The Pirate Next Door (8 page)

“I understand that, sir.” Alexandra said, struggling to remember all the politenesses Mrs. Fairchild had lectured into her. She supposed Mrs. Fairchild had not anticipated she would have to soothe the feelings of a gentleman who had forced himself upon her in the street. “Rest assured that should I see you by chance at Vauxhall, I shall not refuse to speak to you.”

“I sincerely and truly am sorry. You have no idea.” He lifted his handkerchief and sighed deeply. “And I am also very sorry about
this
.”

The black carriage stopped next to them. Mr. Henderson brought his hand up and around. Alexandra found her face enveloped in wads of white linen. She tried to take a step back, but suddenly her limbs were weak and would not support her. She had a falling sensation, one that did not stop, and darkness rushed toward her. Dimly she felt an arm around her waist and Mr. Henderson’s voice somewhere above her. “No, do not weep, sister. Everything will be all right. Here is our carriage—”

She woke to a slight rocking motion and warm stuffiness. Her eyes felt sandy, and the pinpoint of light from the single lantern seared straight into her brain.

She wanted nothing more than to drift back into silent, dark sleep, but something nagged at her. She needed to remember something, but she could not for the life of her remember what.

She mumbled, “Maggie.” She tried to stir, tried to search for the girl.

“She is safe,” said a voice. “She is with Ian O’Malley.”

At first she thought the voice was Grayson’s, and her heart melted with relief. But the timbre was wrong, and the face she saw through half-closed eyes wore spectacles.

“Liar,” she said, her tongue feeling thick. “You lied to me.”

“I swear to you. She is with Ian, on her way home. Captain Ardmore wanted her, too, but Ian refused. He will help her.”

The sentences blurred in her head. “You have no honor,” she croaked, her voice failing.

“I know.” Mr. Henderson huddled miserably in the seat. “I am a cad and a coward.”

She opened her eyes all the way, her whirling, foggy thoughts clarifying. Mr. Henderson sat on the opposite seat of the rather sumptuous coach, twining his fingers and regarding her in sorrow.

“I was just convincing myself to trust you,” she said.

He nodded. “I work for a madman. One does not refuse him.”

Alexandra made herself sit upright, ready to tell Mr. Henderson what she thought of him and his madman captain. But a blackness rushed at her and she found herself facedown on the seat. She could only lay in a half-stupor, listening to the coach wheels beneath her and Mr. Henderson’s fretful voice as he continued to apologize.

She smelled water. She came awake when the carriage door opened, and black wind poured over her. “Wh’re we?” she mumbled.

“Where we need to go,” Mr. Henderson replied, unhelpfully. He had already descended. He lifted her into his arms and scooped her out of the carriage.

He carried her for quite a long way, his boots ringing first on cobbles, then on hollow planking. His fast-beating heart thumped beneath her cheek, and he smelled of cloying perfume.

After a time, he stopped on the edge of the dock and handed her down to the waiting arms of a man she could not see. She was set on a seat, a blanket tossed over her legs. The boat rocked. A wave slapped wood, and chill, moist air rose around her.

Mr. Henderson clambered down and sat next to her.

“ ‘re we goin’t’ France?”

Mr. Henderson slid his arm about her waist. “Shh.”

The boat silently pushed off. A man in dark clothing took the tiller in the stern, and another manned the oars. They slid through the night. Alexandra sagged against Mr. Henderson, feeling giddy and tired at the same time. The notion that she did not like his suit kept dancing through her head. An odd notion, because the cloth was the softest woven wool, and the cut was perfect. She sighed, wishing it were a midnight-blue coat over a rough linen shirt that Grayson had forgotten to lace up again. She had never known a man’s chest could be so handsome.

Mr. Henderson leaned down, startled. “What did you say?”

“Mmm? Nothing.”

They went on in silence. Waves whispered against the boat. The smell of mud mixed with a sharp, salty tang. The wind blew chill, though not icy. Alexandra shivered in her light shawl, despite the warmth of Mr. Henderson’s arm about her.

Lies. Why did everyone lie? Even Grayson lied, or at least he did not tell all of the truth. Mr. Henderson had certainly lied, and she’d believed him. No, he had not lied about being sorry. She had seen that in his eyes.

Still, here she was in the middle of the Thames near the sea. But no, they could not be near the Channel—they had not traveled far enough, had they? Other boats filled the spaces, lights flickering from lanterns like fireflies on a summer night. She longed for the sweet summer days of her childhood in Kent. Her thoughts surged in that direction, filling her senses with the remembered smells of roses and grass, rain and thunder. White sheep had dotted the emerald fields where she ran, skirts tucked into her sash—don’t tell my mother.

How she came to be here in the dead of night, kid
napped, her aching head stuffed with straw, in a smelly little boat who-knew-where on the Thames, she had no idea. It occurred to her fuzzy thinking that if only she’d remained in Kent, she’d never have been married to Theo and her father and mother would still be alive. For one hungry moment, she wanted to go home with all her heart.

Mr. Henderson leaned to her again. “It will not be long. I promise.”

“Liar,” she murmured.

She noted his frown of discomfort and secretly smiled. She was much too tired and weak to flee, but at least she could rattle him.

She was uncertain how much time had passed when the boat gently bumped the end of a wooden dock. The man at the tiller tied the boat; then up she went again as Mr. Henderson lifted her out. “Can you walk?” he asked.

“No.” Her legs shook, and she could barely feel her feet. She sensed that when her head cleared again, she would be very ill indeed.

He cradled her close to keep her upright. The dock was lonely. No lighted ships hovered near, and she could hear little beyond but the hiss of wind in grass.

A ship did moor there, a massive, square-masted ship that rose large in the darkness. A few running lights hung from bow and stern, but otherwise, all was dark. A gangplank extended like a tongue to them from the deck high above.

Mr. Henderson marched with her up into the ship. No one came forward to greet them or demand their business. The men from the boat had not accompanied them. Other than her and her kidnapper, Alexandra saw no one. If Mr. Henderson wanted to go to France in this
ship, she certainly hoped he would not expect her to hoist sails or man the tiller.

She started to giggle. She could not seem to stop. The silly thought of her frantically pulling ropes to raise the huge sails while Mr. Henderson shouted orders struck her very funny. Her laughter rang high into the air to be lost in the wind sighing through the rigging.

Mr. Henderson suddenly set her on her feet. She clung to his arm, her other hand pressed across her mouth, trying to stifle her hysteria.

They stood before a door set into the side of the quarterdeck above them. At least, she thought it was called the quarterdeck. She only knew ships from the books in her father’s library. She had never actually been on one.

Mr. Henderson rapped on the door. After a long moment, it scraped open. Beyond it stood a very ugly sailor, short and bulky. Alexandra stared at him in shock; then her strange laughter bubbled up and came bursting out.

Mr. Henderson dragged her past the sailor and into the cabin. She found herself inside a square room, built the width of the quarterdeck above. From the low ceiling’s painted beams hung two iron lanterns. The entire back wall was lined with windows that looked out into darkness. A lantern hanging outside glittered crookedly through the facets of the glass.

The other two walls of the room were lined with cabinets that fitted around twin doors, one in each wall. The wall behind her held more precisely built cabinets. In the middle of the room stood a long table, and behind it, under the windows, a varnished wooden bench ran from wall to wall. At the table, in a low, square chair, like a prince on his throne, sat the gentleman she’d seen depart Grayson’s house the night she’d run to the rescue.

James Ardmore. She had only glimpsed him in the dark
that night, the length of pavement from her front door to Grayson’s. Now here he was.

He wore a dark blue coat stretched over shoulders as broad as Grayson’s. He had no shirt; the coat was buttoned over his bare, bronzed torso. His breeches and boots were black and his hair was dark as night. His face was swarthy, his tan rendering his lips and cheeks the same color. From this monotone face blazed his eyes, which were chill green like layers and layers of ancient ice.

Here was the man who had put a rope around Grayson’s neck and left him to die. The man Grayson had told her was one of the most dangerous in the world.

She clapped her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles. His green gaze scrutinized her, a gaze that probed her, wanting to know everything about her. She should be so very afraid. She leaned on Mr. Henderson and shook with laughter.

A door to one of the inner rooms opened, and a woman emerged. She was tall, and her dyed red hair, dressed unfashionably high, nearly touched the top of the doorframe. She was neither pretty nor ugly, having a square, plain face and pale eyes that held sharp intelligence. Her mouth was thin, a little severe. Her figure, on the other hand, was the kind Alexandra’s husband Theo had favored. Her bosom rounded nicely, and her hips curved under the clinging skirt.

Ardmore glanced at her and extended his hand. She came to him and twined her fingers through his.

Ardmore returned his slow green gaze, colder than January ice, to Alexandra. “Mrs. Alastair. Won’t you sit down?”

Mr. Henderson more or less dragged her to the long bench. She plumped to it, holding herself unsteadily. Her giggles shook her.

“I think I gave her too much,” Mr. Henderson said worriedly.

Ardmore gestured to the sailor. “Get her some water.”

The man ducked into the room from which the woman had emerged, and came back holding a dripping dipper. He brought it to Alexandra.

She’d never drunk from a dipper before. She stared at the thing, mystified. The sailor gave a grunt, lifted the dipper to her lips, and poured the water into her mouth. She spluttered, coughed. Half the water fell in a wet splash to her silk gown.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and regarded herself in dismay. “You’ve ruined it.”

“I will give you the cost of it,” Ardmore said.

She looked up. “In jewels?”

He stared at her a beat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Grayson
—I mean, the viscount—offered me jewels.” She gave him a look of disappointment, letting him know that kidnapper or no, he did not measure up to the viscount.

“In exchange for what?”

Alexandra hesitated. Why
had
Grayson offered them? Emeralds, no opals. No, both. She furrowed her brow in thought. Oh, yes. “Because I saved his life. When you tried to kill him. That was very wicked of you, you know.”

The cold eyes flickered. “I lost my temper. Sometimes Finley makes me a bit rash.”

Alexandra nodded sagely. “I do agree that Grayson—the viscount—can sometimes be a bit provoking.”

The woman and Mr. Henderson nodded together. “Yes,” the woman said fervently. Her accent was French.

“For example,” Alexandra went on, unable to stop the words, “he will decide something must be done, and then go on to do it whether you like it or not. He walks right
through your objections as if he does not even see them.”

All three of her listeners nodded reflectively.

“Are you going to hang me, too?” she asked Ardmore. “I wish you would not. I have so much to do to plan my soiree. If you hang me, Lady Featherstone will have to finish the menus herself, which would hardly be fair.” Tears pricked her eyes.

“I assure you,” he answered. “I will do you no harm.”

Alexandra chased a drop of water over her lips. She could not seem to catch it. “You have already harmed my dress.”

He said nothing. Perhaps he was tired of hearing her bleat about her dress. She felt suddenly sad. Would she ever see Lady Featherstone again? The lady had been so helpful to her, both while Theo was alive and after his death. She was as kind and caring as a mother could have been. Alexandra had no real family anymore. She thought of Grayson and Maggie, and her heart twisted. Perhaps she would never see them again, either. A tear rolled down the side of her nose and dropped onto her wrist.

Ardmore released the red-haired woman’s hand. “I will speak to Mrs. Alastair alone.”

The woman promptly rose. She dropped a kiss to the crown of Mr. Ardmore’s head, then glided out the door to the deck. The ugly sailor followed. Mr. Henderson hesitated. “I do not like to leave her.”

Ardmore’s gaze remained chill. “Mr. Henderson.”

Henderson’s hands clenched. “Sir—”

Mr. Ardmore rose. He did not so much get out of his chair as unfold himself in one lithe, long movement, like a leopard rising from its place in the shade. She’d seen a leopard in a menagerie once. Mr. Ardmore reminded her strongly of it.

Mr. Henderson held his ground for a moment. Then he threw a look of apology at Alexandra and glumly marched out the door. Ardmore closed it behind him.

The muted footsteps of the three who had just exited faded into the distance. Above them, pulleys rattled in the wind. A gust creaked open a window near the corner of the room. Mr. Ardmore ignored it.

He moved back to her, then leaned against the table and folded his arms. She returned his look defiantly, wishing she felt well enough to leap from the seat, fling herself past him and run out into the night. She only had the vaguest notion of what she would do after that. Run along the dock searching for refuge? Who would she find out here on the edge of nowhere? Kindly people who would take her in? Or villains in the pay of Captain Ardmore?

He studied her slowly. She wanted to ask him a thousand questions, including who he really was and what he had to do with Grayson, and why on earth had he dragged her out here to his ship?

She opened her mouth and blurted the first question that forced its way out. “Where are you from? Your accent is strange.”

“Charleston,” he answered, unmoving.

“That is in the South of the United States?”

He inclined his head. “Born and raised a Southern gentleman.”

“Do all Southern gentleman become pirates?”

“I am not a pirate. I hunt pirates.”

“And you are hunting Grayson?”

“Partly.”

She gave him a severe look. “Well, you cannot hunt him, you know. He is a viscount now, an English peer. And the English Admiralty want him to find the French
king—Louis or the Comte de Lille or whatever one calls him these days.”

His gaze sharpened. “What the devil do you know about that?”

“I heard Grayson tell you. The night you tried to hang him. You left the window open. I heard everything.”

He looked bemused. “I see. I had overlooked that.”

“It is a mercy you did, or I’d not have known to come and rescue him.” She clenched a fold of her sodden gown. “I am most put out with you, Mr. Ardmore. If you had succeeded in killing him, what would have become of Maggie?”

His lips thinned to a straight, hard line. “Maggie would have been taken care of. I would have seen to that.” He lifted his gaze to the darkness of the windows. “I will always take care of Maggie. She is the daughter of a woman I loved very deeply, once upon a time.”

Alexandra stared. His eyes held a remote softness, one that he would share with no one, one he’d hide if he thought she saw it. “You were in love with Maggie’s mother? How could you have been? She was Grayson’s wife.”

His gaze returned to her, becoming chill once more. “You think that marriage to another creates a barrier against love?”

“No,” she said slowly. “It certainly never stopped my husband.” Oh, dear, why had she said that? It must be the concoction Mr. Henderson had made her breathe. She would never have mentioned her disgraceful husband to a perfect stranger otherwise. She flushed.

“I know all about your husband, Mrs. Alastair. Who he was, what he did to you. If he were still alive, I would shoot him myself.”

Why did that satisfy her? She should not be pleased
with such a violent declaration from a violent man. She should swoon or something ladylike. “Did Grayson threaten to shoot you? Is that why you are angry at him?”

His gaze left her again. “Sara was beautiful. She had slim brown legs, strong from swimming. She had long black hair as sleek as a fall of silk, and breasts full and firm.”