He heard voices from the stairs, ones he didn’t know, and a feminine cry. Pattering footsteps filled the room, accompanied by the rustling of silk and a brush of scent. Slim arms wrapped his legs and tried to lift him.
“Help me,” the female voice said. “Jeffrey, quickly, cut him down.”
Another pair of arms, heavier and stronger, caught Grayson’s hips and hoisted him upward. The rope went slack around Grayson’s throat, and he dragged in gulps of air, fire dancing behind his eyes.
“I don’t have a knife, madam,” a boyish voice said.
A gruff woman answered him. “Take this one.”
Grayson’s vision began to clear. He heard the chair skitter on the floor, then the frame creak as a large lad clambered upon it. The young man lifted his arms, bathing Grayson in the smell of unwashed body. The lad sawed through the rope with the knife, his sinewy hands working quickly.
The rope broke, and Grayson fell. His legs buckled, and he landed flat on his face on the carpet.
A scent as sweet as summer sunshine washed over him, and a light hand touched his shoulder. “Jeffrey, run after them. Fetch a watchman.”
“But they’re murderers, madam,” the lad bleated. “I’m afraid of murderers.”
Grayson stifled a laugh and dragged in breath after breath, inhaling the stale smell of the carpet mixed with her heady perfume.
A cool blade touched his wrist, and the ropes loosened. Free, his hands landed at his sides, burning as the blood flowed back to them. He lay still, enjoying his pain, because pain meant life.
His next-door neighbor knelt over him, her pretty eyes anxious as she touched his shoulder. He’d spied the woman a few times in passing since he’d moved in and had found her worth a second glance. And worth deliberately inventing a reason to be leaving his house whenever he saw her carriage depositing her at her front door.
He’d ordered Jacobs to find out who she was. His lieutenant had reported that she was a widow called Mrs. Alastair, and before that, Miss Alexandra Simmington, daughter of Lord Alexis Simmington, the second son of a duke.
Blue blooded and well bred. And his rescuer.
Grayson was in love. Red-brown hair fell in a riot of curls over her shoulders, and her eyes were brown, flecked with green, like the waters of a woodland pond. She wore a feminine and frilly garment of green silk that clung to nicely rounded curves. If he slid open the bows on the front of the gown, it would part and show him the glories of her inside.
She rubbed his wrists without compunction, pushing the blood back through them. His hands stung, hot needles in his flesh.
Grayson wanted to thank her, but words would not come from his nearly crushed throat. He rolled himself onto his back, drawing in the air that Ardmore’s rope had denied him.
She was speaking. “We found another man downstairs, hurt. I think he’ll be all right, but he needs attending.”
He heard her without understanding, the words flowing over his tired body and giving him strength. More strength would come if he touched her. He slid his aching hands to her waist, and her warm, slippery gown welcomed him, her curves supple beneath it.
Wordless desire welled up in him, spun by the nearness of death and the nearness of her. Grayson pulled her closer. Her eyes flickered in nervousness, her long lashes sweeping to hide them.
Her face was finely curved, flesh sculpted to bone, a small scattering of freckles dusting her nose. Her chin was a tiny bit plump, and her lips were shell pink, not reddened by artifice.
Without a conscious decision to do so, Grayson lifted his head and brushed a kiss to her mouth.
She pulled back, but not in anger, a modest young woman. Her red-brown brows drew together as she studied him, as though he were a specimen for a scientific paper.
Grayson slid his hand to the nape of her neck, kneading softly, gentling his touch. She relaxed, just a little, and Grayson kissed her again, this time more firmly. After a moment, pretty Mrs. Alastair gave a little sigh, and he felt a small, answering push of lips.
Excitement, uncontrolled and uncaring, washed through him. He suddenly wanted her, this lovely, sweet-smelling woman who’d lifted him from death. His kiss became more forceful. She made a soft noise of surprise, but Grayson’s body took over.
He opened her mouth with his tongue, and satisfyingly, she did not fight him. She fitted her mouth to his, but clumsily, as though she were unused to opening for a man, unused to accepting such a deep kiss. Her lips warmed as she let herself learn.
Grayson broke the kiss, but only to roll her over, to take her to the floor beneath him. The lacy garment was no barrier between himself and her warm curves, and her breasts pressed unashamedly against his chest. He slanted his mouth across hers again, kissing her swollen lips, scooping up the goodness of her onto his tongue.
She made another small noise — of surrender or protest, he couldn’t tell. He was stiff with longing, harder than he’d been in a long time. Grayson pressed her thighs apart, molding the thin garment to her, feeling the heat of her through the silk. His fingers fumbled at the little bows, wanting to part the garment and have at her.
A strong hand landed on his shoulder. “That will be enough of that, my lord,” a woman said.
Darkness receded, and Grayson jerked back to the present. He’d forgotten the coarse-voiced woman and the beefy, terrified youth who’d accompanied his rescuer. Grayson raised his head to find the two of them staring down at him while he lay on top of their mistress, the large woman scowling, the lad openmouthed in fascination.
Grayson rolled away from Mrs. Alastair’s ripe, sweet body and curled his arms over his stomach. He drew in a breath of sweet air, and with it came laughter. He laughed for the joy of life and the joy of the beautiful woman on the carpet beside him.
She sat up and stared at him in bewilderment. He lifted his hand and touched the curve of her face.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “My rescuer.”
* * *
Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke, seemed a very resilient man. Alexandra watched the animation flow back into his body, like water returning to a dry pool, when only a moment ago he’d lain still, content to simply be alive.
After only a few more minutes flat on his back, he climbed to his feet, looking as energetic as a man who’d just risen from a refreshing sleep. His throat was dark with bruises, but other than that, he seemed little worse for wear.
Blue eyes sparkling, he ordered the quaking Jeffrey and Cook downstairs to find the man called Mr. Jacobs. To Alexandra, he said, “Come with me.”
No explanation, no waiting, not even dressing himself, for heaven’s sake. He wore leather breeches, a linen shirt opened to his waist, and tall boots. No collar, no waistcoat, no coat. A white scar ran from the hollow of his throat to disappear into the shadow of muscle under the shirt. Alexandra found herself wanting to tilt her head to trace the path of the scar to its end.
His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken, and another scar pulled his lower lip downward at the left corner. Not necessarily a perfect face, but an arresting one all the same.
The candlelight in the hall glinted on his sun-streaked hair and shone faintly on gold bristles of new beard. Alexandra’s late husband had never allowed his beard to appear. The moment Theophile spotted a whisker, he’d shout for his valet to, for God’s sake, come and remove it. He’d wanted his face perpetually smooth and clean. Alexandra had heard rumors that he liked his women just as bare in certain places, but she’d never been brave enough to find out if this were true.
The viscount took her hand to pull her up the next flight of stairs. His palm was callused and hard, very unlike the soft, manicured hands of the cultured gentlemen on her list. The leather of his scarred boots bent and flowed around his joints with the ease of long use.
Despite the candles, the house was dark, the paneling that lined the walls nearly black. The stairs held the patina of age and creaked under the viscount’s tread. Alexandra glimpsed rooms through op
en doors where dust sheets had been removed from the furniture, but in others, chairs and tables were still draped in cloth. Crates stood about, some opened, some tightly shut.
They entered a bedchamber on the top floor, which, Alexandra calculated, lay just on the other side of the third floor rooms in her house. This room had not been opened — the dust sheets remained on what little furniture filled it, and the fireplace was long cold.
The viscount strode unerringly to a panel that looked like any other panel in the dark wall and touched a piece of raised molding. The paneling swung away to reveal a small, square compartment.
From this niche, to Alexandra’s amazement, sprang a girl.
She was about twelve years old and dressed in a soiled pink silk gown with many ruffles and bows, most of them torn. In her right hand, the girl held a long and wicked-looking knife. She swept her midnight black hair from her face, revealing sparkling dark eyes under black slanted brows.
“Papa!” she cried. She flung her arms about the viscount’s waist, dagger and all. “I was so frightened Captain Ardmore would kill you. Are you all right?”
End of Excerpt
Also by Jennifer Ashley
Historical Romances
Nvengaria Series
(paranormal historical)
Penelope & Prince Charming
The Mad, Bad Duke
Highlander Ever After
The Longest Night
Regency Pirate Series
The Pirate Next Door
The Pirate Hunter
The Care and Feeding of Pirates
The Mackenzies Series
The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Lady Isabella’s Scandalous Marriage
The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
The Duke’s Perfect Wife
A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift
The Seduction of Elliot McBride
The Untamed Mackenzie
The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie
Scandal and the Duchess
Rules for a Proper Governess
The Stolen Mackenzie Bride
A Mackenzie Clan Gathering
Alec Mackenzie’s Art of Seduction
The Devilish Lord Will
Paranormal Romances
Shifters Unbound
Pride Mates
Primal Bonds
Bodyguard
Wild Cat
Hard Mated
Mate Claimed
“Perfect Mate” (novella)
Lone Wolf
Tiger Magic
Feral Heat
Wild Wolf
Bear Attraction
Mate Bond
Lion Eyes
Bad Wolf
Wild Things
White Tiger
Guardian’s Mate
Red Wolf
Shifter Made ("Prequel" short story)
Stormwalker
(w/a Allyson James)
Stormwalker
Firewalker
Shadow Walker
“Double Hexed”
Nightwalker
Dreamwalker
Dragon Bites
Immortals
The Calling (by Jennifer Ashley)
The Darkening (by Robin Popp)
The Awakening (by Joy Nash)
The Gathering (by Jennifer Ashley)
The Redeeming (by Jennifer Ashley)
The Crossing (by Joy Nash)
The Haunting (by Robin Popp)
Blood Debt (by Joy Nash)
Wolf Hunt (by Jennifer Ashley)
Forbidden Taste (by Jennifer Ashley)
Riding Hard
(Contemporary Romance)
Adam
Grant
Carter
Tyler
Ross
Kyle
Ray
About the Author
New York Times bestselling and award-winning author Jennifer Ashley has written more than 75 published novels and novellas in romance, urban fantasy, and mystery under the names Jennifer Ashley, Allyson James, and Ashley Gardner. Her books have been nominated for and won Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year), several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Urban Fantasy, Best Historical Mystery, and Career Achievement in Historical Romance), and Prism awards for her paranormal romances. Jennifer's books have been translated into more than a dozen languages and have earned starred reviews in Booklist.
More about Jennifer’s series can be found at
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The Longest Night
Nvengaria, Book 4
Copyright © 2009, 2016 by Jennifer Ashley
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Longest Night first appeared in print in the anthology A Christmas Ball, Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Ashley
Cover design by Kim Killion
ISBN: 978-1-941229-38-5
The Longest Night: Fantasy Romance (Nvengaria Book 4) Page 11