The Pirate Next Door

by Jennifer Ashley

  Grayson put a heavy hand on her arm. “No. Leave him.”

  She frowned at him. Men always believed no other man could possibly want comfort. She shook off his grasp and climbed forward to the bows.

  “There now.” She patted Ardmore’s broad, shaking shoulder. His fist was pressed to his face, his eyes squeezed shut, tears wetting his cheeks. She glanced back at Grayson. He remained in the stern, his face still, watching her with a resigned look.

  She returned her attention to Ardmore. “It is over,” she said softly. She touched his hair. “You can put it all behind you and go on. It will be a new day tomorrow, Mr. Ardmore. A new life. A new step forward.”

  Ardmore raised his head. He looked, not at Alexandra, but back at Grayson, his green eyes wet. Grayson, strangely, only gave him a shrug.

  “She is yours,” Ardmore said.

  Grayson nodded once, his smile curving his lips. “She is.”

  Alexandra patted Mr. Ardmore’s shoulder again. “The ships are coming to get us. I hope they hurry. I am so cold.”

  Despite the blanket, the wind bit like ice on her limbs. Ardmore wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “She’s going to freeze,” he said to Grayson.

  “I know,” Grayson said. He started forward. “We need to keep her warm.”

  Ardmore nodded. The fire had gone out of him. He no longer looked a fearsome man, but one lonely and defeated.

  The boat listed as Grayson climbed into the seat next to Ardmore. Alexandra gave herself into his arms, and he gathered her close. His wet, bare chest was cold, but she did not mind leaning into it.

  After a moment, she felt Ardmore behind her. She looked up at Grayson in alarm, but he only shook his head. Then she understood. They would try to warm her between them. Ardmore pressed his torso protectively over her, effectively sandwiching her between the two men. The change was immediate. Their bodies, large and solid, warmed her, and her shivering lessened. They took the cold wind on their backs, working together to shield her from it.

  The awkward position put Grayson and Ardmore very close together. Ardmore had to rest his hands on Grayson’s arms to lock Alexandra into their protective bubble. Grayson’s leg had to rest across Ardmore’s thigh.

  Grayson grinned, his laughter rumbling. “Ah, James,” he said. “It has been so long.”

  “Finley,” Ardmore growled back. “I really hate you.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Grayson remembered putting Alexandra to bed in his own cabin, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up beside her. Her lithe body rested in the curve of his arm, and her fragrant hair tickled his nose.

  After boarding the Majesty, they had washed and rubbed themselves dry, and Jacobs had poured hot coffee down their throats. Grayson had thought himself perfectly aware and awake, but when he’d lain down next to Alexandra—just for a minute—the exhaustion, cold, and tension had taken over and he’d fallen into a dark pit of sleep.

  He touched Alexandra’s bare shoulder, enjoying the silken feel of it under his fingers. She murmured in her sleep but did not waken. She smelled so good. This woman, and the entire delight of her, had changed him profoundly and deeply. After his mother’s death, he had decided never to love completely again. He had kept that vow until Maggie, and now Alexandra, had forced past his barriers and taken up refuge in his heart. He knew he loved them; he could acknowledge that now. Fear of that fragile love touched him, but he closed his eyes against it. Grief could come so quickly, he knew, but he was willing to love now, to build up joy against that inevitable day.

  He also tasted triumph, which made him smile. He had Alexandra. Ardmore had not succeeded in taking her. Even when Alexandra had gone to him, she had made it clear that her love and her heart belonged to Grayson. Not Ardmore, no matter how much he’d tried.

  Those thoughts reminded Grayson of business unfinished. Carefully he eased his arm from beneath Alexandra’s head, settling her on a pillow. Her eyes opened a crack, but immediately closed again, her breathing deepening.

  Grayson pulled on a dry shirt and breeches and left the cabin. Outside, the sun was setting, stars just breaking through twilight. He stared at the sky in surprise and rubbed his eyes. He must have slept for at least twelve hours.

  The Majesty was at anchor again, drifting not far from shore. He recognized the town of Blackwall, its dockyards filled with naval vessels whose naked masts pierced the evening sky. He scanned the river and the horizon, but nowhere saw the familiar shape of the Argonaut.

  Jacobs kept watch on the quarterdeck, leaning lazily on the rail. Grayson joined him. “Where is he?”

  Jacobs did not have to ask who. “Gone, sir. A couple of frigates started strolling toward us, no doubt wondering what all the fuss was about. Last thing I saw was the Argonaut heading back to open water. Haven’t seen her since.”

  Grayson knew with strange finality that Ardmore was gone. He was an outlaw in England; he could not risk repairing his ship at a dockyard where the Royal Navy prowled. No doubt he’d try to make for France or the Netherlands. The Argonaut had been wounded before, worse, and had survived.

  But Grayson regretted the chance not to speak to Ardmore before he sailed. Burchard had cleared Grayson’s guilt in the death of Ardmore’s brother, but there was still so much in the way. Or perhaps they had never been meant to be friends. Even their young camaraderie had been laced with rivalry—who could shoot the straightest, sail the fastest, catch the attentions of the prettiest woman. Burchard had very easily pitted them against each other. If their friendship had been deeper, she never would have succeeded.

  Grayson turned back from the horizon. He outlined his plans to Jacobs, then went back below to his snug bed and the warm woman waiting there.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square, that September was the site of the most curious wedding London had witnessed in many a year. The bride was the widowed Alexandra Alastair, daughter of Lord Alexis Simmington and granddaughter of the Duke of Montcrief. The groom was the dashing and handsome Viscount Stoke. Such a society pairing should have been ordinary, but this one was not. Journalists lined the street eager to glimpse the odd wedding party, ready to capture the most exciting story since the pirate invasion of Mrs. Alastair’s soiree.

  The bride’s guests came from the top of society. The wealthy and titled had returned to town in droves in this unfashionable month to vie for invitations to the most interesting wedding of the year. Among the guests were the lofty Duke of St. Clair, the amiable Lord and Lady Featherstone, Lord Hildebrand Caldicott and his sister, the Hon. Mr. Bartholomew, and even, astonishingly, Louis Bourbon, the king of France in exile, accompanied by an entourage of Hussars.

  On the groom’s side—well, some said they were pirates, others simply merchantmen hardened by their world travels. They certainly looked like pirates, as both the Times and the Gentleman’s Magazine reported. They were a collection of bronzed, brawny, and fierce-looking men, some even missing eyes or limbs, many giving the ladies on the other side of the aisle leering grins. One journalist swore that the respectably married Mrs. Waters spent the entire ceremony actually batting her lashes at a particularly virile-looking gentleman called Mr. Priestly. Whether this developed into a full flirtation, the writer could not tell. It was rumored the pair were seen in deep conversation at the wedding breakfast, during which the young man was reported to have worn a hunted look.

  The bride was attended by the Honorable Miss Maggie Finley, the viscount’s daughter, a black-haired, foreign-looking child, but one who promised to become a great beauty. The new Lady Stoke was also attended by the former Mrs. Fairchild, a widow of an Oxford don who had quietly married a Mr. Robert Jacobs at the end of June. Mr. Jacobs stood up with the groom, and reportedly the two of them exchanged much good-natured banter and laughter.

  The bride was radiant in a gown of cream satin. White rosebuds were embroidered on the gown and the bride’s long gloves, and her sash was yellow. In her hair lay a lovely strand of diamonds laced with op
als, reputedly a gift from the viscount himself. Lady Stoke smiled her way through the ceremony, as did Miss Finley, though the new Mrs. Jacobs wept for joy.

  Once the ring was on the bride’s finger, and the groom had kissed her—a kiss rather longer than was proper—the groom’s guests erupted into a loud cheer and threw out rather bawdy and inappropriate suggestions. Several ladies on the bride’s side reportedly swooned and had to be carried outside.

  The wedding breakfast took place in two houses in Grosvenor Street, the viscount’s and the one Mrs. Alastair had inhabited next door to it. The breakfast commenced in Mrs. Alastair’s exquisite cream and light green dining room, done in the Adam’s style, presided over by a young footman who became so excited that he stammered and neglected to serve people.

  The festivities then moved to the viscount’s townhouse, opened for the first time to eager eyes. Much redecorating had been completed. Mrs. Tetley told Le Beau Monde that though the old-fashioned dark paneling remained, it had been polished until it gleamed, and the huge dining room had been softened by Constable’s paintings, a slender-legged Heppelwhite table, and an oriental carpet of dark green silk.

  The feasting here continued throughout the day, the wedding breakfast becoming a wedding supper. Guests lingered, mingling with the piratelike men who mustered together instruments and began dancing with the mystified and delighted ladies of the ton. The festivities were presided over by a large and fearsome-looking man with dark skin, who went silently about his duties with a smile hovering about his mouth.

  The dancing and merriment continued as the sun went down, and did not stop even when the discovery was made that the bride and groom, their daughter, and Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs had all disappeared.

  Aboard the Majesty, Grayson groaned aloud as he thrust into Alexandra again and again. She clasped him in the darkness, her heart thudding with joy, arching to him, needing him. They climaxed together, his fevered hands tumbling her hair, his lips bruising hers.

  After a long time, he settled back into the bed. “Alone at last,” he murmured.

  Alexandra snuggled against him, feeling sleepy and achingly happy. “It was fine to see our friends having such enjoyment,” she said, smiling in the dark.

  “Hmph.” His large hand skimmed her breast. “I put off having you for three months so they could enjoy themselves.”

  Alexandra’s smile widened. He certainly had not waited patiently. He had complained every single day that he wanted to marry her and get on with the fun. Once she had changed her “No” into a “Yes”—about half-way into the second time they’d made frantic love in his cabin the evening after their wet rescue, he had wanted to marry immediately. Obtain a special license, marry on the spot.

  Lady Featherstone, hearing the good news, had told him absolutely not. He was the new and intriguing Viscount Stoke, Alexandra was a respectable lady, and they could not behave as though they were scandalous and illicit lovers. Even when Grayson informed her that the whole point was that he and Alexandra wished to be lovers—forever—she would not yield. But she did blush a bit.

  The planning, the decorating, the wardrobe, and the invitations took much time and energy. Lady Featherstone said it would be a miracle if they got it all done even by September. But Grayson had been adamant. September, and that was final.

  During that time, they’d seen not one sign of James Ardmore, the Argonaut, or lieutenants O’Malley or Henderson. They were truly gone.

  “Grayson.” Alexandra touched her husband’s arm where it rested across her warm abdomen. She had been wanting to ask this for a long time, and perhaps now that he was tired, happy, smiling—“What did Burchard do that so humiliated you and Captain Ardmore?”

  He stilled. He slowly stroked his fingertips across her skin, drawing fire. “That is not a tale I care to share with my wife.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “I was about twenty years old and very full of myself. I do not want to talk about when I was twenty years old. Now is better.”

  Alexandra had to agree. Her heart swelled with the greatest happiness she had ever known. Only one thing more would complete her joy, and perhaps, after tonight, her greatest dream would come true. In any event, trying to reach her dream was proving to be quite pleasant.

  “It’s all right,” she said, patting his arm. “Mr. Jacobs told me.”

  He came up on one arm, scowling. “What? That impudent, be-damned—I’ll throw him overboard.”

  Alexandra rolled over and wrapped her arms about his waist. “Do not do that. He and Vanessa seem so happy.”

  “Besotted, more like. They couldn’t keep their eyes off each other during the entire wedding. At least Maggie liked it.”

  Maggie had been quite happy with all the weddings. She’d thrown herself into planning Alexandra’s, which won her Lady Featherstone’s admiration. Every one of her new friends should be happy, Maggie said. Their happiness would spill onto her. Alexandra gave a small, wistful sigh in the dark. In a few years, Maggie, who had taken to calling her “Mama Alexandra,” would be ready to look for happiness of her own.

  Mrs. Fairchild—Vanessa, she now begged Alexandra to call her—had announced her engagement to Mr. Jacobs only days after they’d returned from the harrowing sea battle. She and Alexandra had hugged and wept, and Vanessa had proudly showed her the ring Mr. Jacobs had given her, a lovely, square-cut ruby that had been handed down through his family. They had married as soon as the banns had been read, a quiet ceremony with only their closest friends attending. Alexandra had seen something new in her former governess’s eyes, a deep contentment that had been entirely missing before.

  She thought she understood what that deep contentment felt like.

  “Speaking of besotted,” Grayson continued, his voice soft and sleepy. “I went down to the cellars to find more port. What do you think I saw when I passed through the kitchen?”

  She pressed a small kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “My man Oliver. And your cook. Kissing.”

  Alexandra giggled, delighted. “Love is in the air. I believe Jeffrey is quite smitten with Joan. She seems relieved to have an ordinary young man interested in her, after I explained about Mr. Ardmore. It really was too bad of him to seduce her, poor thing.”

  “He is ruthless. When he wants something, he will do what it takes to get it.” He paused. “As do I.”

  “But your heart is filled with kindness.” Alexandra touched her hand to his smooth chest, tracing the curve of his muscle. “And much love. Perhaps out there on the oceans, Mr. Ardmore will find his own special lady. One who will at last teach him what love truly means.”

  Grayson snorted. “I doubt it.” He grew quiet again. “He loved Sara, and Sara alone. I understand what he felt for her. I knew it when I saw him with you on his deck.”

  She shivered. “Let us not speak of it. Perhaps there is hope for Captain Ardmore.”

  Grayson rubbed his cheek against hers, then rolled over so that he lay full-length on top of her. His warm weight soothed rather than oppressed; he made a comforting and cozy blanket. “What I hope now,” he said, “is to show you some more how much I love you. I don’t think you quite believe me, yet.”

  “Well, Captain Ardmore did have to force you to say it.”

  “Captain Ardmore be damned. I love you, Alexandra. I love the freckles on your nose and your beautiful hair and your eyes that I want to drown in.” He paused, his voice becoming husky with desire. “Shall I tell you about the other parts I love?”

  “Goodness, no. I will blush.”

  “Then I will show you instead.”

  He lowered his head and nipped her neck. She stretched, arching to him once more. He kissed his way down her throat and drew his tongue over the swell of her breast. “I love you,” he whispered into her skin. “Forever.”

  “I love you, too, Grayson,” she murmured. She smiled into the night. “My pirate next door.”

  Ep
ilogue

  The warm winds of June again blew through the garden, stirring the riot of roses that climbed the bricks of both houses. The fountain trickled a soothing melody, and a dozen sparrows began a cacophony of chirping in the tall trees. Alexandra reposed on one of the benches in the shade, tired, but happy. The smell of green things and earth and flowers wafted on the friendly breeze, refreshing and delighting her.

  This was her first venture into the garden since her confinement. She had stolen this moment to bathe in wonder at her happiness. Her ordeal was over, her immediate fears assuaged, although she now realized that a mother never really put all fear behind her.

  Mr. Jacobs had purchased Alexandra’s house and had moved in with Vanessa. During the intervening months, they’d pulled down the garden wall separating them, turning the green oasis into one large garden for all to share. Alexandra and Vanessa had planned and overseen the installation of walkways, flowerbeds, benches, trees. Grayson and Mr. Jacobs had glanced at the piles of plans, glanced at each other, and fled.

  Grayson and Maggie were upstairs now with the twins, no doubt gurgling and burbling at them. Charlotte, named for Grayson’s mother, had red hair and deep brown eyes. Alexis, named for Alexandra’s father, had hair of gold, and his eyes were blue, like his father’s. Grayson, ever since the hour he’d walked into Alexandra’s chamber and beheld his tiny, perfect daughter and son, had behaved like a man obsessed. He’d held them and talked to them and promised them all kinds of absurdities, and in short, behaved like a dazzled papa. This did not mean he ignored his first child, Maggie, whom he doted on without abandon. Maggie, for her part, seemed as besotted with the twins as he.

  Motherhood and wifehood had made Alexandra’s life in the last ten months both harried and content. She supposed that happiness was all about mingling chaos and delight. The future could hold more darkness, but the bright times would exist as well. Life, in its complex array, would go on.