The Pirate Next Door (27 page)

Alexandra cried out. Grayson swung around. Alexandra was struggling with Ardmore. Ardmore had his arm firmly around her waist, and she teetered on the rail, fighting like mad. Grayson sprinted toward them. Ardmore snapped his pistol to him. “Do not come any closer, Finley. I’ll drop you here and now.”

He meant it. Grayson stilled, his heart pounding. Ardmore would shoot him, and Grayson would die, knowing that Ardmore had Alexandra. Or he could walk away and leave Alexandra to him, and live the rest of his life knowing that. Just the thought of living a moment without her made his heart bleed. Ardmore truly knew how to exact the cruelest revenge.

“James,” Grayson said. “Please. Not this time.”

Ardmore’s eyes burned all the way across the deck. “Sorry, old friend.” His finger closed on the trigger.

Alexandra screamed. She flung herself at Ardmore, lunging for the pistol, just as it fired. The gun roared, mingling with the noise of the cannon from the three ships. Alexandra and Ardmore balanced on the rail for a sickening moment, then toppled from view, out of sight, down to the waiting sea.

Grayson gave a cry wrenched from the depths of his soul. Primal and uncontrolled, it welled up from a hot core of pain and echoed over the gunfire and the shouting of pirates and Ardmore’s men.

He closed the distance between himself and the rail, leapt upon it, and launched himself overboard.

Grayson heard Alexandra screaming and screaming, and then the screams stopped with sudden and deadly abruptness. Grayson hit the water a moment later. The
Argonaut
rode fairly low, and the impact was not as harsh as it might have been. Men had broken limbs when falling from high ships—the least of their troubles if they survived drowning.

He could think only of the heavy chain hanging from Alexandra’s wrists, a weight that would drag her down, down, into the greedy sea. He broke the surface and gasped for air. His boots had filled, and he wriggled free of them. In shirt and breeches, he tread water, searching the dawn-lit sea for the silhouettes of Alexandra and Ardmore.

Water fountained not five feet from him, and Ardmore emerged, gasping and coughing.

“Where is she?” Grayson shouted.

Ardmore shook his head.

“Find her!” Grayson screamed, but Ardmore was already diving. Grayson gulped air and plunged downward, kicking hard. He forced his eyes open, letting the salt and muddy water sting them. He could see little. The depths were murky, dark, and kept their secrets.

He grabbed at a shadow moving past, but came away with only a handful of brown seaweed. A rush of water ahead and to the left revealed only Ardmore’s kicking feet. Grayson’s breath ached, his lungs cried for air. He kicked to the surface, dragged in another breath, and dove again.

There. Was that—? He did not wait to find out if he was right. He swam hard, driving deep, and snatched at the shadow.

He found his hands full of Alexandra’s long hair, which flowed as if she were standing in a gentle breeze. His heart nearly burst with relief. But she was sinking, her struggles slowing.

Willing himself to hold his breath a moment longer, he groped down until he found her face, her neck, her arm. He grabbed.

The chain was heavy. It pulled against him, adding to her weight. If he could only get to the surface, breathe life-giving air, he could hold her up, save her from the sea. He kicked. The drag between the tide and the current that pulled the Thames swirled against his legs, sucking him down.

The load suddenly lightened. Ardmore had grabbed Alexandra’s other arm, adding his strength to lift her. Together the two men swam mightily upward, pulling Alexandra between them.

With a suddenness that dizzied him, he broke the surface. Water rushed away and air poured over him. He gasped, letting it flow into his lungs.

Alexandra coughed weakly. The chains still pulled her down, their weight the way to her death.

Ardmore broke the surface beside her. Together, they held her high, keeping the waves from swamping her while she coughed and hoarsely gulped air. Her eyes were closed, and she hung unresisting in their grasp.

They had to get her out of the water. But shore was so far away, and the three ships nearby circled each other like menacing animals. Burchard fired wildly every time the
Argonaut
or
Majesty
tried to turn to the three overboard.

Grayson moved her to rest against his broad shoulder, keeping her nose and mouth above the surface. The chain swung between her bare legs, pulling. He grasped one of the manacles. “Key,” he grunted.

Ardmore shook his head. One lock of his dark hair was plastered to his cheek. “On board.”

“You sorry bastard.”

“She wasn’t supposed to jump.”

Grayson glared at him. If Alexandra had not needed him, he would cheerfully have taken the time to strangle the life out of Ardmore. He’d hold him down under the waves until Ardmore and his threats were out of his life.

But even beneath his turmoil, Grayson had a glimmer of understanding. Ardmore was a man slow to love. The few things he had truly loved—Sara, his brother—Grayson had had a hand in taking from him. Sara, because Grayson had not realized what Ardmore felt for her; his brother, through unfortunate happenstance. Grayson embodied all of the pain in Ardmore’s life. Small wonder the man hated him.

But he was well on the way to receiving more pain. If Alexandra died, Ardmore’s life was forfeit.

Grayson’s arms and legs were already tiring in the cold
water. Ardmore’s own breathing was labored. Even if they managed to make shore or be fished out, she might well die of freezing.

“Boat,” Ardmore said suddenly. He jerked his chin at something over Grayson’s shoulder. Grayson risked a look. The cutter that usually rested on the
Majesty
’s main deck bobbed and foundered on the water. Jacobs had made time to at least get them that. No one manned it; it rocked on the swells, drifting back from the wake of the
Majesty
.

Without speaking, he and Ardmore made for it, towing Alexandra between them. They matched each other stroke for stroke, balancing their pulls automatically so Alexandra would not slip underwater.

An explosion rocked the morning. The
Majesty
had fired all guns, right into Burchard’s ship. Dimly Grayson heard Burchard screaming. Her ship survived, limping around to launch another volley at the
Argonaut
.

Ardmore reached the boat. It swung perilously, but he grabbed it with a white-knuckled grip and held it hard. Grayson seized the gunwale, and with the other hand pushed and boosted Alexandra up and into the boat. Her torso and backside were ice-cold under his hands, her slim legs unmoving. She landed in the bottom of the cutter with a clank of chains.

“Get in,” Ardmore rasped.

Grayson launched himself with the last of his strength into the boat. He rolled over the gunwale and landed next to Alexandra, gasping like a fish on dry land. He coughed and coughed, his loosened hair sending rivulets of water back into his mouth.

Alexandra lay curled in the bottom of the boat, her lips blue, her limbs shaking. She had landed on a pile of blankets, supplied no doubt by Jacobs. A wine skin lay
on the stern bench. Grayson sent his first officer a silent thanks.

Ardmore’s hands and torso appeared over the gunwale, then dropped out of sight again. Once more, he heaved into view, his face strained, his eyes half-closed. He was running out of strength. Grayson crawled past Alexandra to the bows. He leaned over, grasped Ardmore by the waistband, and hauled him into the boat.

Ardmore fell to the bottom and lay still, his breathing hoarse. Grayson left him there. He stripped off his own sodden shirt, then stumbled back to Alexandra. He lifted her from the blankets, and wrapped one around her, cocooning her limbs in the thick, warm wool. He held her close, pressing her to him, the blanket prickling his bare chest. She breathed heavily, eyes closed, but she had stopped coughing.

He leaned to her, tears stinging his cheeks. “I love you, Alexandra,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Alexandra returned slowly from the place of darkness and fear. She felt strangely warmed and content for someone who was drowning. Solid arms wrapped her, and heat touched her ear. “I love you,” came the whisper.

It warmed her to her toes. “Grayson,” she murmured. “I saved you.”

“Sweetheart?”

Alexandra opened her eyes. She stared, perplexed, at the side of a wooden boat and the rocking sea beyond, but Grayson held her safe in his arms.

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice breaking. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I am right here,” she said. “Is Captain Ardmore dead?”

“No.”

The captain’s voice rumbled from the other end of the
boat. She lifted her eyes, an action that hurt very much for some reason, and found Captain Ardmore in the bow, slumped against the gunwale. He’d peeled off his shirt and lay limply, his bronzed torso gleaming with water. “Why the hell did you push us in?” he croaked.

“I had to stop you murdering Grayson.” She lifted her chin. “And I will stop you again.”

Ardmore gave her an incredulous look. “She is a dragon, Finley.”

Grayson’s laughter rumbled. “She is
my
dragon.” He had a wineskin in his hand. He pulled off the top, and the sharp scent of brandy drifted to her. “Drink this.”

He set it to her lips. Alexandra had never drunk spirits in her life, let alone out of a wineskin. She had learned so much since meeting the pirate next door. How to drink from a dipper, how to climb from a ship, how to make wild love in a narrow captain’s bunk—

Warm, tingling brandy flowed into her mouth. The liquid made her cough, but it also burned a bright path down to her reeling stomach. She felt just a little bit better.

Grayson passed the skin to Ardmore. He drank deeply, wiped his mouth, then drank again, before handing it back.

A bang that sounded liked the end of the world exploded just behind them, and Alexandra yelped. Ardmore jumped from his seat and quickly unlashed the oars that had been tied to the bottom. Grayson dragged Alexandra to the stern seat. He settled her in the corner, kissed her briefly, then took up the tiller beside her.

The
Argonaut
had turned again, using the wind to put her level with the third ship, where Captain Burchard stood ramrod straight on the deck. Their little rowboat
was right in the
Argonaut
’s path, and the
Argonaut
was not swerving to avoid them.

Without exchanging a word, Grayson and Ardmore began working to move out of danger. Ardmore pulled hard on the oars, and Grayson fought to keep the tiller steady on the tossing waves. Grayson’s broad arms bumped Alexandra as he moved the tiller back and forth. Ardmore’s muscles bunched and stretched as he rowed with mad frenzy.

Alexandra huddled into the blanket and watched them. She remembered how Grayson’s undress had unnerved her the first night she’d met him. Now she realized just how beautiful his body could be and knew she’d never have her fill of looking at it. His blond hair, dark now with water, curled onto his tanned shoulders, and the morning sun shadowed the hard muscles of his torso. Scars criss-crossed his forearms, lost in the sun-touched hair that grew there.

The two men worked together silently, easily, as if slipping into a routine they’d worked out years and years ago. As hated enemies, they were powerful. She wondered how much more powerful they would be as friends.

The boat skimmed across the water, and the
Argonaut
slid by. Henderson hung over the rail to watch them, the sun glinting on his blond hair and spectacles. Alexandra untangled her arm from the blanket and waved at him. He’d redeemed himself in her eyes, stepping in at the last minute to defy his captain.

Captain Ardmore rowed them well out of the way of the circling ships, then hoisted the oars. Both he and Grayson turned to watch the battle, each of their gazes locked on their respective ships.

The
Majesty,
proudly unmarked by gunfire, bore down on Burchard’s ship, forcing it to turn. The
Argonaut
came
about swiftly, despite having two sails hanging limp. The ship picked up wind and raced across the short distance, head on toward Burchard.

Ardmore shouted, “Damn it, Ian, what are you doing?”

“He’s going to ram her,” Grayson said. “Good.”

“
Good?
That’s my ship!”

Grayson clutched the gunwale and watched, eyes gleaming. The
Argonaut
charged on. Burchard screamed orders. Desperately Burchard moved the ship forward, trying to slip between the two and perhaps cause them to ram each other. But the proud captain was too slow.

The
Argonaut
’s bowsprit struck the stern of Burchard’s ship. The groan of splintering wood came to them, then the soft explosions of shattering glass, and screams of the crew. Fire suddenly crawled up one of her masts. Burchard’s cannons tried to fire, but the gunpowder caught fire and exploded with an upward thrust of flame.

Ardmore stood up in the boat. “Ian, get out of there!”

The
Argonaut
swung to the right, tearing the remainder of Burchard’s stern with it. It dove past the burning, listing boat, out to open sea. When it was clear of the flames, Ardmore sat down and blew out his breath.

The
Majesty
marched toward Burchard. Now it was Grayson’s turn to half-stand, his knee on the seat, and hold his breath while his ship gracefully pivoted and blasted all guns. With a splendid and fiery
whump,
Burchard’s ship went up in flames. Sailors dove over the side, desperately swimming from the burning wreckage. Boats began lowering over the
Majesty’s
side, sent out to fetch the survivors.

Grayson sat down hard on the bench and seized the tiller. Ardmore lifted the oars again, and dipped them in the water, turning with Grayson’s pull to come about.

The
Argonaut
slid by them again. A dark hole lay like
a stain just below the railing in the bow. The bowsprit was shattered, a large piece of it dangling like a huge broken arm.

Ardmore made an anguished sound. “Damn you, O’Malley.”

Grayson laughed into the wind. “Cheer up. It’s still floating. A few repairs and you can run back to South Carolina with no worries.”

Ardmore set his mouth and did not answer.

Sailors in the boats from the
Majesty
were picking up foundering sailors. The wet men seemed subdued, content to let Grayson’s crew take them in.

Grayson’s eyes narrowed as he spotted something on the waves. He swung the tiller and motioned for Ardmore to row. Ardmore did, his face grim. The waves danced and rippled beneath them, shreds of foam forming and hissing under the bow.

As the boat skipped forward, Alexandra caught sight of what Grayson had seen. A body floated just beyond the others, out of reach of the
Majesty’s
boats. As they drew near, Alexandra saw that it wore a dark blue coat. Ardmore rowed to it. At the last minute, Grayson dropped the tiller, leaned over, and dragged the body into the boat.

It was Burchard, alive. He coughed and choked, then doubled over and vomited water onto the deck. He hunched there, wet and miserable, then slowly sat up.

Alexandra gasped. Burchard’s blue coat had parted, and the white shirt beneath had torn from neck to waist. The gap revealed small, firm, woman’s breasts, nipples pinched tight with cold. “Good heavens,” Alexandra breathed.

The woman’s short hair lay flat upon her head. With her plain, square face, she could easily pass as a man; her breasts were small enough to need little binding.