Well, being a king was quite lovely, and for many years Clever John was happy with the arrangement. But as time went on, it became a bit… monotonous. Every morning Clever John ate his breakfast off plates of gold. He strolled his royal garden—ten times the size of his uncle’s—and then went riding about his kingdom. By afternoon he’d usually exhausted all there was for a king to do and was forced to take a nap.
So it was with more interest than trepidation that he heard the news that his neighbor had invaded his kingdom….
—from
Clever John
Silence was sleepy from the carriage ride, but Michael’s sudden stillness brought her to full alertness. “What is it?”
“Get in the carriage,” he ordered quietly and drew a long, wicked-looking dagger from his sleeve.
“Michael?” she whispered. She couldn’t see anything to alarm him. The street was quiet, the moon high and full overhead. Their carriage had stopped directly in front of the palace’s nondescript door. It looked the same as usual except—
“The guards are gone,” Michael murmured. “Me palace is under attack.”
“Dear God,” Silence said. “Mary Darling—”
He turned swiftly, his eyes burning with intense emotion. “No. Don’t even think it. I’ll get her and bring her to ye alive and safe. Wait here in the carriage.”
“But—” She was suddenly filled with fear—not only for herself and Mary, but for Michael. He thought himself invincible, but he was only a man after all, made of flesh and blood and as mortal as any other.
She bit her lip, knowing that she couldn’t distract him from his task, and started for the carriage.
“No, wait,” he took her arm, halting her. “Might be this’s a diversion to separate ye from me.”
Her eyebrows drew together. Why would Michael’s enemies care particularly about her?
“Follow me close like,” Michael said, gripping her tighter for emphasis, “but not so close that ye interfere with me right arm. Understand?”
She nodded mutely, gathering her skirts in trembling hands.
He looked over her head at the coachman. “Stay behind her and guard her with yer life, ye hear?”
“Aye, Mick,” the man replied.
Then Michael opened the door to the palace.
It was dark inside, the candles that should’ve been waiting already lit, had been snuffed. The coachman retrieved one of the lanterns from the carriage and held it up high behind Silence.
The gaudy golden walls jumped out in the flickering light, the multicolored marble floor sparkling. The entry hall seemed deserted—that is until Silence noticed a
smear of blood on the rainbow marble. Michael advanced swiftly and bent over the two bodies lying in the shadows behind an ornamental urn.
He straightened almost at once. “Dead.”
Silence clapped a hand over her mouth to still a cry of fear. What would the intruders do to Mary Darling?
Michael was already moving swiftly and quietly through the hall and she hurried to catch up, trying to keep the heels of her delicate embroidered slippers from tapping on the marble. Instead of taking the main, grand staircase, Michael drifted past it and pushed on a panel half-hidden in the shadows. The panel opened to reveal a narrow staircase. Swiftly he mounted the twisting steps and Silence found herself panting as she ran after him.
A minute later he abruptly halted before a small landing and another door.
“Remember to stay close,” he whispered to her and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Before she could reply he’d opened the door.
The intruders were standing immediately on the other side.
Michael lunged soundlessly and the first man fell. Two other men turned, cudgels raised, and Michael made a flurry of swift jabs and darts. Someone grunted and Silence was pushed aside as the coachman came up the stairwell behind her. She saw now that they were in a hallway around the corner from the room she and Mary Darling shared. There were a few candles lit, but the hall was mostly a mass of violent, heaving male bodies. Silence gasped as the coachman was pushed back against her. He grunted and kicked the assailant away.
“Steady on, ma’am,” he growled, but she wasn’t reassured.
She’d lost sight of Michael and because of the melee she couldn’t move closer to her rooms and Mary. A wild-eyed giant ran at the coachman, a cutlass raised over his head. The coachman somehow deflected the larger man’s attack. But the coachman stumbled back onto Silence. For a moment she couldn’t breathe beneath the man’s weight.
Suddenly Bert appeared, his face ghastly white beneath a wash of scarlet blood. With a foul curse he bashed the giant over the head and pulled the gasping coachman off Silence.
“Are ye all right, ma’am?” Bert asked and for a moment Silence was simply stunned by the honest worry in the guard’s ugly face.
Then there was a shout from behind Bert and Michael reappeared. His fine velvet coat was ripped at both shoulder seams and a line of blood trailed from the inky black of his hairline.
“We make for the babe’s room!” he roared and seized Silence’s hand, plunging into the mass of twisting bodies.
She gasped and fought to keep by his back as he hacked and kicked his way bodily through. For the first time she realized what sort of man it took to become a successful pirate. He was ruthless as he fought, a wolf made entirely of sinew and ferocity. He never hesitated, never seemed to rethink a thrust or hit, he simply fought with single-minded savagery. It was rather awe-inspiring, his primitive violence, like a lightning storm. And like a natural force, he was graceful, too, his body moving with sure and simple brutality.
Within a minute they were in sight of her room. The door burst open and a huge man ran out.
Michael bellowed.
The man took one frightened look at them and turned and ran.
Michael started after him, but Silence dug in her heels, halting him.
He turned on her, his face savage.
“Mary!” she said.
He blinked as if coming out of a dream state and nodded.
The other intruders, though greater in number, had fallen away from Michael’s attack. Now they were retreating with Bert and the coachman in pursuit.
Michael ignored the stragglers. He turned and tried the door to her rooms and when it didn’t open, backed a step and kicked it in.
The room was lit only by one candle. In the middle, Harry crouched over a body. Silence could hear Mary Darling crying, though, and she pushed past Michael.
“Silence!” he called behind her, but she was intent on the baby. She couldn’t see her. Where was Mary? A low whimper came from somewhere near her feet. Silence looked down and saw nothing.
Almost instinctively, she dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. Two pairs of eyes stared back at her. Lad gave a low growl, but Mary held out her arms. Sobbing.
“Oh, baby!” Silence cried.
Lad stopped growling as he recognized her voice. Silence reached under the bed and caught Mary Darling by the shoulders as the dog crawled out.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Silence murmured once she had the baby in her arms. Mary was sweaty and grimy from the dust under the bed, but she was entirely whole, entirely alive. Silence felt tears of relief flood her eyes as she buried her face in the baby’s curls.
“What a good dog you are, Lad,” she murmured wetly to the mongrel as he wagged his tail. “What a good guard dog.”
She rose and turned, smiling, only to freeze in confusion.
Michael still stood by the door, staring down at Harry and the figure on the floor. Now she saw that it was a woman—and her heart began to beat faster. “Who—?”
She stepped closer and then gasped and turned Mary’s face away. The body on the floor had no face. Or rather what had been a face was now a mass of blood and melted tissue. Silence squeezed her eyes shut. She knew who it was even before she felt Michael’s arms close around her and Mary.
“It’s Fionnula, I’m afraid,” he said into her hair. “I’m sorry, love. She’s dead.”
M
ICK FELT THE
tremor that went through Silence’s body. He closed his eyes a moment and simply held her. The baby was bawling in his ear and he didn’t give a damn. She was alive. They both were alive and unhurt. They weren’t lying on the floor like Fionnula, her face a horrific mess. He grit his teeth at the thought and knew suddenly:
this was fear
. This terrible, cold hand clenching at his inner organs. This wild urge to scream at the awful thoughts running through his head.
What if—?
What if he’d delayed ten minutes longer at the opera? What if they’d thought to post an ambush by the front door? What if he’d been cut down as he’d entered? What if, at this very moment, Silence was in
his
hands?
Mick wanted to laugh. Doubts, worries, and fear of his mortality—those were all problems that other men had to
deal with. He’d never bothered with them himself. Why should he? If he died, well, then he died. He’d led a good life—a fighting life. He’d leave no regrets behind.
But that was before. Now he had Silence to protect and worry over—and
Jaysus
a baby, as well. If he fell who would take his place to guard them? Who was as ruthless as he?
He looked up and his eyes met Harry’s.
Harry nodded soberly at Bert, standing in the doorway panting. “Bert says the Vicar’s men ’ave been run out o’ the ’ouse.”
“Good,” Mick said.
“What did that man d-do to her?” Silence asked, her face was still turned into his chest.
“Vitriol,” he said starkly. He didn’t have to look at Fionnula’s corpse again to see the effects.
He remembered the results of a vitriol attack well enough.
The caustic liquid was used in the production of gin and was in common enough supply in St. Giles. Vitriol burned any surface it touched except glass, and that included flesh and bone.
“Dear God,” Silence murmured. “I’d heard what vitriol could do, but this… it killed her?”
He stroked her hair. “It was quick,” he lied.
In fact Fionnula had probably suffocated as the terrible liquid ate into her nose and the tissues of her mouth and throat. Her death would’ve been agonizing.
“Poor, poor Fionnula,” Silence said. The baby had quieted into an exhausted slump against her shoulder. “Do you think Mary saw it?”
“Nah, she didn’t. Fionnula must’ve saved the babe,” Harry said somberly. He gently spread a handkerchief
over the girl’s ruined face. “The baby was already under the bed wi’ Lad when I got ’ere.” He nodded to the connecting door to Michael’s room. “I came through there. Saw the Vicar’s man standing over ’er, jus’ lookin’. Then ’e turned tail and ran.”
“And why weren’t ye here afore the Vicar’s men to stop them from enterin’?” Mick asked coldly.
Harry flushed. “There were a fire in the kitchen. We went down to ’elp put it out afore it spread to the rest o’ the ’ouse.”
“A diversion,” Mick grunted.
“Aye,” Bert said. “A diversion right enough, Mick.”
Harry nodded. “The ’ole ’ouse was roused to carry the buckets. Weren’t until we ’eard a scream from above that we realized we was under attack. By that time they’d made the upper floors and ’twas ’ell to fight our way through.” He averted his eyes from Fionnula’s pathetic body as if he couldn’t stand the sight. “She were already dead by the time we made it ’ere.”
“How did the fire start?” Mick asked.
But at that moment Bran shoved past Bert in the doorway. Bran’s face was blackened, his hair straggling about his shoulders. He saw the still form on the floor and froze.
“No.”
Harry turned. “Aw, Bran—”
“No!” Bran batted aside the hand that Harry would’ve set on his arm. “No, no, no!”
He sank to his knees beside Fionnula and carefully lifted the handkerchief from her face. For a long moment he simply stared at the horror and then he abruptly jerked aside and vomited.
“She were a brave lass,” Bert said thickly, his eyes
reddening. “Must’ve jus’ ’ad time to shove the babe under the bed afore they were in the rooms.”
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.