The Pirate Next Door

by Jennifer Ashley

  Grayson’s eyes sparkled like fireworks on a Vauxhall night. “I do not want to discuss it reasonably. I want to rescue you.”

  “I do not need to be rescued at the moment, my lord. You and Mr. Ardmore should speak. Calmly.”

  “Damn you, Alexandra, I am rescuing you whether you like it or not.” He closed the distance between them in one stride, bent, and hoisted her smoothly over his shoulder.

  Her equilibrium went end over tip and she found herself upside down with her nose digging into his damp woolen coat.

  “What the devil are you doing?” she heard Mr. Henderson demand.

  “Rescuing my lady. Get out of my way.”

  “Finley—”

  The next sound was that of a fist striking flesh. Alexandra winced. Grayson wheeled and began walking fast. Fresh air struck her face, bringing with it the strong smell of brine. She lifted her head, trying to look back the way they’d come.

  “You see?” she called. “I am right. He overruns everybody in his way.”

  Madame d’Lorenz and the sailor had fled. Mr. Henderson, in the lighted cabin, stood as illuminated as an actor on a stage. Scarlet blood dripped to his stark white cravat.

  “Why must he always hit me in the face?” he asked plaintively. “Why always the face?”

  That was only the beginning of the harrowing rescue. Grayson had a boat waiting, with a wide-eyed sailor at the oars. Grayson hoisted Alexandra onto his back and bade her lock her arms and legs about his torso, while he half-climbed, half slid down a rope that was fixed to the rail of Ardmore’s ship by a grappling hook.

  They went that way because the ship seemed to have moved far from the dock. They floated now in the middle of the river, so wide at this point that the banks were swallowed in darkness and mist.

  She looked up at the precarious line that held the weight of them both. “What happens if they cut the rope?” she bleated. “Or loosen the hook?”

  “Then we get wet,” he answered, his words clipped.

  They made it to the boat without any such appalling thing happening. The frightened sailor plied the oars while Grayson steered, which left Alexandra shivering alone in the bow. They rowed, not toward shore, but farther out into the river. Presently, another wet, wooden hull of a ship loomed out of the mist at them.

  She was wondering how on earth Grayson expected her to climb aboard, all that long way up the slick sides of the ship, when a sort of harness thing was lowered down to her. Grayson fastened its rope about her waist, explaining that she must hold on with both hands. She was still a bit hazy about it all when her feet abruptly left the ground.

  She yelped. The harness began moving upward, bump by bump, hoisted by a pulley manned by a sailor high above. She seized the ropes and held on, squeezing her eyes shut.

  A chill wind skimmed the river and cooled her hot skin. Her light skirt crept upward, the fickle wind exposing her stockings, garters, and thighs to anyone who cared to look. She risked a glance down. Grayson was gazing up at her, his white teeth gleaming in lantern light. He was certainly enjoying the sight, she knew it, but she could let go of the harness to preserve her modesty. She could only hope that no one else saw the spectacle of her white limbs dangling from the rigging.

  The harness swayed ever upward. Just when she thought she could rise no higher, she floated over the rail. The sailor at the rope grunted as he let her down slowly. At long last, her feet touched the deck, and she pried her hands from the ropes.

  The sailor unfastened her from the harness, and she was just beginning to shiver in the breeze when Grayson vaulted over the railing and landed on the deck.

  “Why have we come here?” she asked him. “Is this your ship?”

  “Welcome aboard the Majesty,” he said. He waved his hand at the dark deck, just lit by the faint gray of dawn, but he seemed distracted. He gave orders to the sailors attending them to haul in the boat, then he came to Alexandra. “Come with me.”

  She tried to take a step toward him, but her legs would not support her. His steady arm kept her from collapsing, and then he swept her into his arms and carried her aft into the stern cabin.

  The captain’s cabin on this ship was a little different from Ardmore’s, she observed, as Grayson made his way to the bunk and laid her gently down.

  For one thing, there was only one room, which sloped down a little on either end, and it had no doors leading off into side rooms. His bunk was in this cabin as well, on the left—the port side, she corrected herself. Next to it stood a desk and a chair, and he had no bench beneath his windows.

  The bunk’s mattress was harder than her own giving featherbed at home, but she could spread her arms and legs a long way before touching the sides. Lying down right now also was preferable to standing up. Things did not move so much when she was lying down.

  Grayson watched her test the width of the bunk. His eyes smoldered with the vestiges of the anger that had wrapped him like a cloud of sparks. The tense fury of the two men had frightened her far more than Mr. Henderson’s pistol. The aching hatred had filled the entire room, pushing aside all in it. The others had felt it too. They had been bystanders to a battle in which they had no part.

  His silence now bothered her. Never since she’d met Grayson Finley had he been silent, unless he had been thinking up something outrageously wicked to say to her.

  Even then, he would have a mischievous twinkle in his eye. That spark was absent now.

  To fill the emptiness, she said, “Captain Ardmore’s cabin is bigger than yours.”

  He turned glittering eyes to her.

  She added hastily. “But your bunk is bigger.”

  His glare did not soften. “Than his?”

  “I don’t know. I meant that your bunk is larger than the bench I was lying on. The bench was far too hard as well. Not comfortable at all.”

  “What the hell were you doing lying on his bench?”

  She blinked at his savage tone. “Because I felt so woozy. From whatever Mr. Henderson gave me.”

  His face went bleak again. “I am going to throttle Mr. Henderson.”

  “Oh no, it was not his fault. He was most sorry for it. I believe he is compelled to do whatever Mr. Ardmore tells him.”

  “I do not share your generosity. He could have defied him. Ian O’Malley did.”

  Alexandra pushed herself to a sitting position. “He took Maggie. Is she all right?”

  He dragged the chair next to the bunk and sat down heavily, resting his elbows on his knees. “He took her home. I saw them. Thank God he is Maggie’s devoted slave. Between him and Jacobs and Oliver, she is well protected.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Oh, and the governess. She’s there too.”

  Alexandra brightened. “Mrs. Fairchild has arrived? Oh, how splendid! I look forward to seeing her again. She is the best of ladies, my lord, the finest our sex can produce. She will be—”

  “Alexandra.”

  His tired exclamation cut through her eager chatter. “Yes?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  He was watching her, leaning forward as if he would bear her down and shake her if he suspected her of lying. Whatever was between him and Ardmore was beyond her comprehending at the moment. She would have to ply him with questions later, when her head stopped feeling as if someone had spun her in place very, very fast. They could have a long talk, and he could explain everything carefully, and she would be able to remember and to understand.

  At the moment, she felt the strange urge to either succumb to another fit of giggles or fall fast asleep. “Um, what was the question?” she asked.

  He muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like a curse. She ought to remonstrate him on his language. She was, after all, a lady. Or at least she had been, before gentlemen began kidnapping her and kissing her in the street, and commanding her to sleep without her clothes.

  Suddenly, he reached to her, closing a viselike grip around her wrists. He dragged her close, then gras
ped her around the waist and hauled her right out of the bunk and onto the chair with him. Instead of settling her demurely on his knee, he raked her skirts high and pulled her down to straddle him.

  Her eyes opened wide. This was a very—interesting and unladylike position. She faced him eye-to-eye, his strong face inches from her own. More unnerving still, nothing existed between her bared thighs and his breeches. A fold of silk gown rested under her backside, but her legs fully hugged the cashmere—not his usual leather. The breeches were a bit damp from their journey to this ship, but she could feel his warmth beneath them. His hands rested on her hips, his fingers pushed under her skirt.

  Her breath came fast, and his did, too. She felt the pulse in his fingers and wrists bumping as rapidly as hers.

  “You are my lady,” he said in a low voice. “Tell me you understand.”

  The scar on his lower lip pulled his mouth down harder than ever. “Actually, I do not understand anything at all.”

  He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb trace her cheekbone in hard, shaking strokes. “You are mine. He will not have you. Not this time.”

  She blinked. “Well, of course not. He actually wanted to be added to my list of suitors. Can you imagine? He is not even English.”

  “I don’t give a damn if he’s Turkish. He will not take you from me. Not you.” His gaze darkened. “Not you.”

  His hot palm on her thigh rubbed circles on her cold skin. Was he going to kiss her? Her heart fluttered in anticipation. It had been a week since he’d last kissed her, when she’d sat on his lap at her writing table, and he’d teased her about her list.

  But he did not kiss her. He studied her so intensely she felt as if his eyes bored all the way to the back of her skull. He was thinking of something else—not her—leaving her behind in a mist of confusion.

  Well, she would show him what she thought of that. If he were about to ravish her, he should at least pay her some mind. She settled herself closer to him, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grayson came out of his contemplation with a start. Eager, soft, innocent kisses caressed his lips, sweet gifts of delight. Oh, Alexandra, a dangerous move.

  Her mouth began to explore his, gliding kisses over his lower lip. She gazed up at him from under her lashes in sheer fascination, which made his lower body tighten, calling for immediate attention. No, let it wait. See what she would do.

  Her hips rocked a little bit as she unconsciously arched herself to him. He cupped her soft, round hip and found that it just fit into his hand. The vivid vision of her on hands and knees, he behind her came to him. Her lovely hips would rest in his palms, and she would look back at him, eyes heavy with passion, and cry his name.

  More tiny kisses brushed his lips. Her fingers found the edge of his shirt, from which he’d ripped the strangling collar and cravat, tossing them who-knew-where in the hired carriage. Several times since he’d met her he had caught her interested gaze riveted to the scar that began just below the hollow of his throat. She was presently most engrossed with that scar. Perhaps he ought to thank Ardmore for laying open his side that day.

  She raised her head. “Oh, dear.”

  “What? Don’t stop kissing me.” Please, not yet.

  Her blush complemented the confusion in her eyes. “I might ruin your fine breeches.”

  His brow furrowed. “Mm? How is that?”

  “It’s just that everything is getting a bit damp all of the sudden. I have no idea why. It felt like that when I slept bare, as well. It is most strange.”

  His black mood moved toward delight. “I can guess why.” He slid both hands up to the top of her thighs and let his thumbs dip down into her sweet warmth. A shudder went through her as he touched her, all hot and dark and wet. “You beautiful, beautiful woman.”

  “How can you say beautiful?” she whispered shyly. “I am such a mess.”

  “I like you a mess.” He withdrew his hand and touched fingers to his lips, then closed his eyes to savor her.

  When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him, red lips parted. “Lovely lady,” he whispered. “May I taste you?”

  She stared at him in pure astonishment. Then she flushed so deeply red her complexion nearly matched her hair. He expected her at any moment to draw herself up, to again become Mrs. Alastair the duke’s granddaughter, and ask him how he dared even think such a thing. He waited for it, the end of his pleasant daydream.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, please.”

  Good. The word beat through him. Good, good, good. Where now? he thought, as he scraped her to him for a long, deep kiss. On the bunk? It was a good foot away—so far. No, wait. He would not even have to leave the chair.

  He pressed her away from him, sliding her to her clumsy feet before he broke the kiss. His hands wadded the warm silk gown and pushed it above her pale and waiting hips, all the way to the sash that bound it beneath her breasts.

  Her hips curved gently from her waist, and in the V between her legs, a soft swirl of dark red hair awaited his fingers. Her belly was the only part of her not perfect. Softly rounded beneath her naval, it contained small puckered pink lines that criss-crossed in uneven directions, curving down her abdomen to the waiting delights below.

  He understood what the lines meant. Once upon a time, Mrs. Alastair had carried a child. The evidence was there on her skin. But no child lived in her house, and she’d never once spoken of motherhood. He’d glimpsed a dark pain deep in her eyes, and he understood it now.

  That pain made him want to treat her gently. His arousal wanted to be rough and playful. He’d show her both. If he could control himself.

  He leaned forward and traced the marks on her belly with his tongue, going over each one with care. Her skin prickled beneath his touch, and the rise and fall of her breath quickened. He bent his head and swirled his tongue over the small tuft of hair between her thighs.

  She inhaled sharply. He smiled into her, kissing the warm place, nuzzling it. The scent of her was overwhelming. He wanted to stay here forever, breathing her, kissing her. He flicked his tongue over her, smiling again as her gasps turned to tiny groans of delight.

  Her feet moved apart of their own accord, opening herself to him. He nipped at the little bud that rose and swelled at his touch. He had drunk the finest wines in the world, been fed the nectar of kings, but all paled in comparison to the taste of this woman.

  And then, to his great delight, she climaxed right before him. She gave a cry and arched to him, seeking his mouth. He obliged. Low throaty moans escaped her, the song of a woman who had found her desire. Her hands furrowed his hair. “Grayson. Please—”

  He took her plea for a directive to continue. He drank her hungrily, letting her twist her hands through his long hair. She cried out again, pressing her warm, sweet deliciousness to him—ah, love, that’s the way.

  After a long time, he slowed his plying tongue, drawing from her the last sighs of ecstasy. He carefully withdrew and looked up at her. Her lips parted, her thick lashes shielded her eyes. Her fingers in his hair gentled, smoothing it, hands trembling.

  He rose to his feet and gathered her to him. The gossamer dress snagged on a silk fold, bunching up at her waist, leaving her legs bare. He let his hands remain on her smooth hips while he held her close and buried his face in her fragrant hair.

  My lady.

  His arousal snarled at him, telling him in very basic terms what it thought of him. He held a beautiful woman in his arms, one he’d just brought to climax with his tongue, and what did he do? Throw her to the bunk and complete the deed? No, he simply held her, his face in the curve of her neck. Just held her body against his, learning her fragrance and the feel of her skin.

  Mine, he said, in a litany that would not cease. Mine, mine, mine. Never Ardmore’s.

  In the dozen years after Grayson stole Sara from James Ardmore, James Ardmore had taken every other woman away from Grayson. From a casu
al fling with a tavern girl to Grayson’s more serious affair with a beautiful free black woman in Charleston, James Ardmore had taken them all. He had not done anything so crude as abduction or rape—no, he had employed subtler methods and enticed each one to him willingly, whether their relationship with Grayson was finished or no. Ardmore did not believe in taking revenge and having done. He continued it year after year after bloody year.

  Not this time.

  Grayson had thought Ardmore would change the rules after making the bargain that allowed Grayson to return with Maggie to England. But Ardmore made his own rules. Grayson would pay the forfeit—he’d given his word—but he would not give him Alexandra.

  His lady kissed his ear. He looked down at her. She gave him a tired smile, her eyes smoldering with latent heat. “What happened?”

  “You came,” he said. “Has that not happened before?”

  She shook her head. Her soft hair brushed his cheek. “Never.”

  Good lord. She was as puzzled as a maiden who’d never been touched, never mind she had borne a child. And when he had kissed her the night she’d rescued him, she had not known how.

  Her husband must have been a blind idiot who deserved a kick in the pants. This lady should be savored, taught, coaxed, every response delighted in, like a sip of delicate and potent wine.

  “What happens now?” she whispered.

  He leaned away from her and pressed her fingers to the front of his too-tight breeches. “This wants me to have you. Every bit of you.”

  Her supple palm molded to him, turning the heat inside him volcanic. “It is quite—” She wet her lips. “Formidable.”

  His sense of humor returned. “It certainly hates me right now for not getting on with it.”

  She glided her hand up every agonizing inch. She whispered, “Does this mean you want to take me against the wall?”

  He started. There was nothing but innocence in her eyes. Laughter burbled inside him. Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you. How did I find this woman? He put his fist under her chin, tilted her head back. “Against the wall?”