The Pirate Next Door

by Jennifer Ashley

  After Ardmore strode from the room, she stood in the middle of it, clenching and unclenching her hands, nausea in her stomach. She glared at the closed door. “Binding only if witnessed, Mr. Ardmore,” she whispered.

  “The famous Madame d’Lorenz,” Grayson said, folding his arms. “Welcome.”

  The red-haired woman glared after Mr. Oliver, who had just led her to the dining room. “What do you want, Grayson? I am busy.” The gown she wore was fine—pale muslin adorned with loops of ivory ribbon. A light summer shawl encircled her arms and she wore white kid gloves. Her face was heavily rouged, and her lips were painted bloodred.

  “Busy deluding poor French émigrés?” Grayson suggested. He leaned his hip against the scarred table. “Making them believe you are helping them restore Louis Bourbon to the throne? Cruel.”

  She went very still. “I have no idea—”

  “Don’t bother telling me you don’t know what I am talking about. How did you convince the French king to go along with your plan? From what St. Clair told me about him, he is most careful with his person.”

  Her lips whitened under their paint. “You know nothing.”

  “I know you, Jacqueline.” He favored her with a half smile. “I wondered right away if you were involved, and then I discovered that you are indeed in England—on Ardmore’s ship, no less. Then I discover that you frequent the shop where poor King Louis was last seen. Anyone who knows you would put the two together.”

  She was silent a long moment. She glanced at the door, as if ready to flee. Grayson knew that Oliver waited right outside, as he’d been instructed, ready to seize her. Jacqueline must guess that as well.

  “What do you want?” Good. No long and tedious denials. “Is it money?”

  She had not changed, he thought with weary amusement. “I have my own fortune. I inherited a title. Or hadn’t you heard?”

  “I know all about your damned English aristocratic title. I never thought you would join their scum.”

  “Always the republican. How many assassinations did you witness during the Terror?”

  “Not enough,” she said, her lips tight. “They still think they will recover France with their pathetic Louis Bourbon at its head. You still have not told me what you want. My body?”

  Grayson choked down a laugh. “No. I want the king.”

  She looked annoyed. “Well, you cannot have him.”

  He smiled. “It was cleverly done, even for you. I’ve thought it all out. Louis went into the shop, but he never came out. The person who emerged and climbed back into the carriage was a decoy. Later, the loyalist French shopkeeper rowed Louis to a ship. But here is the curious thing. If a decoy climbed back into the carriage, Louis’s entourage would have known right away, or at least very soon, that this man was not really the king. That meant that either they were in on the plot, or that Louis himself had never really been abducted at all. It was some time before I realized that both conclusions were true. The entourage was in on the plot to get Louis back to France, and Louis does not realize he has been abducted.” He paused, then finished curiously, “What does he believe?”

  Jacqueline snorted. “The fool believes he is returning to France covered in glory. That while Emperor Napoleon’s armies are busy trying to conquer Europe, Louis will usurp him from behind.” She shook her head, trilling a sharp laugh. “He was so easy to convince.”

  “Kings are not always known for their intelligence. England’s are no better than any other country’s.”

  She brightened. “You agree with me, then. A man of intelligence must rule. A great man like the emperor. Not a silly excuse of a man, not a king who is foolish and weak.”

  Grayson shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I prefer my monarchs weak so that I can get on with my business unimpeded. In truth, Jackie, I don’t give a damn about your plot, or about your monarch, or about France. I want Louis, and you are going to take me to him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then you do not know where he is.”

  “I have several good ideas. But I am in a hurry. Much easier on me if you simply take me to him.”

  She gave him a scornful look. “Why do suppose I will do such a thing?”

  “You know what I am capable of.” His voice went quiet. “I am sure you remember.”

  Fear flickered in her eyes. She rubbed her right wrist, where, under the long sleeves of her fine muslin gown, she must still carry the scars of their last encounter. “I cannot,” she said woodenly. “I must take him to the emperor.”

  “So he will reward you? Or so he will take you as his lover again. Both, perhaps?”

  Her red-dyed curls jiggled as she shook her head. “I would never dream to ask for the privilege of becoming his mistress. If he wishes to bestow it on me, so be it. But I do it for him, and for France.”

  “Well, you will have to do something else for France. I need the king.” He smiled again. “Which would you prefer, Jackie? To lead me to the king, or to lead the Admiralty to him? I want only the king. They would want your neck.”

  She went dead white. He watched her realize that he was not going to let her go. Oliver was just outside the door. Unless she had brought a dozen armed French spies to watch her back, as she had that long ago day in Barbados, she would not get away. But he had seen no shadowy figures skulking about in the street near the house. No doubt she had come alone, believing herself able to charm Grayson into her way of thinking.

  She gave him a contrite look, as if ready surrender to him. Then suddenly, she ripped a long and needlelike dagger from her glove and lunged at him.

  Grayson had expected something like this. He expertly caught her arm and twisted it. The dagger clinked to the bare floor. She snaked her arm about his neck. He flinched, expecting another weapon, but she simply pulled him to her. “Please, Grayson, for old times.”

  “The old times when you tried to use me for your French schemes?” he said without humor. “No.”

  “I truly loved you. I did.” Tears stood in her dark eyes. She dragged his head down and squashed a kiss to his parted lips.

  He tasted bitterness like old coffee on her tongue and the anguish inside her. He did have pity for her—her dream of becoming Napoleon’s courtesan and the vanquisher of his enemies drove her every deed. Once he had thought her attracted to him, but that had dissipated when he had refused to help her in her plots for France. And he’d refuse to help her now. The Admiralty wanted the king, and he wanted the Admiralty’s good graces so that Maggie could grow up without the taint of his crimes on her. Maggie’s life was more important than Jacqueline’s sad attempts at greatness.

  The dining room door burst open. Grayson tried to shove Jacqueline from him, but her lips clung firmly and her fingers clamped his neck, nails driving into his flesh.

  Alexandra stood on the threshold, breathing hard as if she’d been running. Lovely red-brown hair straggled from under her lacy cap, and her eyes were wild. “Grayson,” she said breathlessly. “I must speak to you. It is very important!”

  Then she whirled and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Grayson pried Jacqueline’s hands from his neck and forced her lips from his. She stumbled back, then reached for him, tears streaking her face. “Grayson, I need you. I need you by my side. Please!”

  “Sorry, Jackie. I am busy.”

  “Grayson!”

  Grayson set her aside and made for the door. Madame d’Lorenz wailed, but he ignored her.

  Alexandra was nowhere in sight when he emerged, but Oliver and Jacobs were waiting in the dark hall. “Front sitting room, sir,” Jacobs said.

  “Good. Oliver, take Madame d’Lorenz downstairs and get her some water. Or, better still, port. Keep her there. Jacobs, I want you watching her as well. And for God’s sake, don’t let her near the knives.”

  He pushed past the pair of them and made for the sitting room.

  His senses tingled. Three days had passed since he’d seen Alexandra. His need for her,
his cravings for her, had only grown. At last she’d come to him, at last she’d sought him—only to find him locked in another woman’s arms. Damn, damn, damn.

  “Sir.”

  Jacobs’s sharp word halted him in his tracks. He swung around.

  Jacobs gave him a look. “Your mouth, sir.”

  Grayson touched it. His hand came away red. Not blood, but the painted color of Jacqueline’s lips. He made an impatient noise and wrenched a handkerchief from his pocket. Angrily wiping his mouth clean, he strode to the sitting room.

  Vanessa stepped from the staircase as the door banged closed. Robert caught sight of her and motioned Oliver to carry on without him for a moment. As he neared her, she marveled anew that she had spent a glorious hour this morning in his arms, while Maggie visited Mr. Oliver and Alexandra’s cook in the kitchens. Robert had loved her without fevered heat, but with a slow, delicious savoring. He had thoroughly stolen her heart.

  She gestured to the closed sitting room door. “Have they gone to talk it out?”

  He clasped her hand lightly. “Talk it out?”

  “They are so obviously in love with each other, do you not think? Alexandra says not a word, but I see how she looks at him.”

  Robert grinned. “Never seen the captain so besotted myself.”

  “Should we help them?”

  He pursed his lips. His fingers traced a slow pattern on her palm. “Captain Finley is a good captain. But he’s stubborn. Lord, he is stubborn. He needs to think things are all his own idea.” He paused. “But we can always nudge him along if he doesn’t move swiftly enough.” He looked at her, his eyes filling with sudden warmth. “He can follow our example, for instance.”

  Her face heated. Goodness, how she blushed like a schoolgirl whenever he was near. “Our example?”

  “When we marry. That is, if you will have me.”

  His look was quiet. So unlike it had been that day five years before when young Robert Jacobs had confessed his love and begged her to leave her husband to run away with him. That declaration had hardly shaken her more than this one. Then she had seen the folly in such an action, had tried to explain to him that they should break off their affair rather than following it to ruin. He had raged and cursed at her, and her heart had broken into a thousand pieces.

  But now—He waited silently for her answer, a calmer man than the youth she’d met at Oxford, one who loved her from the depths of his soul rather than with desperate passion.

  “Robert,” she whispered.

  He raised his brows. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  She pressed her hand to her heart. “It most decidedly and certainly is a yes, dear Robert.”

  He took her into his arms, and she kissed him, and at long last, knew happiness.

  Alexandra waited for him near the front window, the late afternoon sunlight haloing her hair. Her dark-red curls fell to her neck, straggling over her pale yellow bodice. Her eyes were red-rimmed in her paper-white face.

  He closed the door and said, “Stand away from the window. It is not safe.”

  She took two agitated steps to the center of the room, and halted. “Grayson,” she said, her voice strained. “I love you.”

  He stopped, arrested. His heart began to pound, slow and hard.

  “I love you.” The words burst out as if they hurt her. “I am certain you do not wish to hear this, but I must tell you, even if I am like every other love-struck woman who falls at your feet.”

  He moved to her, his footfalls soft on the just-cleaned carpet. She stood her ground, hands clenched. The top button of her bodice was open, as if she’d forgotten to fasten it in her agitation.

  She had been crying. He touched the dried tears on her cheek. “Sweetheart.”

  “I love you,” she whispered, desperation in her voice.

  “Shh.” He stroked his thumb across her lips.

  “I want to tell you.”

  His need to be near her drove everything else away. To hell with Jacqueline, the French king, and the Ad-miralty. He wanted—he needed—Alexandra.

  He bent and kissed her. Her soft mouth trembled beneath his. He gathered her into his arms, drawing her shaking body close. He tasted the sweetness of her, letting her spice and honey erase the bitterness of Jacqueline’s assault.

  She twisted away from him, her face fevered. “Grayson, I want—”

  “Love.” He traced her cheek. “You may have anything you want.”

  She stared at him a moment, eyes glittering, as if unsure what she really wanted. Then suddenly, she reached for the ties that closed his shirt and started to jerk them apart.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, pleased. “You want me?” Say yes, oh God, say yes, my love.

  The laces caught. She made a growling noise and yanked at them hard. One tape tore completely off. Her fingers shook as she forced the shirt open, baring his chest to the warm, stuffy air of the room.

  He bit back a laugh. “Alexandra—”

  She dipped her head and pressed her tongue to his skin.

  “Alexandra,” he murmured, his tone deepening.

  The shirt slid from his shoulders and dragged down his arms. She licked the round, ragged bullet scar beneath his left shoulder.

  He freed himself from the shirt and laced his fingers through her hair. Her pretty white cap fluttered to the floor like a white bird. Madame d’Lorenz and her information could wait. The king of France could wait. The whole damned British Admiralty could wait. He pressed a kiss to her fragrant hair while she skimmed her lips to the hollow of his throat.

  “Mmm.” He lifted his head and let her play. “You were crying, love. What has happened?”

  She looked up at him, her brown-green eyes full. “I love you.” She raised on tiptoe and kissed his mouth.

  He gathered her in. He let the kiss deepen. He scooped his tongue inside her, tasting the heat of her. Her fingers twined in his long hair, reminding him how she’d twisted and pulled it when he’d teased her with his tongue so many nights ago.

  The little open button of her bodice beckoned his fingers. He flicked open the button just below it, then the next, and the next. He ran out of buttons quickly; they ended at the sash tied just beneath her breasts.

  He eased his lips from hers as he parted her bodice. He found her chemise, a white, practical garment with only a few satin bows to decorate it, very unlike the gaudy, lacy thing he’d glimpsed beneath the gown of Miss Oh-So-French at the shop.

  The chemise laced in the back. He parted the tapes, spreading his hand over her bare skin beneath. She wore no stays today. He wondered if she’d taken them off in preparation for coming here, and his arousal tingled.

  He kissed her bared shoulder as he slid the chemise and bodice away. Her skin was tender and smooth, like white roses. What about this woman made him want to be rough and playful yet slow and gentle at the same time? She smelled faintly of lemon, tasted a little of orange marmalade. He smiled into her skin.

  Her hands moved down his bare back, frantic, shaking, molding to his flesh. Her fingers were hot, her nails scratching him slightly. He worked the sash of her gown loose and pushed the bodice and chemise from her. Yes, at last, her warm skin against his, her body to his body. He pulled her to him, resting his cheek on her hair.

  “Grayson,” she whispered into his neck. “Please.”

  “As I said, whatever you like, love.” He stroked her tumbled curls, savoring their scent. The stuffy air of the room clung to his skin, beading sweat. Oliver had just finished readying the room for use, and a long chaise, open-backed with scrolled ends, stood conveniently dust-free and waiting.

  She lifted her face to his. “Do you love Maggie?” she asked. Her lips trembled, and he saw in her eyes that his answer was terribly important.

  Fortunately, it was also easy. “Yes. With all my heart.”

  “Why?”

  He blinked. Why did he? Because her laughter touched the loneliness deep inside him? Because he’d found a part of himself, a thing
that was missing, in her? Or simply because she was his child? “I do not know,” he had to answer. “I just do.”

  “Good,” she said fervently. Her eyes shone like bright gems. “Good.”

  He’d given the right answer apparently. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him again. Her lips were hot, her tongue moved, her teeth nipped and played. Her hands slid swiftly down his back, to his waistband, to the buttons in front. She popped one open.

  He pushed her away, chuckling. “Slowly, sweetheart. Let me savor you.”

  His arousal did not like that answer. It was happy with her quick, firm hands and the kisses that fell upon his skin like raining sparks. She kissed him again, harder, her hair falling in warm waves over his arms.

  He disentangled her from him and swept her into his arms. He carried her to the open-backed chaise and laid her down on it. Her yellow cotton bunched in frothy waves about her knees. He leaned to her and he kissed her throat, the curve of her shoulder, her breast. He slid his palm to her other breast, moving a soft circle over her skin. She reached for him again, her touch almost desperate.

  Her breath smelled of tea, her mouth tasted slightly sweet, as if she’d drunk a beverage laced with honey. He licked the honey from her lips, from her tongue. She stirred fires in his soul, a passion that beat through him like waves over rock.

  He covered her breast with his mouth. She arched to him, pressing into him, her nipples beading beneath his tongue and his fingers. He suckled her has he traced his hand down her abdomen, kneading the soft flesh there.

  The folds of her skirt kept him out. He wadded the skirt in his fists, pushing it up over her thighs. He laid himself over her, fitting his arousal to her, seeking her hot places through the supple leather of his breeches.

  “Please, Grayson.” She almost sobbed it.

  He slid his fingers between them. She was hot and wet and ready. He rose from her, his body unhappy as it left her warmth, and seated himself at the end of the chaise to remove his boots. Short work stripped himself of those and his breeches and underdrawers. Naked, he came to her and lifted her again from the chaise.