The Pirate Next Door
Jennifer Ashley
LEISURE BOOKS 
NEW YORK CITY
Alexandra cleared her throat and called upon her haughtiest blue-blooded tones. “Sir, you take a liberty.”
Grayson did not look daunted. “No. I licked you. A liberty is a kiss.”
“Is it?” She stared at him in confusion. “I do not think there is much difference.”
He bent to her again. “You taste like honey.”
“You must be out of your head, my lord. Relieved to find yourself alive.”
“Perhaps a bit.”
“You ought to rest, then. You will feel much more yourself in the morning.”
He smoothed a lock of hair from her cheek, drawing fire with his touch. “You should rest, too, Mrs. Alastair. You have had quite a night.”
“An astonishing one, yes.” To save a man from death and receive the most passionate kiss of one’s life certainly qualified as an extraordinary evening.
Would life with a pirate next door always be this exciting?
London, June 1810
Alexandra Alastair lay in her slim-posted bed beneath green silk hangings, her hands flat on the coverlet, and debated whether she dared add the viscount next door to her list of eligible suitors.
Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke.
She and Lady Featherstone knew little about him. He had disappeared from England as a lad and had turned up again only a week ago to take the title of Viscount Stoke, which his second cousin had passed on to him. Lady Featherstone had discovered, through careful research, that the new viscount was thirty-five years of age and unmarried. Very possibly, Lady Featherstone had said, her dark eyes twinkling, he had opened up the house on Grosvenor Street because he wished to seek a wife.
Alexandra’s open eyes stared at the carved vines and leaves that wound themselves around the light wood of
the bedposts. She was not as sanguine as Lady Featherstone. It was June, the season nearly ended, and likely the viscount would only stop in Town for a brief time before moving on to his country estate.
He was certainly different from the other gentlemen on the list. Those gentlemen were all polite, all respectable, all likely to make her a quiet and steadfast second husband. Her first husband had been anything but steadfast, dying finally by falling down the stairs in the house of one of his mistresses.
Her head throbbed as the humid air of the summer night touched her burning cheeks. Thoughts of her deceased husband always made her head ache. Which was why she and Lady Featherstone had so carefully culled the list, talking and listening and learning about the shortcomings of each gentleman. The gentlemen who had succeeded in reaching the list: the Duke of St. Clair, Lord Hildebrand Caldicott, Mr. Bartholomew—all dependable, trustworthy, respectable. Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut. And hopelessly dull.
The viscount, on the other hand, was extremely interesting. She’d seen him a few times in passing, usually when she’d been descending from her carriage just he was leaving his house next door. He was a most unusual-looking gentlemen—she refused to use Lady Featherstone’s terms, “most splendidly and magnificently handsome.” It was true that he was most unusual for a Mayfair gentleman. His broad shoulders filled out his coat quite well, and the small smile he sent her way made her heartbeat change to a dull thudding. His skin was sunbronzed, a tanned color that spoke of lands far from foggy London. He had hair streaked gold, which he wore unfashionably long and pulled back into a tail. His eyes, which sometimes lingered on her longer than was polite,
were blue—dark blue like the twilight sky in June.
He did not dress like the other gentlemen on her list either. Sometimes he went out with only a loose greatcoat shrugged on over a shirt and calf-skin breeches, and leather boots that reached above his knees. The carriages and horses he hired were fine; but Annie and Amy, her twin downstairs maids, had told her that he had only opened a few rooms in the house and that everything was dark and dusty.
The viscount had a tall, massive manservant with very dark skin and a bald head creased with ridges of scars. Her own footman, Jeffrey, a big lad, was terrified of the viscount’s manservant. Of course, Alexandra conceded, it was difficult to imagine someone Jeffrey was not terrified of.
Other gentlemen who came and went included a young man of about her own age who dressed as casually as the viscount, and a short man with a leathery face, a cheerful grin, and an Irish brogue. None of them looked terribly steady and dependable.
But, on the other hand, definitely not dull.
She opened her eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to still the pounding in her head. She wanted a steady and dependable gentleman, did she not? One who, above all, had a fondness for children. Because if she did not marry one of the steady and dependable gentlemen from the list, Alexandra Alastair would never have children.
Once, long ago, she had borne a child. Her husband had looked almost relieved when the little lad had died, only hours old. Her grief had taken her to a place of darkness, from which she had never quite returned. Theophile had pretty much ignored her after that, and Alexandra had never conceived again.
The night brought a cooling breeze that touched the
tears on her wet cheeks. Her bedroom faced the garden, and the scent of new roses drifted to her from the vines that climbed to the windows. Her garden was a mere square patch, but amid the stones of the city, even in elegant Mayfair, the green quiet of the enclosure soothed her. She loved her garden, which had been her retreat, her sanctuary, during her five years of marriage to Theophile Alastair.
From the garden, she heard voices. Male voices.
The ivy at the window rustled like satin skirts in the breeze. The voices came again, sharp, angry, grim. Puzzled, she brushed the tears from her cheeks and sat up.
She realized in a moment that the voices came not from her garden, but from the house next door. The window next to hers must be open, and sounds were floating from one house to the next. Someone was arguing in the room on the other side of the wall.
She silently flipped back the covers and slid from the bed, her feet finding the warmth of her slippers. She snatched up the peignoir that lay on the gold armchair and slid it on, tying the ribbons down the front. She approached the window and pulled back the drape.
She heard a man’s voice, drawling and unfamiliar, his vowels liquid and long. “So tell me why a man from the Admiralty visited you today, Finley. If I like your answer, I might just let you live.”
He struggled for breath, the coarse rope tightening around his throat as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor. Ropes burned his wrists behind him. The dim, dry part of his mind reflected that he’d survived James Ardmore’s near-hanging trick before. That time, Ardmore had relented and cut him down, but only after extracting a terrible promise.
Grayson’s toes would not quite take his weight, only enough to keep the rope from entirely cutting off his breath. Ardmore wanted him to struggle, wanted him to almost succeed in saving himself. Until, that is, Grayson grew too tired of fighting his own weight and dropped, choking off his breath and killing himself.
He regarded the dark-haired, grim-faced man who at one time he’d called his friend. The man he had rescued from a cage on a pirate ship, who had joined him in the mutiny that launched the adventures of Ardmore and Finley, co-captains of the
Majesty
and the terror of the
seas. They had been all of eighteen years old.
Ardmore’s gloved hand held the rope that passed through the heavy ceiling ring and down to encircle Grayson’s neck. He drawled in his Charleston accent, “I’m losing patience, Finley. Tell me.”
Grayson’s lungs burned as if sand grated them. He drew comfort from the thought that Maggie was safe. No matter what happened to him, Maggie was safe, and Oliver and Jacobs would care for her. But if Grayson died too soon, he would not finish the settlements he had begun to ensure that Maggie got all the money he could possibly leave her, to ensure that she grew up a wealthy young woman.
“Go to hell,” he said.
The rope jerked. “Tell me. Or Jacobs dies.”
Jacobs was lying downstairs, holding his wounded side, two of Ardmore’s men pointing pistols at him. Ardmore had burst in this evening with a band of his crew to threaten Grayson’s life, breaking their truce. How long before Oliver, Grayson’s manservant, could bring help, he could not say. Grayson had sent his own men to fan out from Greenwich to Gravesend after the Admiralty had come calling with their offer of amnesty in exchange for his help.
He could not let Ardmore interrupt his plans yet. Ardmore actually had promised Maggie’s mother, Sara, to let Grayson bring the girl back to England. Ardmore had given his word, as Sara lay dying, that her daughter would become the Honorable Miss Maggie Finley and live in a fine house and wear fine clothes and be attended by fine servants. For love of Maggie’s mother, Ardmore had stilled his murderous rage and allowed Grayson to return with Maggie to England. For a price.
Ardmore hauled on the rope, and Grayson’s feet left
the ground. Black stars danced before his eyes.
“Tell me.”
Grayson drew stinging air into his throat. “The French king.”
Ardmore’s eyes narrowed. “There is no French king.”
“In exile. Gone missing.”
The rope slackened. Grayson’s feet hit the floor. He gulped air, fire flickering the edges of his vision.
“Louis Bourbon?” Ardmore asked in genuine surprise. He brushed his finger over his lip. “The English have lost track of their pet French king? Interesting. What do they expect
you
to do about it?”
Grayson’s voice grated. “They think pirates in pay of French agents took him. They believe I will know who is capable of smuggling him back to France.” He paused. “Besides you.”
Ardmore gave him a long, cold look. “I don’t want to play.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Grayson ground out.
Ardmore’s eyes were hard green points of hatred. Grayson watched him warily. They had made a bargain, but Ardmore was unpredictable. A tricky bastard, as Ian O’Malley, Ardmore’s own first officer, called him. Ardmore played by his own rules.
Ardmore smiled, an ugly, feral smile that made his handsome face bleak. He tied the rope fast to the bedpost, the line tight enough so that Grayson’s toes just touched the floor. Ardmore had been tying lines for seventeen years; Grayson knew it would not be weak.
“I’ll leave you here to dance,” Ardmore said softly. “Maybe your man Oliver will return in time to save you, or maybe he won’t. In the meantime, you can hang there and wonder how long it will take for you to die.”
Grayson tried to swallow air, tried to lean his head
back to open his throat. Ardmore came close to him, looked up. “It took my brother a long time to die,” he said. “Think on that.”
His light green eyes were like ice. The trouble between them had started a long-ago, far-away day when Grayson had married the Tahitian woman they had called Sara. That event had led, across years and through the waterways of the world, to this one. To James Ardmore staring up at him and wanting Grayson to die.
Ardmore gave him a final look, then turned and walked away. His footsteps rang in the empty hall. He descended the staircase, and then Grayson heard his curt orders to the men who waited for him below. The front door opened, and, after a moment, closed. Then silence.
The rope creaked from the ring in the ceiling. The ring also supported the chandelier, an iron thing from centuries passed. If Grayson jerked hard enough, he might dislodge the circle of iron. Or he might just snap his neck. Unless the chandelier simply fell and crushed the life out of him. The bed was too far across the room to be of any use, but the straight-backed chair might help. Now to discover if Ardmore had left it just out of reach, or just near enough.
As Grayson walked his toes toward the chair, he damned himself for lowering his guard. Ardmore and his men had overwhelmed him and Jacobs while they’d supped together and pondered the whereabouts of Ardmore’s watchdog, Ian O’Malley. Now all was clear. O’Malley had gone to report to Ardmore about Grayson’s visit from the Duke of St. Clair, a man with a prominent position in the English Admiralty.
Grayson’s foot just reached the chair. He managed to hook his straining toes around the leg of it and jerk the
chair toward him. His hold slipped, and he swung heavily against the rope. His vision went black.
He heard voices from the stairs, then a feminine shriek. Pattering footsteps raced toward him, accompanied by a swift rustling of silk. Slim arms wrapped around his legs and tried to lift him.
“Help me,” a female voice panted. “Jeffrey, quickly, cut him down.”
Another pair of arms, heavier and stronger caught his hips and hoisted him upward. The rope went slack around his throat. He dragged in a great gulp of air, fire dancing before his eyes.
“I don’t have a knife, madam,” a boyish voice bleated.
A gruff woman answered him. “Take this one.”
His vision began to clear. He heard the chair skitter across the floor. Then the frame creaked as a large lad clambered upon it. The boy lifted his arms, bathing Grayson in the smell of his unwashed body. The lad sawed through the rope with the knife, his sinewy hands working fast.
The rope broke. Grayson tumbled down. His tired legs crumpled and he landed flat on his face, his nose digging into the threadbare carpet.
A scent as sweet as summer sunshine drifted over him; a light hand touched his shoulder. “Jeffrey, run after them. Fetch a watchman.”
“But they are murderers, madam! I am afraid of murderers!”
Grayson stifled a laugh and dragged in breath after breath, inhaling the stale scent of the rug with as much joy as he would a heady perfume. A cool knife blade touched his wrist, and the ropes loosened. He felt the sting of the knife’s edge on his skin, and blood tickled him, but the ropes fell away. His wrists landed at his sides,
burning as the blood flowed back to them. He lay there for a moment, enjoying his pain, because pain meant life.
A worried hand touched his shoulder. He lifted his head.
His next-door neighbor knelt over him, her pretty eyes anxious. He had spied the woman a few times in passing since he’d first moved in, and had found her worth a second glance. And worth deliberately inventing a reason to be just 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 reported that she was a widow called Mrs. Alastair. Before that she had been Miss Alexandra Simmington, daughter of Lord Alexis Simmington and granddaughter of a duke. Blue-blooded and well-bred.
And his rescuer. He was in love. Her red-brown hair fell in a riot of curls over her shoulders. Her eyes were brown, flecked with green, cool and calm like the waters of a woodland pond. She wore a feminine and frilly garment of soft green silk that clung to her gently rounded curves. If he could slide open the bows that marched down the front of the gown, perhaps it would part and provide him with a more intimate glimpse of the glories of her body.
She began rubbing his numb hands, pushing the blood back into them. They stung, hot needles pricking his flesh. He wanted to thank her, but words would not come from his aching throat. He rolled himself onto his back, drawing in the air that had been denied him too long.
He slid his burning hand from her grasp and touched her tumbled curls. They felt like crinkled silk. His chest expanded with air, a lovely elixir, bringing with it her feminine perfume.
She was speaking. “We found another man downstairs, hurt.”
He heard her without understanding. Her red-brown brows drew together, as if she were studying him in order to write a scientific paper about him. Emboldened, he slid his hands about her waist. Her warm, slippery gown welcomed him, her curves soft and supple beneath it.
Wordless desire welled up in him, spun by the nearness of death and the nearness of
her
. He pulled her closer. Her eyes flickered in nervousness, her long lashes sweeping to hide them. Her face was finely curved, flesh sculpted to bone, and a scattering of freckles dusted her nose. Her chin was a tiny bit plump, and her lips were shell pink, not reddened by artifice. Making a conscious decision, Grayson raised his head and brushed a kiss to her mouth.
She pulled back, her body stiff. Grayson slid his hand to the nape of her neck, kneading softly, gentling his touch. Under his hand she relaxed, just a little. Grayson kissed her again, this time softly, lingering.
After a moment, she gave a little sigh and eased toward him, and he felt a small, answering push of her lips.
Excitement, uncontrolled and uncaring, washed through him. He suddenly wanted her, this lovely, sweet-smelling woman who had lifted him from death. His kiss turned rough. She gave a small cry of surprise, but his body had taken over.
He seamed her mouth with his tongue, and joyfully, arousingly, she did not fight him. Clumsily, she fitted her mouth to his, as if she were unused to opening it to another, unused to accepting such a deep kiss. Her lips grew warm and more passionate beneath his.
Dizziness consumed him, but he did not want to let go. He broke the kiss, but only to roll over, to drag her to
the floor beneath him. The lacy, frilled garment was little barrier between himself and her enticing body. He slanted his mouth across hers again, kissing her swollen mouth, scooping up the goodness of her on his tongue.
She made another small noise—of surrender or protest, he could not tell. His arousal was stiff with longing, desire spinning through him. He 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 fabric and have at her.
A strong touch landed on his shoulder, pulling him back from the spinning glory that beckoned. “That will be enough of that, young man,” a woman’s voice said sternly.
He’d forgotten the large, gruff woman and the beefy, terrified boy who’d accompanied his rescuer. He looked up. They stood on each side of him, the woman scowling, the lad open-mouthed with shock and fascination.
Grayson rolled away from Mrs. Alastair’s ripe and needing 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. “Thank you.”
Grayson Finley, Viscount Stoke, was a very resilient man. He lay flat on his back for less than a quarter hour, drawing deep breaths, before he climbed to his feet. Alexandra watched the animation flow back into his body, which only a moment ago had been content to simply be alive, like water returning to a dry pool. 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. Well, she conceded, he was half-dressed. He wore leather breeches, a linen shirt opened to his waist, and tall boots, but no collar, no waistcoat, no coat. A white scar ran from the hollow of his throat to disappear in 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.
The candles in the hall glinted on his long, sun-streaked hair and shone faintly on the gold bristles of a new beard. Alexandra’s late husband had never allowed his beard to appear. The moment he’d spotted a whisker, he’d shouted for his valet to for God’s sake come and remove it. He wanted his face perpetually smooth and clean. Alexandra had heard rumors that he liked his women just as bare in certain places. She had never been brave enough to ask if this were true.
The viscount took her hand in his and pulled her up the next flight of stairs. His palm was calloused and hard, very unlike the soft, manicured hands of her husband. The leather of his scarred boots bent and flowed around his joints with the ease of long use. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken, and a small scar pulled his lower lip slightly downward at the left corner. Not necessarily a perfect face, a fashionably handsome face. But an arresting one all the same.
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’s light boots barely made a sound. Through open doors she glimpsed rooms where dust sheets had been re
moved from the furniture. Crates stood about, some without tops, some still shut tightly.