Mick studied the papers on his desk without seeing them. Bran had been pale and sweaty—sick with remorse, if Mick was any judge. “He betrayed us all, aye, but in this, I believe, he spoke the truth. He has no love for the Vicar now, I’m thinkin’. Fionnula died by the man’s order, mind.”

Both Harry and Bert looked troubled at that reminder.

But it was Harry who spoke for both of them. “Ye can count on us, Mick.”

“Good,” Mick said quietly, “because I’m trustin’ me most precious possessions to ye.”

“Right ye are, then,” Harry said.

“They’re upstairs,” Mick said, “in the nursery. I don’t want ye to let them out o’ yer sight once I’ve gone, d’ye understand? I’ll leave tonight after supper.”

The big man nodded and stumped out, followed by Bert.

Mick sighed and studied the papers in front of him. With Bran gone and both Harry and Bert occupied guarding his lasses, getting into the Vicar’s house was going to be a delicate matter. He leaned back in his chair to think.

By the time Mick left the study it was evening and he had a plan that should prove effective. But he was still mulling over the problem of a lack of men he could truly trust when he entered the dining room.

Silence was already seated and for a moment all thoughts of his raid disappeared. He remembered her insistence that he tell her about Bran, her worried concern when she heard that he’d been betrayed. She soothed his soul, this woman.

She wore a light green dress he’d had made for her, and the sight brought him a deep satisfaction. The dress was more modest than he would’ve liked—she’d wrapped a lace fichu over her shoulders and tucked it into the low neckline—but he’d provided it for her and she’d worn it. His eyes narrowed, studying the pretty picture she made sitting at his table. He’d have to order more gowns. Several morning dresses and at least one more elegant gown she could wear to the opera.

She smiled suddenly, the sight bringing a rush of warmth to his heart. “Why are you looking at me like that? Should I be nervous?”

He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “I’m thinkin’ on the gowns I’ll have made for ye.”

The smile remained on her face, but her eyes somehow looked sad. “Are you? Then you think I’ll be living with you for some time?”

He froze in the act of lifting his wineglass. “D’ye have any doubt?”

She shrugged. “We haven’t discussed the matter and I don’t know your mind. You are an extremely hard man to read, Mr. Rivers.”

He took a sip of wine while he considered her words. She hadn’t said she was against living with him, simply that she hadn’t known his mind.

“I do wish ye to stay,” he said slowly, setting his glass down. “I can give ye many fine gowns—rooms full, if it’s yer wish.”

“That’s quite generous of you,” she said in a gentle voice.

He looked at her sharply. There seemed to be some subtext of this conversation that he was missing. “Ye can live here wi’ little Mary Darlin’ and do as ye wish with yer days. I’ll buy ye a carriage and there’s the garden to tend.”

“How kind.”

His mouth tightened. Pushing. She was always pushing him. From this afternoon’s argument over Bran to this now. He’d already let her in, already offered her his house and himself. “What more do ye want? It’s more than yer husband provided for ye, ye must admit.”

“Yes,” she said coolly, “but William married me.”

His head reared back as if she’d struck him in the face. He started to say something more, but Mrs. Bittner and the maids entered at that moment with their dinner.

He waited until the servants left, thinking hard on his reply.

When the door at last shut, he said, “I do not wish to quarrel wi’ ye on the memory o’ yer husband. I know he meant much to ye.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“If ye wish for somethin’ more from me,” he said carefully, “books or clothin’ or even a lady’s maid, ye have but to ask. I’ll fulfill yer every wish to the best o’ me ability.”

There was no mistaking the sadness in her eyes now. “Yes, I know that, Michael.”

“Ye’ll be the mistress o’ Windward House. I’ll place it in yer hands to do wi’ as ye like.” He felt a rising panic, a desperation that he’d never encountered before. “I’ll come to see ye as often as I’m able, perhaps three or four days o’ the week.”

She set her fork down very carefully. “You do not intend to live here permanently?”

“Ye know that’s impossible.” His jaw flexed. “Me business is in the city.”

“You mean the business of pirating.”

He stared, confused and angry. “Yes.”

“You will continue to rob people for your living,” she said. Her face was so still it might’ve been made from carved marble, but her sweet hazel eyes seemed to burn.

Burn like his mam’s. He couldn’t give her what she needed. Couldn’t prove himself worthy.

He lifted his head proudly. He’d not simper and whine for something she wouldn’t give. “Aye, I’m a pirate. I’ve never hidden the fact.”

“No, you’ve never hidden your sins, have you, Michael?” Her lips were thinned, her face strained. “I had hoped, though, that now with Mary Darling and myself in your life, you might consider retiring. For us. For me.”

“Haven’t I changed enough for ye?” He laughed, short and hard. “Where d’ye think the money comes from to pay for this house, the food we eat, the clothes upon yer back? From piratin’!”

“But I don’t need your money, Michael.” She shrugged and looked around his fine dining room. “It’s very nice, but it’s not necessary.”

“Me riches might not be necessary for ye, but ’tis for me,” he said impatiently. “I’ve lived in the gutter, mind, and I won’t go back there, not even for ye.”

“But there’s no threat that you’ll go back to the gutter,” she said and finally her voice rose. “I’ve seen your throne room. You could live like a king off the treasures in there. You could live off your shipbuilding business.”

“No,” he was already shaking his head, the specter of his starving childhood flapping tattered wings before his eyes. Even with his shipbuilding business there was not enough money. There was never enough money. “No, ye don’t understand. Ye can’t understand. The money—me piratin’—is all that I am. ’Tis me power. I can’t simply give it up.”

“Why not? Your pirating is based on robbing people like my husband!” she shouted, rising from the table. “Have you any idea the suffering you inflict on innocents?”

He laughed. “Most are far from innocent, no matter your pretty illusions.”

She braced her arms on the table, leaning over it toward him. “William was innocent, I was innocent. William would’ve gone to prison had I not come to you. Don’t pretend that what you do is without victims, for I know otherwise. You hurt us, Michael, hurt us badly. I cannot live with a man who chooses to inflict harm on others for his business.”

He stared at her, so passionate, so angry. He wanted to bend her over the table and settle this argument in the most basic way a man can with a woman.

Instead he inhaled. “I’m sorry.”

She bowed her head as if to steady her emotions.

“What d’ye want me to do?” he asked, controlling his voice with difficulty.

Her head rose and she looked him in the eye, his brave Silence. “Become the man I know you can be. Be a father to Mary. Be a husband to me.”

“Ye’ll cut me bollocks off, will ye?” he asked softly. “Make me half a man, bent to your will? Have me sippin’ tea with me pinky in the air?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t care if you ever drink tea, pinky or not. I want you to do something far simpler. Far easier. Just stop. Please, please stop pirating, Michael. For me. We could live here together. Be married and have a family. Don’t you see? Everything is within our grasp. All you have to do is choose. Choose me.”

His chest grew cold. It might seem easy to her, but his money—his pirating—was the only thing he had to guard himself against want. Against starvation. Pirating had saved him when he was abandoned, fed him when he’d had no food, given him a life and a future when his had been destroyed. His mother might abandon him, Bran might betray him, even Silence might someday leave him, but at least he still had pirating. At least he had the money.

His money was his strength. Not even for this woman would he make himself weak.

He looked into her lovely, determined face. “No.”

She held his gaze a moment more and he thought he saw despair in her eyes.

Then she turned and left the room.

THE TEARS HAD dried on Silence’s cheeks by the time Michael came to her room that night. She watched from the bed as he laid an assortment of knives and a pistol on her dresser and began to arm himself.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He stilled as if he hadn’t known she was awake. “I’m takin’ Bran back to London and then I’ve some business to be attendin’ to. It won’t take long. Harry and Bert’ll guard ye and Mary here until I return.”

It was just before midnight. If he left now and rode to London, he would be about his “business” for most of what remained of the night. He probably wouldn’t return until well past daybreak tomorrow.

“What business?”

He paused for a fraction of a second—if she hadn’t been watching him she’d wouldn’t have seen it—then he shook his head once and Silence realized he wasn’t going to tell her.

Her heart shrank.

“I didn’t want to leave without sayin’ me farewells.” He strode to the bed with a small knife in his hand. “And I’ve somethin’ for ye.”

She looked at him and then at the knife, blinking sleepily. Did he expect her to become a pirate, too?

“Ye need to know how to defend yerself—defend Mary Darlin’, too.” His voice was gentle. “Come, I’ll show ye.”

He didn’t say that Harry and Bert would have to be dead if it came down to her defending Mary Darling herself, but then he didn’t have to.

Silence got out of the bed and stood before him in her chemise.

“Ye want to jab, quick and sharp like,” he instructed. “Don’t swipe, for yer knife is easily tangled that way.”

He demonstrated a lightning fast blow.

Silence looked at him dubiously. “I’m not that quick.”

“Ye will be with practice,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll bring back padded jackets and ye can learn how to use the knife on me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to stab you with a knife?”

“Aye,” he said seriously. “Ye need to know how to kill a man.”

She shook her head, folding her arms. She felt cold. “Even if you show me how, I won’t ever do that.”

He set his lips. “Then maim him. Thrust for the eyes, the throat, and the belly. That’ll back off even the most insane o’ men.”

She shivered. Was the Vicar insane? She supposed he must be to pursue Michael so blindly. To send someone to kill a woman with vitriol. If it meant protecting Mary Darling from such a beast, she would learn how to wield a knife.

“Here,” Michael said, offering her the knife. “Feel the weight. That’s Spanish, that is, made by a fine swordsmith.”