Dear God, he’d come too late.

WHEN MICHAEL FIRST came through the door Silence thought she’d gone mad. The horrible events of the last hours must have weakened her mind, mocking her with visions of her husband.

Then he opened his mouth and spoke. “I’m sorry.”

His voice was a thready rasp, but she didn’t mind. She was up off the wretched hearthrug in a thrice, rushing into his arms, uncaring of her state or the dirt and powder burns on his face. She wrapped her arms around him and simply held on.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his lips tracing her cheek so softly. “Please forgive me, Silence. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

She murmured and tried to capture his lips with hers, but he pulled back and she saw with wonder that there were tears in his eyes. “I’ll kill him for ye, never fear. Jus’… Jus’ don’t give up on us. I’ll take care o’ ye while ye heal. And ye will heal, I promise.”

She stared at him, bemused. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“The Vicar”—he grit his teeth and exhaled hard—“ hurt ye.”

“But he didn’t.”

“What?”

She took his hand and led him around the bed, pointing without looking. She’d taken one look afterward and it had been quite enough.

She swallowed and whispered, “He tried to… to… well, you know, and I waited until he thought I was quite cowed and then I took the dagger you gave me from my stocking and I killed him.”

She gestured again to the Vicar’s body, lying prone on the floor by the bed. “I’m afraid I didn’t aim for his eyes or his belly like you told me to. I just stabbed him in the back.”

“Ye…” Michael looked, bemused, between her and the body. “Stabbed…”

“Him. Yes.” She wrapped her arms about herself. Charlie Grady was his father after all. Perhaps Michael was in shock or grief. Perhaps—

Michael threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Ye killed the Vicar o’ Whitechapel!”

“Well… yes,” she replied, nonplussed.

“The most dangerous, the most insane bastard in all o’ London, and ye, ye, Silence, killed him with one blow.” Michael wiped away tears of laughter.

“Er… yes?”

He kissed her, hard and fast and for a moment all she did was revel in the feel of his still-smiling lips on hers.

Then he led her away from the body. “God, how I admire ye. Yer so calm and sweet and such a ferocious little thing all at the same time. But why were ye weepin’?”

“Dear Michael.” She laid the palm of her hand on his cheek. “I was weeping for you. I thought you hanged and dead. How did you escape from the gallows?”

“The Ghost o’ St. Giles.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “He came and cut the rope as I was swingin’.”

“Oh, God.” She shut her eyes, suddenly feeling ill at how close a thing it must’ve been.

“And ye, me darlin’? What happened here all this time since he took ye from me?”

“He brought me here and talked and talked for hours, it seemed. And then.” She gulped. “He came for me. But the Vicar never got very far with what he intended. I was not raped.” A sudden, rather awful thought assailed her. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

A wide grin spread across his handsome face. “Darlin’, I don’t believe in God, but I believe in ye.”

“Michael, that’s blasphemy,” she chided, even as she couldn’t keep the corners of her own mouth from turning up.

“No,” he said, very serious now, “that’s love. I hear ye, I believe ye, and I love ye, me darlin’.”

She looked at him mutely, too afraid to ask.

But he nodded as he drew her into his arms. “I love ye, Silence O’Connor, with all me black heart.”

“I don’t think your heart is all that black.” She smiled though tears sparkled in her eyes again. “I love you, too.”

She stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, simply glad to feel his warmth, his breath. But then a thought occurred to her. She pulled back to look him in the face urgently. “But the soldiers will be looking for you.”

“Aye.” He took off the ragged coat he wore and wrapped it about her, concealing her ripped bodice, then he took her hand and pulled her toward the door. Outside in the anteroom they found Bert just coming up the stairs.

“The Vicar’s men ’ave all been thrashed,” Bert panted, “but one o’ our crew says there’s soldiers comin’ this way.”

Mick nodded. “The Vicar’s corpse is in the bedroom. Have a couple o’ me men get it. And if you don’t mind, I’ll borrow this.” He took Bert’s gray wig, leaving Bert’s bald head naked.

“But you’ve been condemned to death,” Silence cried. “Won’t we have to flee the country?”

“Aye, we might,” he said with a sly smile. He plopped Bert’s wig on his head. “Were it not for Mr. Rivers.”

“I don’t understand,” she said as he led her out the door and down the stairs.

“Charming Mickey O’Connor is goin’ to meet a tragic death. It’ll have to be at the palace, I fear, more’s the shame, but it won’t be believed otherwise. I’ll have Harry and Bert take the Vicar’s body there and set it alight. Set the whole palace alight.”

“So they’ll find a burned body afterward and think it’s yours?” Silence shivered at the gruesome thought. “But where will we go?”

He stopped just inside the door and caught both her hands. “I’m to be a respectable, Englishman shipbuilder now, Mr. Michael Rivers. And you, my love will be Mrs. Rivers. We’ll send for Mary Darling and live in Windward House in Greenwich.”

His accent changed as he told her the news, becoming once again the thoroughly English Mr. Rivers.

Silence gazed up at him, and whispered. “So you’ll give up your pirating? Just like that?”

He cleared his throat. “Someone I love—and respect—told me that I could be a better man than a pirate.”

“Oh, Michael.” He was giving her everything she’d asked for.

He was giving her a family.

They were out on the street now and Silence saw with relief that Harry was among Michael’s men. He had a great bandage about his head, but he seemed well enough. He’d be able to wheedle any number of sweets out of female servants looking like a wounded hero.

Silence hurriedly put her hair back up as best she could with her remaining pins, while Michael shrugged on one of his men’s coat.

Bert led over a horse. Michael mounted first and Bert handed her up to sit before him. Then Bert stepped back and saluted.

Michael nodded to him and nudged the horse into a trot.

Silence looked around nervously. She could hear shouts and hoof beats in the distance. She felt at her hair. It was up off her neck, but Lord only knew what it looked like.

“Steady on,” Michael whispered into her hair. “Remember, we’re simply Mr. and Mrs. Rivers, returning home after a jaunt into London. I’m just a shipbuilder.”

“Won’t you miss your palace?” she murmured anxiously. “Your gold walls and marble floors?”

“I’ll not miss a whit of it. Gold nor silks nor fancy books and statues. I can live without them all. What I cannot live without is one Silence Rivers. I love you, my wife.”

“And I love you, my husband. I look forward to being just plain Mrs. Rivers, I do.” She leaned back and whispered in his ear, “But perhaps you can still be Charming Mickey O’Connor the notorious pirate—in our bedroom.”

He winked at her as he bent to catch her lips. “Oh, to be sure, m’love, to be sure.”

Epilogue

There was a patter of bare feet and when Clever John opened his eyes again Tamara knelt by his side. “Why do you want my purple feather?” she asked softly. “What possible use could a man who has everything he’s ever wished for have for a simple feather?”

He reached out a hand that shook with palsy and touched her smooth cheek. “The rainbow feathers remind me of you and everything I should’ve asked for.”

“And what is that?”

“You,” he said. “I should’ve wished for you and only you, sweet Tamara, for I have loved you all these years and without you my wonderful riches are but bones and dust to me.”

“Is this true?” she whispered.

“Oh, yes, it is true,” Clever John replied sadly. “I am a foolish old man who has lost everything he might’ve had in this life.”

But as his last words died away there was a great rushing as a powerful wind blew. Everything—the kingdom, the invincible army, and the treasure chest—disappeared, and Clever John found himself once again in his uncle’s garden. His limbs were young and strong, his hair black once again, and Tamara stood before him, her rainbow hair shining in the dawning sun.

Clever John threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “How?” he asked as he caught up Tamara by the waist and swung her joyfully around. “How is this possible?”

Tamara grinned down at Clever John. “Your wishes may have been used up, but mine certainly aren’t!”

Together they went to wake the king and tell him that the cherry thief was discovered and Clever John the new heir to the kingdom. And was Clever John sad that the kingdom by the sea was smaller and not nearly as rich as the magical one he’d wished for? Oh, no, he was the happiest man alive, for he ruled his tiny kingdom by the sea with Tamara by his side.

And that, Gentle Reader, made all the difference in the world….

—from Clever John

The harlequin leaned against a brick wall, panting. He thought he might be nearly to St. Giles, but he couldn’t be sure. They’d run him through the streets like a bull to slaughter.