She’d said the words so many times, the syllables were worn into her soul. She didn’t even have to think what they meant anymore. But were they still true? She shook her head in confusion. She didn’t want to be having this conversation with anyone, let alone Michael.

But his deep voice was relentless. “And without this true love ye’ll let yerself wither away, is that it, darlin’?”

“As I said, I don’t expect you to understand—”

“And I don’t,” he cut in. “Ye ask how I can live a life that I know will end with the hangman’s noose. Well, at least I am alive. Ye might as well have climbed inside yer husband’s coffin and let yerself be buried with his corpse.”

Her hand flashed out before she’d thought about it, the smack against his cheek loud in the little courtyard.

Silence had her eyes locked with Michael’s, her chest rising and falling swiftly, but she was aware that Bert and Harry had looked up. Even Mary and Lad had paused in their play.

Without taking his gaze from hers, Michael reached out and grasped her hand. He raised her hand to his lips and softly kissed the center of her palm.

He looked at her, her hand still at his lips. “Don’t take to yer grave afore yer time, Silence, m’love.”

Her heart was beating so fast that she was breathless. She could feel each exhale he made on her palm.

“He has no grave,” she whispered inanely. “He died at sea and his body lies there beneath the waves.”

“I know, love,” he said tenderly. “I know.”

Then the tears overflowed her eyes, there in the sunlight in the little courtyard. Silence squeaked, embarrassed and helpless, and felt him pull her against his chest.

“There, there, sweetin’,” he murmured into her hair.

“He loved me, he truly did,” she gasped.

“I know he did,” Michael said.

“And I loved him.”

“Mm-hmm.”

She raised her head, glaring angrily. “You don’t even believe in love. Why are you agreeing with me?”

He laughed.

“Because”—he leaned down and licked at the tears on her cheeks, his lips brushing softly against her sensitive skin as he spoke, “ye’ve bewitched and bespelled me, my sweet Silence, didn’t ye know? I’ll agree that the sky is pink, that the moon is made o’ marzipan and sugared raisins, and that mermaids swim the muddy waters o’ the Thames, if ye’ll only stop weepin’. Me chest breaks apart and gapes wide open when I see tears in yer pretty eyes. Me lungs, me liver, and me heart cannot stand to be thus exposed.”

She stopped breathing. She simply inhaled and stopped, looking at him in wonder. His lips were quirked in a mocking smile, but his eyes—his fathomless black eyes—seemed to hold a great pain as if his strong chest really had been split open.

HER EYES STILL swam with tears, blue-green and woebegone. Why the sight should pain him so Mick didn’t know. He’d seen men gutted and killed, watched starving women prostitute themselves, seen beggar children lay down in the gutter and die. He’d fought with tooth and nail to reach the place where he was now—where he didn’t worry over food or a roof over his head. He’d killed men and never thought about their faces again.

Yet the sight of Silence in tears nearly unmanned him.

He glanced away from her face uneasily. That way lies pain. “Come. I’ve somethin’ to show ye.”

He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen door.

“But Mary—” she protested.

He tilted his chin to where the toddler giggled as she pulled at Lad’s ears. “She’ll be fine with Bert and Harry to watch over her. We’ll be only a moment.”

She trailed after him, casting worried looks at the baby until they were inside. “Where are we going?”

“To me throne room.” He led her through back passages and stairs until they reached the echoing hall that he received visitors in.

Bob, guarding the door, looked curious as Mick approached with Silence, but the guard merely nodded.

“See that we’re not disturbed.” Mick drew open the heavy wooden doors.

Inside he strode quickly to a chest he’d had set beside his throne. He threw open the lid and drew out a shimmering blue silk gown.

“What is it?” Silence asked as if she’d never seen such a dress.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a dress. For ye.”

She backed a step, looking mulish. “I can’t wear that.”

Ah, now he had to be careful. He held up the dress, letting the light play on the gorgeous fabric. “Ye told me ye were bored. Wouldn’t ye like to get away from me palace?”

“Yes, but—”

“But,” he interrupted, “if ye wish to go out wi’ me, ye must wear this. The dress yer wearin’ now won’t do.”

She bit her lip, eyeing the iridescent blue silk.

“It was given to me,” he lied, “by a sea captain wantin’ me to do him a favor. I haven’t a use for it m’self.”

He held the dress against his chest, drawing a reluctant smile from her. In fact, like a besotted lover, he’d spent half a day searching for a ready-made gown especially for her. That information, however, was unlikely to make her want to take the gown. He knew instinctively that accepting such a costly gift—such an elegant gift—from him would outrage her puritanical morals.

“Or would ye rather be spendin’ another evenin’ by the fire in yer rooms?” he asked casually. His fingers trailed over the shining skirts.

Her eyes darted to his face. He could see she was wavering. “Where do you intend to take me?”

He shook his head. “It’s to be a surprise.”

Her brows knit and her lips parted as if to protest.

“But it’s respectable,” he hastily added. “I promise.”

He held his breath, waiting to hear her answer. Wanting her to accept.

“I haven’t anything else to wear with such a fine gown.” She blushed at even the oblique mention of underclothes.

He fought down a grin, trying to look innocent instead. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll find the items ye need in the bottom o’ that there trunk.”

“But—”

He was already striding to the throne room doors. She’d decided when she asked about things to wear with the dress. If he hesitated, she’d have time to rethink her decision.

Mick pulled open the doors and spoke to Bob. “Send two lads here to take a chest to Mrs. Hollingbrook’s room.”

Bob nodded. “Right ye are.” He scurried off down the corridor.

Mick turned back to Silence. She was still standing by the chest, but she was looking about the room as well. “Why keep so many of your souvenirs in one room? Aren’t you afraid of thieves?”

Mick smiled. “Ye think I’d be robbed in me own home?”

Pink tinted her cheeks. “No, of course not. But your men might be tempted.”

“Pay them well, I do,” Mick said simply. “Better, mind, than they could get anywhere else in London. And if they’re still tempted, well… believe it or not, m’love, but I’ve somethin’ o’ a reputation amongst violent men.”

She shivered and turned away, peering at a marble cherub. “I know.”

He tilted his head, watching her. His violence upset her, he knew, but since he couldn’t change who he was, he dismissed it from his mind.

“As to why I pile me goods in this one room”—he shrugged—“ye yerself told me it makes a certain impression.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is that the only reason for all your treasure? To impress others?”

He watched her for a moment, and then decided he could tell her. “Ye know o’ me life as a lad. About beggin’ for me supper.”

She nodded hesitantly.

He grimaced and looked around the room at his booty. “Well, when I made me first haul I swore then and there that I wouldn’t ever do that again.”

Her eyes widened. “But… that was long ago. You’ve become a powerful man since then—a rich man.”

“Can a man ever be rich enough?” he asked softly. “Powerful enough?”

“Oh, Michael.”

Her eyes had gone wide, her sweet lips parted, and her face was filled with compassion—for him.

That look went straight through him. He took a step nearer, his muscles tensing, his hand lifting, reaching for her.

Just then two of his men clattered into the throne room.

Mick bit back a curse and pointed to the trunk. “Bring it to her rooms.” He glanced back at Silence, still unmoving by the cherub. “Seven o’ the clock tonight, mind now. Be ready for me.”

And he turned and strode from the room, wondering if he was going to survive courting a chaste widow.

Chapter Ten

“As you wish!” Tamara cried.

At once they were transported to the top of a mountain. Before them were spread rich fields and a huge, sparkling lake.

Clever John’s eyes widened. “All this is mine?”

“Of course, my King Clever John!” Tamara danced a few delighted steps, her bright hair waving in the mountain wind. “What else do you wish?”

But Clever John’s gaze was on the wealth before him. “I shall call you when next I need you.”

Tamara nodded and quick as a wink turned into the rainbow bird and flew away, leaving only one bright red feather to float to the ground in her wake….

—from Clever John

“Mr. Makepeace.”

Winter tamped down a surge of impatience and turned at the feminine tone of command. His morning had been busy enough before Lady Hero had decided to make an unscheduled appearance at the home—and bring Lady Beckinhall with her.

He’d thought the ladies well occupied with Nell, discussing the new venture of teaching the children how to spin, but apparently he was wrong. Lady Hero stood on the upper landing just outside the meeting room of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. She smiled brightly and he immediately was suspicious. The lady was the least annoying of the aristocratic members of the Ladies’ Syndicate, but he was beginning to realize that underneath her always pleasantly elegant exterior, she was a bit Machiavellian.

He bowed shortly. “My lady?”

“I have a particular favor I wonder if I might ask of you,” she said.

He sighed, mentally girding his loins, for he had the feeling he wasn’t going to like this favor. “Of course, ma’am.”

She nodded, satisfied. “You’ve met Lady Beckinhall, the newest lady attending our meetings?”

“Indeed, ma’am.”

“Lady Beckinhall would be a wonderful addition to the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children,” Lady Hero said. “But I’m afraid she’s not quite certain if she would like to join us.”

Winter looked at her blankly. “Yes?”

Her smile became firmer. “Yes. And I thought, if you gave her a special tour of the home, she might realize what very good work you do here.”

“Ah…” For the life of Winter, his brain, usually quite a quick organ, was unable to come up with a suitable excuse which would get him out of wasting his time with a silly society matron for forty-five minutes or longer.

“Lovely!” Perhaps Lady Hero had gone deaf, for she beamed as if he’d acquiesced enthusiastically. “Lady Beckinhall is waiting in the meeting room for you.”

And in another minute Winter found himself bowing to Lady Beckinhall.

He straightened and thought he caught a gleam of amusement in her eyes.