The Pirate Next Door

by Jennifer Ashley

  Miss Oh-So-French smiled encouragingly as he lingered over his choices. “Zis one,” she said, fluttering her dark lashes and pointing to the costliest of the three. “Your daughter will find it lovely, all filled up wiz her jewels.”

  The girl wore the thinnest of muslin gowns that put very little between the herself and the world. The pink bows of her chemise were clearly visible against her bodice, and the outline of her nipples pressed the thin cloth.

  “Were you born in England?” Grayson asked her casually.

  She bathed him in a smile. “I was, yes. But my parents, zey are French. Zey fled ze Terror. In France ze are great aristocrats.”

  Grayson doubted that. Most aristocrats tended to continue living as aristocrats, although in reduced circumstances. Some of the minor gentry eked out a living as shopkeepers, reduced, definitely, from their days of glory, but unlikely to have been in the king’s inner circle.

  He toyed with the enameled lid of the expensive box, which was trimmed with gold filigree. “You mentioned a Madame d’Lorenz when I visited before.”

  “Oh, yes. A great lady. She likes our boxes and zings for ‘air dressing table.”

  Grayson rested his elbows on the counter. “Then would you be surprised, mademoiselle, if I told you Madam d’Lorenz was a French agent? In the employ of Napoleon’s government?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The change in the young woman was remarkable. Her studied flirtation and her winsome smile vanished, to be replaced by a wide-eyed stare. “What? That cannot be true. Not Madame d’Lorenz.” The French accent had nearly disappeared.

  “I am in a position to know,” Grayson said.

  “How can you?” She blinked, shook her head, then seemed to realize she’d dropped her persona. The French accent returned. “No, she cannot be. She is so loyal to ze king. She would do anyzing for him.” She leaned to him, her face worried. “ ’ow can you be certain of zis?”

  He made a little shrug. “I was once her lover. There is little about her I do not know.”

  She straightened, confusion warring in her eyes. “Oh, monsieur, zis is terrible what you have told me.”

  “Yes, you perhaps should reconsider selling her your jewel boxes.”

  “What?” Her brow furrowed. Then suddenly she wiped her expression clean and nodded. “Yes, it shall be as you say. No more sales to Madame d’Lorenz. Now, monsieur, have you made your choice? I have zo many zings to do.”

  Alexandra remained in her upstairs sitting room a long time after Mr. Henderson had left her. The ormolu clock ticked quietly in the corner, and a faint breeze stirred the drapes at the open window. The fragrance of roses beckoned her, but Alexandra only sat, hands in her lap, following a gold twist of pattern in the carpet.

  She could sense her writing table standing calmly by the window, its satinwood gleaming like burnished gold. Inside its drawer lay her list of suitors. The foolish, foolish list. How could she have supposed she could choose a husband by listing his qualities, as if she were buying a piece of furniture? The list and the guidelines that she and Lady Featherstone had chosen seemed woefully silly now. The trouble was, only a few weeks ago she’d have been perfectly content if a gentleman like Mr. Henderson had proposed. She could have married him, moved to Kent, and happily continued her prosaic life.

  Everything had changed when old Viscount Stoke passed away and a younger viscount took his place. A blue-eyed pirate had moved in next door, and her entire existence had shattered.

  When the sun’s shadows touched the potted palm in the corner, Alexandra at last rose and left the room. Annie and Amy were dusting in the downstairs hall, as she noted over the banister. Jeffrey lounged at his place by the front door, dozing. She ought to scold him, but she did not have the strength. All seemed quiet from the kitchens—Mrs. Dalloway must be visiting Mr. Oliver next door.

  The upstairs hall was still. Strange, when it had been so frenzied the night of the soiree. She paused in the very spot where she’d seen Captain Burchard turn and aim a pistol at Grayson. She’d thought her heart would stop. The dim memory of her scream lingered in the hall, as did the roar of the pistol, the sharp stench of the smoke.

  And then Mr. Jacobs had come running out of the bedchamber above, stark naked. Well, her guests had been quite entertained, at least. Mrs. Waters in particular had looked most pleased.

  She turned her back on the spot and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She opened the door, stirring the dust motes that danced in the warm sunshine. Joan was nowhere in sight; she was likely resting or running an errand. Alexandra crossed to the window, reaching for the catch to let the summer air into the stuffy room.

  The door behind her closed. The lock clicked softly. Alexandra swung around.

  Standing just inside her bedchamber door, his green eyes holding the chill of winter, was James Ardmore.

  Her heart began pounding frantically. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came from her bone-dry throat.

  Before her stunned senses could rally enough for her to run for the bell-pull, he was upon her. His large body blocked her escape; his grip pinned her as tightly as if he’d wrapped her in chains.

  She stared up at him in fear. His swarthy face was dark with beard, his eyes a bit wild around the edges. When she’d faced him under the influence of the substance Mr. Henderson had given her, she had been foolishly unafraid of him. Now she saw his ruthless anger, one that could easily break her and any person who ran to her assistance.

  She drew a ragged breath. “How did you get in? Jeffrey would have announced you.” She recalled Jeffrey dozing by the door and a sudden suspicion touched her. “Where is Joan?”

  His eyes flickered. “Sleeping. Do not blame her. It was not her fault.”

  “No, I blame you, Mr. Ardmore. What do you want?”

  “I came to talk to you. Our last conversation was so rudely interrupted.”

  “We have nothing to say to one another, Mr. Ardmore,” she announced coldly.

  “Oh, I think we do, Mrs. Alastair.” As Mr. Henderson had, he lifted her arm and studied the bandaged wound. His fingers were calloused and rough on her skin. “Burchard did this.”

  “He did. He is another gentleman I am not happy with.”

  Ardmore did not reply. He began gently working loose the tie of the bandage. Alexandra held her breath, fearing to jerk her arm from him—it still pained her so.

  He parted the white cloth and examined the gash. A row of neat stitching, dull and red, cut across her arm. His fingers drifted above it, but he did not touch the wound. “Oliver’s work.”

  She nodded. He wound the bandage again, as gently as Mr. Oliver had wound the first one. “You are fortunate. He is a competent surgeon.”

  He did not release her arm, but loosely clasped her hand in his.

  She swallowed. “You lied to me.”

  “Did I? I do not recall.”

  “Well, you did not tell me the truth, anyway. Neither did Grayson. I am most put out by the pair of you. Mr. Henderson had to explain things to me.”

  He stood too close to her. The smell of London coal smoke mingled with a sweet smell that she now knew came from the act of coupling. Evidence that he had casually tumbled her maid to bribe his way into the house made her fury grow.

  “He told me about the terrible bargain you and Grayson made,” she went on. “How could you? How could you do such a thing to Maggie?”

  His grip, which had been gentleness itself, suddenly tightened. “Understand, Alexandra. We made the agreement because of her. At least I did. Finley is unworthy of her. But I will see to it that she lives a good life, with all the honor she deserves. The best thing Finley can do for her is die.”

  Alexandra recoiled. “She loves him! And he her. Anyone can see that.”

  “He used her, Alexandra, to save himself. I saved Maggie—I did.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  He curved over her, the warmth of his body smothering her, the cloying scent
of lovemaking choking off her breath. “I had him. He knelt on my deck with no one to help him, not his loyal Oliver or Jacobs or his other misguided crew. He knelt there, at my mercy, and he begged me for his life. Do you know what he said?”

  Alexandra, trembling, shook her head.

  “I asked him why the devil I should not kill him. And he looked up at me, bleeding and pathetic, and said, ‘Because my little girl would miss me.’ ”

  “Maggie,” she whispered.

  His smile was cold. “I actually withdrew my sword. I had been one instant away from running him through and ending his miserable life. And yet, I stopped. I asked him what he meant. And he told me. He told me that the woman I had loved most in the world had given birth to a child. His child.” His eyes blazed, “Not mine.”

  Alexandra could not answer.

  “When I saw Maggie,” he went on, “I knew the truth. She looked so like Sara. But she had the look of Finley, so much so that there was no doubt she was his.”

  “Why did you help Maggie? If you hate him so?”

  Ardmore did not seem to hear her. “Did he tell you I was there when Sara died? I held her hand when she drew her last breath. She was so thin, Alexandra. Her fingers were like twigs, and her beautiful, beautiful face was sunken and wasted. She asked me to make sure Finley looked after Maggie. She asked me to make certain she was safe.” The lines on his face deepened. “Then she told me she had always loved me.”

  His hold was strong, and his eyes shone with crazed grief. What he meant to do, she could not say. She knew she could never fight him, but she must not let him prevail—she must not. She reached inside to the anger burning deep beneath her fear and tried to kindle it into a bonfire.

  “Mr. Ardmore, you should not delude yourself. You must know she lied. If she had loved you at all, she would never have left you in the first place.”

  His eyes glittered. “I know that. But I loved her. I loved her enough to bring Maggie back to England and make certain she grows up safe. And I will kill Finley to do it.”

  “She loves him.”

  “She barely knows him. Neither do you. You have no idea what a black-hearted monster he is.”

  She stirred the anger building within her. “You do not know him very well yourself if you believe that,” she blazed. “He has a large and generous heart. He loves Maggie like his life’s blood—he has decided to sacrifice himself to you for her. You are blinded by your anger and your own misguided love for Sara, and your grief over your brother.”

  She’d known when she began that speech that she’d say too much. His face lost its etching of pain and turned hard with fury. He caught the hair on top of her head and forced her body backward, taking her down to the carpet. She fell onto her back, trying to twist from the pain, and found him full-length on top of her. He gripped her face, fingers biting into her flesh.

  His breath was hot on her face. “He is a liar, Alexandra. He’s charmed you with his lies. He loves no one—not you, not Sara, not Maggie. And he murdered my brother, as sure as he pulled the trigger himself.”

  Alexandra tried to shake her head. “No. Grayson was injured. He could not stop it. It was not his fault.”

  “Dear God, listen to you bleat your defense of him. He says he was not to blame, and his besotted crew chimes in and agrees with him. But the truth is there. He murdered my brother, and he loves nothing. Learn that.”

  Fear churned her, but she hardened her will. “I will not let you bully me.”

  “God’s blood, woman, I am trying to save you from him.”

  “No. You want to turn me against him, as you have turned against him. I will not.”

  He pressed his face close to hers. “Do you want to save him, Mrs. Alastair? Do you want to know how you can save him?”

  “Yes.” Her whisper was cracked.

  His fingers bit deeper. His breath washed over her, hot and brandy-scented. “Marry me, Alexandra. Become my wife, not just in name, but in every way. Marry me, and I will leave him alive, and leave England.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Alexandra could not breathe. “Marry—”

  “Yes.” His eyes were fevered. “Leave with me. I will take you to Charleston. I have a fine house there, and you will want for nothing. You have so little here—there, your beauty and grace will be celebrated. You will live a fine life. I promise you.”

  “Mr. Ardmore—”

  “My name is James. I know you hate me, but I will work to change that. If you come with me, I will let Finley live. I will quit England and never return. He wishes to stay here with Maggie. We will never meet again.”

  Which meant Alexandra would never see him again. Or Maggie. Her heart burned. “You would leave him alone? You would give me your word?”

  “My word, Alexandra.”

  She shook her head in despair. “But you break your word. You tried to kill him that night.”

  “Because I thought he’d broken his. What was I to believe when I learned he was entertaining the Admiralty in his own house? I thought he’d betrayed me to them. I still am not certain he did not.”

  “He is a man of honor.” The words tasted bitter. “He will keep the bargain.”

  His grip on her face tightened anew. “Your devotion to him wearies me. Marry me and I spare him. Refuse me and I kill him. The choice is yours.”

  Her voice was hoarse with tears. “How can you ask this of me? You know I will always hate you.”

  “But I could grow to love you. You are a fine and beautiful woman, Alexandra. Finley is nowhere near worthy of you.”

  He yanked her head back and kissed her. She shut her mouth and twisted away, but his lips followed hers. His tongue scraped her mouth.

  “Leave me alone.”

  He lifted his head, breathing hard. “If I leave you alone, he dies.”

  “Let us at least discuss this reasonably.”

  He laughed, a brutal sound. “There is no reason where Finley is concerned.”

  “He said that about you.”

  “Did he? Then maybe the truth is we cannot be reasonable about one another. What is your answer?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. His hot breath on her face, his fingers twisting her hair, would not allow her to forget his presence. To marry him, to save Grayson’s life—She opened her eyes. “How do I know that you will not go back on your promise and simply murder him once we are safely married?”

  His smile frightened her more than his words ever had. “Because it will kill him to see you with me. It will kill him every day. And for me, that will be far, far more satisfying than stringing him up and watching him die.”

  He was wrong. Alexandra fought a hysterical desire to laugh. Grayson would be angry, yes, but hardly devastated. They had tumbled together and loved each other’s bodies, but he had never said one word to make her believe his affection went beyond that. His deep love was for Maggie—she saw that. Alexandra was no more than a passing distraction.

  With a word, she could save his life. She knew Mr. Ardmore would adhere to his promise. She would make him adhere to it, whether he liked it or not. Even if she had to chain him to the wall.

  She took a deep breath. “Very well, I will marry you, Mr. Ardmore.” She held up her hand. “But only if you promise that we sail from England the moment the deed is done.”

  His eyes sparkled with sudden animation. “We will sail even before that. I cannot come out of hiding to make a marriage in England. You gather what you need and tell Henderson to take you to the Argonaut. We will quit England, and then we will marry.” His terrible smile widened and he bent to her lips.

  She stopped him with a hand on his chin. “What about Madame d’Lorenz?”

  He frowned. “Madame d’Lorenz? What about her?”

  “What will she say to you marrying me?”

  “Madame d’Lorenz has nothing to do with this.”

  “It is likely she will not feel that way, if she is in love with you.”

  He made an i
mpatient noise. “Madame d’Lorenz loves France and Napoleon. In that order. I am far down on the list.”

  “But—” She wrinkled her brow. “You told me—you told me that she would never give the king to Napoleon. That she could not have kidnapped him.”

  “No, I told you that an émigré would never do that. I never said that Madame d’Lorenz was an émigré. Her exile is self-imposed, until Napoleon is completely victorious in Europe. Until then, she’ll do what she can to see that it happens.”

  “Do you mean you are harboring a French spy?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “She is using me, and then she will go. The sooner you marry me, the sooner she goes back to France.”

  “I will need a little time—”

  “No time, Alexandra. No prancing off to the Admiralty, no dealing behind my back with Finley. Pack up what you want, and I’ll send Henderson to fetch you. I will not let you on board the Argonaut if you are with anyone but him.”

  Her heart sank. “Mr. Henderson will not wish to help you with this.”

  “Because he’s besotted with you himself? He will. He knows what will happen to him if he does not. Besides, he would not be happy for the Admiralty to investigate his past either. We all have skeletons to hide, including your precious Finley.”

  “I—”

  He pressed a hard kiss to her lips, cutting off her words. “You have given your promise, Alexandra,” he said in a soft, deadly voice. “An engagement in England is just as binding as marriage. I will hold you to it.”

  He rose to his feet with the same leopardlike ease she’d observed in him before, then reached down and pulled her up. “Henderson will arrive this evening. Busy yourself packing.”

  One last time, he kissed her. She did not respond, but hung in his grasp, numb, unresisting. Her first marriage had existed in unfeeling misery. She had vowed, so desperately vowed, never to be caught in such a marriage again.