heightened. She could taste him—man and musk—and beneath her tongue his skin felt warm and soft and pliable.
She kissed him and then thought to scrape her teeth gently over the tip of his penis. It jumped and he hissed softly. She smiled and took him into her mouth again. There was something terribly enticing about having such a strong man at her mercy. She was in a position of servitude, but she didn’t feel servile. She felt very feminine, very sensuous as she stroked around the flange of his cock with her tongue. His hands had stopped pulling on her hair. Instead he gripped her as if unsure whether to push her away—or pull her closer.
She let go of his cock head to lick leisurely along the underside of his shaft and something seemed to snap in him. He bent and picked her up by the waist. He pivoted, his chains scraping and clinking, and placed her flat on the pallet, following her down to lie on top of her. She gasped and then felt cool air on her thighs. His hands were under her skirts, caressing her thighs, trailing up until he touched her wet center. He stroked her there once and then his hand was replaced with his cock.
<
br /> Someone coughed and she was suddenly aware that only a door separated them from a roomful of soldiers. He swirled the head of his cock in her moisture even as she had the thought.
She bit her lip and he began to push his way into her. It had only been a matter of a month, but she seemed to have forgotten how large he was. She held her breath as he shoved again. The sensation was so lovely, so perfect, that she was afraid she’d make some betraying sound.
He paused, half in her, and adjusted her position, burrowing his arms under her legs, prying them wider.
He withdrew a tiny bit and then very deliberately pushed again with constant, relentless pressure. He breached the muscles at the entrance to her sheath and, suddenly, he was all the way inside. She felt his breath against her cheek. Felt as his chest expanded as he inhaled. She wanted this moment to stop so she could live it forever. Here, now, there was only the two of them, occupying a wonderful island apart from the rest of the world.
Then he was withdrawing, slowly, steadily. Without a sound.
She gripped his shoulders and his mouth came down on hers. His tongue swept in and he kissed her so gently she wanted to cry. How would she live without him? Without ever again feeling this intense closeness to another human being?
She’d found paradise only to lose it.
Well, then she’d enjoy it while she could. She wrapped her arms around him, wishing they could both be nude, but glad of what contact they had. She tasted salt tears, seeping into both their mouths, and wondered if they were hers or his. Had she brought the great Michael O’Connor to tears? She bit down gently on his tongue, suckling it, holding it within herself. Perhaps if she held him hard enough he would stay with her forever.
Perhaps with this act they created eternity.
She could feel his shoulders bunch as he controlled himself, each thrust exquisitely slow and even. It was as if she’d been primed just for him. Only for him. Each inch of his hard flesh burrowing into hers, each drag against her folds as he withdrew oh, so slowly, built a fire within her, burning, burning, ever hotter.
But more, he was forging a bond between them, an unbreakable iron chain that would link them together forever. This was their true marriage ceremony, more solemn, more holy than the words said over them by an old man.
She held him and breathed with him and waited for the flames to climb higher, to burn white hot. And when he reached between them and thumbed her little nub they did. They flared together. She arched into him as her core melted. The flames seemed to sear her with ecstasy, bonding them together as if they were fired within a crucible. He thrust hard, burying himself and at the same time he covered her mouth and inhaled her moan and his own.
And as her crisis took her, she saw a rainbow form from the ashes of their combined heat. A rainbow so fragile, so fine that she thought it must be real. That their lovemaking had shattered the prisons of mortal men and that they were free.
Together and free.
But all things must end eventually and so, too, did the rainbow. Silence opened her eyes, her husband still atop her, his beloved weight heavy and comforting in the dim cell.
The dawn was coming soon.
Chapter Nineteen
Clever John called for his cook and made a special order, and then he waited for the cherry pie to be brought to him in his throne room. His voice had grown weak with age, so he was only able to croak her name. “Tamara.”
At once a beautiful rainbow bird flew through the window and alighted at his feet, turning into Tamara. She was as young and as lovely as she had been all those years ago when he’d first seen her, but she didn’t smile.
Instead her eyes were grave when she asked, “Why have you called me?”…
—from Clever John
They came for him at dawn, just as promised, a new set of soldiers to replace the dragoons that had guarded him all night.
Mick kept his eyes on Silence even as the soldiers opened his cell door and tied his wrists in front of him. He’d dressed in his best with Silence’s loving help—blue velvet coat and breeches, gold brocade waistcoat, and lace-trimmed shirt. He wore the stockings that Silence had knit for him—crooked and sagging in places—and they were the most important things on him. His fingers were barren of rings—he’d given them all away to spend an hour with Silence, but he’d not regret that in this life.
Or the next.
The soldiers hustled him from the cell and along long, dank corridors until he emerged, squinting, into the morning sun.
Silence stepped from Newgate Prison behind him, trailed by Harry and Bert.
“Go now,” he said gently to her and nodded at Harry. Both Bert and Harry were forlorn, but from Harry’s look he knew what Mick wanted.
A public hanging was a nasty thing and she didn’t need to see him kicking his heels in the air. With any luck it’d not come to that. His men should rescue him in time—but he wasn’t about to tell Silence that. There was still the chance that his plan would fail, and he didn’t want to get Silence’s hopes up for naught.
She looked at him, her eyes red, but dry, and said nothing. The expression on her lovely face was enough. Not many men were so fortunate as to have the love of a woman like Silence.
He expected to see her again in another couple of hours, but if the escape attempt failed, he’d die content.
Mick nodded to her as they led him toward the cart, already laden with his coffin and a chaplain. “Be well.”
“How romantic,” a terrible voice said.
The Vicar and a half dozen of his men emerged from the prison behind Silence and her two guards.
Harry began to look, but was knocked to the ground before he could fully turn. Bert backed away as two pistols aimed at his heart. In the wink of an eye Charlie had Silence, holding her by the throat as if she were a dog. She scrabbled at the fingers holding her, her eyes desperate as they met Mick’s.
“Is this your lady fair, Mickey?” the Vicar asked, his mangled face tilted grotesquely.
No. No.
Harry was on the ground, his head bleeding, but struggling to sit, so he was still conscious at least. Bert had skipped out of the way of the Vicar’s henchmen, but he couldn’t get near Silence with their pistols trained on him.
“She’s nothin’ to ye,” Mick said, trying to control his voice. Not now. Not now when he was trussed like a goose and helpless. “Let her go, Charlie.”
“Oh, I might,” the Vicar replied. “After I’ve taught her how to properly serve me. After all, your mother’s dead, Mick. I need a replacement. And I’ve waited patiently since your arrest so that you might fully enjoy this moment.”
Bile roiled in his stomach. Mick met Silence’s eyes.
They were wide and frightened, but calmer now. “I love you, Michael.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them to glare at the Vicar. “Anythin’. Just name yer price.”
Silence threw her weight suddenly against the Vicar’s grip. He stumbled under her force, but righted himself too soon, yanking her back into his terrible embrace.
Charlie smiled, a horrible lop-sided parody of a smile. “I already have my price, boy. Your death and your woman. I might get my granddaughter, as well, but she’ll just be a sweet bon bon. This”—he shook Silence by the neck—“this is the meat on my table.”
Mick bellowed, lunging at Charlie, but he was knocked to his knees by the soldiers surrounding him.
“Will ye allow the kidnappin’ o’ a lady?” Mick demanded of the soldiers. They’d been simply standing there as if blind and deaf to the outrage being played out in front of them.
Charlie laughed. “They will if properly paid. This lot isn’t like Trevillion’s dragoons—they like gold in their hands, and never mind who gives it. Now, remember this as they tighten the noose around your neck, son: I’ll be fucking your woman even as you’re breathing your last.”
And with that the Vicar motioned to his men and simply walked away. Silence gave Mick one last horrifie
d glance, still struggling in the Vicar’s grasp, and then the Vicar jerked her around.
The soldiers were manhandling Mick into the cart now. The chaplain studiously looked the other way. They’d all been bribed by Charlie, there’d be no help here. His men planned to rescue him at Tyburn, but if they did, no one would help Silence.
His life meant her death.
His death meant her life.
“Go!” he shouted at Bert and Harry. “Go tell Winter Makepeace what has happened. Tell him to take me men and get her back. Tell the crew to belay any other order. D’ye understand? Nothin’ stops them from rescuin’ Silence!”
The cart started and Mick craned his neck to see Bert helping Harry up and both men taking to their heels, Harry lagging badly. Bert had been with Mick for over five years, and had in that time served him well. But Bran had served Mick well, too—until the day the boy had betrayed him. Mick was going to his death. He had no way of repaying Bert for his loyalty. What if Bert decided simply to run away? Mick would only know if his men showed up at Tyburn as originally planned.
And Silence would pay the price.
Dear God, let him hang.
The cart ride was a trip through hell. The cart rocked into Oxford Street and they were already waiting. People lined the streets, calling to him, some in sympathy, some in derision. They were three and four deep, packed as full as the street would allow. Mick stood, head held high, feet braced wide apart so he wouldn’t stagger as the cart began its journey through London to Tyburn. A young girl threw a wreath of flowers into the cart at his feet and Mick stared down blindly at them. He was notorious in London, and there were those among the poor who thought him something of a hero.
A hero, he who had done naught but steal all his life.
Others heckled and threw rotting fruit and worse. He hardly noticed. Where was Silence now? God! Was the Vicar raping her, extinguishing that sweet, hopeful light in her eyes? He wanted to kill at the thought. To wreak bloody mayhem. But he was tethered like a wild animal in a cart.
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