Alexandra’s face heated. “Mr. Ardmore, you should not mention such things to me.”
“Do you know why Finley married her?”
“Why do you call him Finley? He is a viscount now. You should refer to him as His Lordship or Lord Stoke.”
“I am an American, Mrs. Alastair. Your damned English titles mean nothing to me. Do you know why Finley married Sara?”
She sensed his growing exasperation. She had better concentrate on what he was saying. “Because she was beautiful?”
“No. Because I loved her. When he discovered this, he stole her from me. He married her—for a joke. And he laughed.”
“But—” She touched shaking fingers to her lips. “So you hate him because of this woman?”
His fingers, large and sinewy, tightened on his arms. “That was the beginning. The very first in a long line of reasons why I hate Grayson Finley.”
“But that is a very foolish reason.”
“Foolish?” His hands balled into fists. There was a deep rage in him she’d never noted in Grayson. And here she was, alone with him in his cabin, her only possible aid being Mr. Henderson outside. Mr. Henderson who had rendered her helpless so he could drag her here in the first place.
She wet her lips and plunged on. “Well, Captain, con
sider her behavior. She seems to have flitted from you to Grayson very easily, when she must have known you were great friends. If I understand correctly, she then deserted
him
. When she bore Maggie, did she move heaven and earth to find him and tell him the wonderful news? No, indeed. She abandoned Maggie to whatever charitable missionary family happened to be on hand and went gallivanting off. Now, is this a woman you should properly break your heart over?”
His eyes narrowed to green slits behind his black lashes. “I never said I’d broken my heart.”
“You must have, or you would not still be so angry. But take my word, Mr. Ardmore, she was not a woman worth falling out over. If she had been steadfast and true to you, and he had stolen her away like a villain, then that would be different, of course. But I am afraid she has simply been very common.”
“Common,” he said, tight-lipped.
Something deep inside was frantically waving her quiet, but her tongue seemed to keep running of its own accord. “Yes, indeed. I do not think I will ever forgive her for leaving Maggie with people who tried to tell her she was the devil’s child. Thank heavens they did not break her spirit.”
“The Wesleyans told her that?”
Alexandra ignored him. “And now the poor woman is dead, Maggie tells me.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. “She is.”
“It was all so very long ago. You ought to put it behind you. I do observe that you have taken up with a new lady, whom you did not introduce, by the by. That was quite rude of you.”
“Her name is Madame d’Lorenz, and she is not a suitable acquaintance for a lady.”
An idea clicked in her mind. “She is French? Perhaps
she
stole the French king.”
Ardmore’s eyes narrowed. “She is in exile. Just as he is. An émigré would not hand over the king to Napoleon.”
“I see. Do you love her deeply?”
An exasperated look crept into his expression. “Why does this interest you?”
“Because I am attempting to make a point. Do you love Madame d’Lorenz?”
“No.”
The word was hard, blunt, final. As if not loving her made him angry.
“There, you see? You ought to release the poor woman at once. It is cruel to make her believe you have affection for her when you do not. What you really ought to do, Mr. Ardmore—” she gave him a chiding look—“is give up paramours altogether and settle upon a wife. One who will look after you.” She pointed to his bared chest. “One who will make you wear shirts.”
The blaze in his eyes this time had nothing to do with anger. A small, ironic smile twisted his lips. “A wonderful idea, Mrs. Alastair.” He reached down and closed one cold hand over hers. “You are a lovely woman. Will you do me the honor?”
She rocked back. “What? Good heavens, no.” She struggled for words as she tried to disengage her hand. “I would make a horrid wife for a pirate hunter. I do not even know what a quarterdeck is for heaven’s sake. Besides, you are wanted by the English government, and you are a would-be murderer. You could not even be put on the list!”
His brow creased. “List?”
“Even Grayson is on the list. But then, he is a viscount,
and English. He did tamper with things so that he would be the best match on it, and I cannot overlook such blatant cheating, no matter what he thinks.” She stopped, deflating. “But he already told me he was not looking to marry, so it does not matter.”
Captain Ardmore looked utterly perplexed. “What list, Mrs. Alastair?”
“My list of suitors.” She waved her hand before her face. “But you are not interested in that. You want to kidnap me, or ravish me, or sell me to slavers, or whatever it is you will do. I do wish you’d get on with it, and finish it quickly. I am not very brave.”
Ardmore gave her an odd, intense look. “No, Mrs. Alastair, I believe you are extremely brave.”
She sighed. “At least I did not wet myself. Well, that is, except for the water.”
“You did not
what?
”
“Grayson told me that he’d seen fierce pirates wet themselves when faced with you. I admit, he might have been exaggerating, because you do not seem very frightening to me. Of course, that may be because your Mr. Henderson made me breathe that strange concoction, which has made me quite silly.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let us return to this list of suitors. You say you want to marry Finley?”
“It does not matter whether I want to marry him or not. He told me quite plainly that he was not looking for a wife. I imagine that because his first marriage did not go well, he does not wish to try again. I suppose I should cross his name off.” She finished wistfully.
“Please do.”
She traced her lower lip, back and forth, back and forth. It grew warm. “The duke is still the best candidate, but I imagine he would prefer a debutante to me, a widow rather long in the tooth.”
“Only if he is a fool,” Ardmore said.
His words flowed and melded like rain on frozen snow. “Mr. Bartholomew, now, he is a quiet and polite gentleman. And really, his stammer is not his fault.”
“He sounds most unworthy of you.”
She nibbled the tip of her finger. “Mr. Burchard, now, is very odd. Grayson told me he was a dangerous and horrible pirate. And then tonight—”
“Burchard?”
His body had gone rigid. “Indeed. Your Mr. Henderson and Mr. O’Malley seemed to think so too. They chased him from the theatre when Lady Featherstone and I were trying to have a conversation with him.”
He stood. “Zechariah Burchard is alive?”
“Indeed. Grayson told me you had murdered him, but I suppose you were mistaken.” She shivered. “I dislike talking of such things.”
“Son of a—Henderson!”
His words were cut off by the sound of something striking the door, hard. The sound rocked the cabin, indeed, the entire ship. Ardmore whirled as the door splintered inward.
The viscount barreled into the cabin, his face thunderous, his eyes blazing blue rage. He could have lit signal fires with the hot fury that poured from him. Henderson and the sailor were hot on his heels. Grayson seized James Ardmore by the lapels of his coat and bore him down to the table. The table, anchored in place, creaked under
the onslaught. Ardmore grabbed Grayson’s wrists, his own fingers white, but Grayson held him fast.
Panting, Mr. Henderson pointed a pistol at Grayson’s head. “Back off, Finley.”
Alexandra jumped to her feet. Her legs wobbled. “Please, Mr. Henderson, do not shoot him!”
“I told you,” Grayson said to Ardmore, his voice deadly quiet. “Not her.”
“Those are your rules,” Ardmore returned. “Not mine.”
Grayson slammed him against the tabletop. “All of it is your rules. You made this about you and me a long time ago.
You and me
. No one else.”
Ardmore’s lips drew back. “Were you following the rules when you decided to murder my brother?”
Alexandra gasped. Good heavens. She glanced at the others, but none seemed startled by the announcement. Alexandra wanted to blurt questions, shout to get responses, but words died on her lips.
Henderson’s voice shook. “Let him go, Finley. I will drop you where you stand.”
The tension in the room made her head ache. Alexandra stumbled to Mr. Henderson’s side. “Please, stop this.”
Mr. Henderson’s gray eyes were hard. “You see, Finley? You are upsetting Mrs. Alastair.”
Grayson did not answer. Indeed, he did not seem to notice anyone else in the room but Ardmore.
Alexandra said quickly, “It is all right, my lord. Captain Ardmore and I were only having a conversation.”
“A conversation.” He directed the words, tight and angry, at Ardmore. “Is that what you call it?”
“You do not deserve this woman, Finley. You are out of your depth.”
“You touch her and you will see what is in my depths.”
Alexandra watched them, agonized. “He did nothing, Grayson. Actually, Mr. Henderson did all the abducting. Mr. Ardmore only talked to me.”
Henderson winced.
Grayson said, “Henderson will be next in line.”
“Bloody hell,” Henderson said weakly.
Ardmore eased his hands from Grayson’s arms. “Put it down, Mr. Henderson.”
Henderson stared at his captain for one agonized moment, then stiffly lowered the pistol.
The two men glared at each other, gazes locked, lips tight. “Take her and go,” Ardmore said.
Grayson held on a moment longer, then slowly, he released him and stood up. His lips were tight with anger, and he had murder in his eyes.
Ardmore got to his feet. The two men watched each other warily. Mr. Henderson still held the pistol, his fingers white on the trigger. Madame d’Lorenz and the other sailor looked poised to flee.
Alexandra took a tottering step forward and held out her hand to Grayson. “Now, my lord, please, let us sit down and discuss this reasonably—”
Grayson’s eyes sparkled like fireworks on a Vauxhall night. “I do not want to discuss it reasonably. I want to rescue you.”
“I do not need to be rescued at the moment, my lord. You and Mr. Ardmore should speak. Calmly.”
“Damn you, Alexandra, I am rescuing you whether you like it or not.” He closed the distance between them in one stride, bent, and hoisted her smoothly over his shoulder.
Her equilibrium went end over tip and she found herself upside down with her nose digging into his damp woolen coat.
“What the devil are you doing?” she heard Mr. Henderson demand.
“Rescuing my lady. Get out of my way.”
“Finley—”
The next sound was that of a fist striking flesh. Alexandra winced. Grayson wheeled and began walking fast. Fresh air struck her face, bringing with it the strong smell of brine. She lifted her head, trying to look back the way they’d come.
“You see?” she called. “I am right. He overruns everybody in his way.”
Madame d’Lorenz and the sailor had fled. Mr. Henderson, in the lighted cabin, stood as illuminated as an actor on a stage. Scarlet blood dripped to his stark white cravat.
“Why must he always hit me in the face?” he asked plaintively. “Why always the
face?
”
That was only the beginning of the harrowing rescue. Grayson had a boat waiting, with a wide-eyed sailor at the oars. Grayson hoisted Alexandra onto his back and bade her lock her arms and legs about his torso, while he half-climbed, half slid down a rope that was fixed to the rail of Ardmore’s ship by a grappling hook.
They went that way because the ship seemed to have moved far from the dock. They floated now in the middle of the river, so wide at this point that the banks were swallowed in darkness and mist.
She looked up at the precarious line that held the weight of them both. “What happens if they cut the rope?” she bleated. “Or loosen the hook?”
“Then we get wet,” he answered, his words clipped.
They made it to the boat without any such appalling thing happening. The frightened sailor plied the oars while Grayson steered, which left Alexandra shivering
alone in the bow. They rowed, not toward shore, but farther out into the river. Presently, another wet, wooden hull of a ship loomed out of the mist at them.
She was wondering how on earth Grayson expected her to climb aboard, all that long way up the slick sides of the ship, when a sort of harness thing was lowered down to her. Grayson fastened its rope about her waist, explaining that she must hold on with both hands. She was still a bit hazy about it all when her feet abruptly left the ground.
She yelped. The harness began moving upward, bump by bump, hoisted by a pulley manned by a sailor high above. She seized the ropes and held on, squeezing her eyes shut.
A chill wind skimmed the river and cooled her hot skin. Her light skirt crept upward, the fickle wind exposing her stockings, garters, and thighs to anyone who cared to look. She risked a glance down. Grayson was gazing up at her, his white teeth gleaming in lantern light. He was certainly enjoying the sight, she knew it, but she could let go of the harness to preserve her modesty. She could only hope that no one else saw the spectacle of her white limbs dangling from the rigging.
The harness swayed ever upward. Just when she thought she could rise no higher, she floated over the rail. The sailor at the rope grunted as he let her down slowly. At long last, her feet touched the deck, and she pried her hands from the ropes.
The sailor unfastened her from the harness, and she was just beginning to shiver in the breeze when Grayson vaulted over the railing and landed on the deck.
“Why have we come here?” she asked him. “Is this your ship?”
“Welcome aboard the
Majesty
,” he said. He waved his
hand at the dark deck, just lit by the faint gray of dawn, but he seemed distracted. He gave orders to the sailors attending them to haul in the boat, then he came to Alexandra. “Come with me.”
She tried to take a step toward him, but her legs would not support her. His steady arm kept her from collapsing, and then he swept her into his arms and carried her aft into the stern cabin.
The captain’s cabin on this ship was a little different from Ardmore’s, she observed, as Grayson made his way to the bunk and laid her gently down.
For one thing, there was only one room, which sloped down a little on either end, and it had no doors leading off into side rooms. His bunk was in this cabin as well, on the left—the port side, she corrected herself. Next to it stood a desk and a chair, and he had no bench beneath his windows.
The bunk’s mattress was harder than her own giving featherbed at home, but she could spread her arms and legs a long way before touching the sides. Lying down right now also was preferable to standing up. Things did not move so much when she was lying down.
Grayson watched her test the width of the bunk. His eyes smoldered with the vestiges of the anger that had wrapped him like a cloud of sparks. The tense fury of the two men had frightened her far more than Mr. Henderson’s pistol. The aching hatred had filled the entire room, pushing aside all in it. The others had felt it too. They had been bystanders to a battle in which they had no part.
His silence now bothered her. Never since she’d met Grayson Finley had he been silent, unless he had been thinking up something outrageously wicked to say to her.
Even then, he would have a mischievous twinkle in his eye. That spark was absent now.
To fill the emptiness, she said, “Captain Ardmore’s cabin is bigger than yours.”
He turned glittering eyes to her.
She added hastily. “But your bunk is bigger.”
His glare did not soften. “Than
his?
”
“I don’t know. I meant that your bunk is larger than the bench I was lying on. The bench was far too hard as well. Not comfortable at all.”
“What the hell were you doing lying on his bench?”
She blinked at his savage tone. “Because I felt so woozy. From whatever Mr. Henderson gave me.”
His face went bleak again. “I am going to throttle Mr. Henderson.”
“Oh no, it was not his fault. He was most sorry for it. I believe he is compelled to do whatever Mr. Ardmore tells him.”
“I do not share your generosity. He could have defied him. Ian O’Malley did.”
Alexandra pushed herself to a sitting position. “He took Maggie. Is she all right?”
He dragged the chair next to the bunk and sat down heavily, resting his elbows on his knees. “He took her home. I saw them. Thank God he is Maggie’s devoted slave. Between him and Jacobs and Oliver, she is well protected.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Oh, and the governess. She’s there too.”
Alexandra brightened. “Mrs. Fairchild has arrived? Oh, how splendid! I look forward to seeing her again. She is the best of ladies, my lord, the finest our sex can produce. She will be—”
“Alexandra.”
His tired exclamation cut through her eager chatter. “Yes?”
“Did he hurt you?”
He was watching her, leaning forward as if he would bear her down and shake her if he suspected her of lying. Whatever was between him and Ardmore was beyond her comprehending at the moment. She would have to ply him with questions later, when her head stopped feeling as if someone had spun her in place very, very fast. They could have a long talk, and he could explain everything carefully, and she would be able to remember and to understand.
At the moment, she felt the strange urge to either succumb to another fit of giggles or fall fast asleep. “Um, what was the question?” she asked.
He muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like a curse. She ought to remonstrate him on his language. She was, after all, a lady. Or at least she had been, before gentlemen began kidnapping her and kissing her in the street, and commanding her to sleep without her clothes.
Suddenly, he reached to her, closing a viselike grip around her wrists. He dragged her close, then grasped her around the waist and hauled her right out of the bunk and onto the chair with him. Instead of settling her demurely on his knee, he raked her skirts high and pulled her down to straddle him.
Her eyes opened wide. This was a very—interesting and unladylike position. She faced him eye-to-eye, his strong face inches from her own. More unnerving still, nothing existed between her bared thighs and his breeches. A fold of silk gown rested under her backside, but her legs fully hugged the cashmere—not his usual leather. The breeches were a bit damp from their journey
to this ship, but she could feel his warmth beneath them. His hands rested on her hips, his fingers pushed under her skirt.
Her breath came fast, and his did, too. She felt the pulse in his fingers and wrists bumping as rapidly as hers.
“You are
my
lady,” he said in a low voice. “Tell me you understand.”
The scar on his lower lip pulled his mouth down harder than ever. “Actually, I do not understand anything at all.”
He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb trace her cheekbone in hard, shaking strokes. “You are mine. He will not have you. Not this time.”