The Pirate Next Door

  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 removed from the furniture. Crates stood about, some without tops, some still shut tightly.

  They entered a bedroom on the top floor, which, she calculated, lay just on the other side of the third-floor rooms in her own house. This room had not been aired—the dust sheets remained on what little furniture filled it and the fireplace had long been cold.

  He strode unerringly to a panel that looked just like all the other panels lining the room. He touched a piece of raised molding, and the wall swung away to reveal a small, square compartment.

  From this, to her 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 sadly torn. In her right hand, she 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. “Are you all right?”

  Chapter Three

  Alexandra’s lips parted in astonishment. The viscount had a daughter? None of Lady Featherstone’s research had indicated the viscount had a child, let alone one who looked as though she’d sprung from a Pacific island explored by Captain Cook.

  The viscount dragged the girl into his arms for a fierce, tight hug. His eyes closed as he pressed a long kiss to her tangled curls. His fingers shook the slightest bit.

  “Did he hurt you, Papa?” she asked into his ribcage. “I thought Mr. Ardmore was our friend.”

  The viscount straightened and gently parted the girl’s slim arms from his waist. Alexandra watched him soften his fierce expression to one of studied nonchalance before he answered. “I am perfectly unhurt, sweetheart.” He tousled her curls. “Look, this pretty lady rescued me.”

  Almond-shaped black eyes observed Alexandra with careful interest. The girl had the look of the viscount in the set of her chin, the shape of her lips, the mischievous spark in her eyes, but her skin was dark—the color of milk-laden coffee. She was a beautiful child, but far out of place in elegant and constrained Mayfair.

  Questions raced through Alexandra’s mind: Where was her mother? Was the viscount married? Her heart thumped. Perhaps she would not be able to include the viscount on her list after all.

  But the child was fascinating. Her tight, almost frantic hold on her father told Alexandra that the girl was much relieved to see him still standing. It made her heart ache. But why on earth was she dressed in an unfashionable frilly silk gown more suitable for a ballroom in the middle of the night?

  “What is your name?” the girl asked her calmly.

  Alexandra looked into the bright eyes and read lively intelligence there. “Mrs. Alastair. From next door.”

  “A most brave and beautiful lady,” the viscount added. He slanted Alexandra a smile over his daughter’s head. “She saved me in the nick of time.”

  The girl looked impressed. The viscount’s swarthy hand rested on her shoulder, his grip tight. They made a most bizarre pair.

  “May we give her a reward?” the girl asked.

  Her blue-eyed papa also scrutinized Alexandra. His casual undress unnerved her. Even her husband, who had dropped his breeches for any woman strolling past, had kept himself well covered. This man’s chest, sun-browned and well-muscled, was openly displayed, and he did not even seem to notice.

  The combination of both of them looking at her in unspoken admiration was unsettling. Alexandra found herself foundering beyond her depth, her training by several well-paid and very proper governesses proving inadequate.

  “Reward?” she stammered. “I do not need anything. Really, I only heard him through the window and ran over to see if I could help—”

  The viscount held up his hand. “I have seen the fiercest pirates wet themselves when faced with James Ardmore. You are very brave.” His blue eyes darkened. “I have opals that would shine like white fire in your hair. I will have a jeweler set them.”

  She suddenly pictured his tanned and calloused hands holding the jewels, letting them spill from hi
s fingers to scatter on her hair as she lay beneath him. “I have no need for opals,” she said hastily. “Really, for any jewels. Heaven knows my husband bought me plenty.”

  He gave her a puzzled look, and her face burned. Theo had thrown jewels at her, true, because of course, his wife must be well turned out and not embarrass him. By now, the viscount must have heard all about her humiliating marriage. Poor Mrs. Alastair, anyone with a penchant for gossip could have told him. Her husband was so indiscreet. Indiscretion was, in her world, a greater sin than infidelity.

  She drew a breath. “My lord, I am happy you are unhurt. I will return home now.”

  “Not yet.” He caught her hand and held it loosely. “I must think of some way to reward you.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. His kiss was cool and satin-smooth, but the touch of his breath licked heat down her spine. Her mouth still tingled where he’d kissed her. He’d been out of his head, probably not understanding what he did, when he’d held her to the floor and kissed her so passionately. She touched her tongue to her lower lip where his teeth had scraped her. No man had ever kissed her like that. And likely never would again, she thought wistfully, now that he’d come to his senses.

  “Papa,” the girl said. “Why did Captain Ardmore want to kill you?”

  The viscount lowered Alexandra’s hand but did not release it. When he looked at his daughter, his expression was guarded. “He was not trying to kill me, Maggie. He was giving me a warning.”

  Alexandra thought of the words she had heard coming through the window before she’d run upstairs to wake Jeffrey and her cook. She had been startled to learn about the disappearance of the French king, but she had suspected that the enmity between the viscount and the man called Ardmore had little to do with that. The hatred in the stranger’s voice had been deep, an anger festered over a long time.

  The viscount abruptly changed the subject. He released Alexandra’s hand. “We must go and help Lieutenant Jacobs. He is hurt.”

  The girl’s puzzled look turned to one of tight concern. “Oh, dear. Poor Mr. Jacobs. I must see to him. Where is Oliver?” Pushing past her father, she dashed from the room, still clutching the knife, as if she were running off to avenge their enemies.

  Alexandra took a step after her, worried she would hurt herself with the dagger, but she was brought up short, like a fish on a hook. She swung around. The viscount held the green silken end of her sash, and he was grinning. “Stay with me, pretty lady.”

  “But Maggie might be in danger. What if there are more of them? Or if they come back?”

  “They won’t,” he said. “Not tonight.”

  He certainly seemed calm for a man whose house and been invaded and whose life had been nearly taken. “Who were they? Who is this Mr. Ardmore? You must send for Bow Street.”

  He toyed with the end of her sash. “It is most important, Mrs. Alastair, that you forget all you heard tonight. Can you do that for me?”

  “But what about—”

  His gaze became hard. “Trust me when I say that my business is too deadly to drag you or Bow Street into. Go back home and be the pretty lady next door.” His expression softened again, and he gave her a small smile, one that made her heart beat a little bit faster. “Perhaps next time we pass, we will not simply nod and go on, but have a small conversation. I think I would like that.”

  She thought she would definitely like that. “But I cannot let you dismiss this so easily. That man tried to murder you. You must confide in someone. The Admiralty, perhaps.”

  A crease appeared between his brows, as if he were puzzled she simply did not do as he wished. He possessed the air of one who expected his every request to be obeyed. Took it for granted that it would be. No need to shout when all he had to do was give a look and a word.

  Alexandra, on the other hand, had always struggled with obedience. “And what about the French king?”

  His face became a careful blank. “What about him?”

  “Will this Mr. Ardmore try to stop you finding him? How on earth will you look for him if the Admiralty cannot even help you?”

  His eyes chilled the slightest bit. “For your own safety, Mrs. Alastair, and for mine and Maggie’s, give me your word you will ask no more questions. I will take care of Mr. Ardmore and the French king in my own way.” He looked up, his mouth in so harsh a line that she faltered. “Swear to me. No Bow Street. No questions.”

  She stared at him, her heart speeding in alarm. “Very well. If you believe your daughter could be harmed, I will not speak of this to anyone besides yourself.”

  He nodded once, his face still grim.

  “However,” she said. “I still believe you should tell me everything.”

  He stared at her, his expression amazed. She lifted her chin and added silently, no, my lord, I will not simply bow to you because you wish it.

  A sudden grin split his face. He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned in to her. His hot breath touched her mouth. She was reminded of the taste of him when he kissed her on his bedroom floor. Wild, exotic, heady—male. It had been so satisfying. It was satisfying now. “Then I will simply have to stop you from asking questions.” He closed the inch of space between them and brushed his tongue—ever so lightly—over her lips.

  She gasped. The place where his tongue touched burned like the hottest flame, a single point of raw heat. She fought to steady herself and searched desperately for somewhere to rest her nervous gaze. But all she saw before her was his open shirt, his tanned chest, his sandpaper chin. The place her husband had been rumored to like bare became suddenly moist and hot.

  She cleared her throat and called upon her haughtiest blue-blooded tones. “Sir, you take a liberty.”

  He 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 still 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.” The hollow of his throat was damp, and she had the most dismaying urge to lick it. “How old is your daughter?”

  His brows rose at the change of subject. “About twelve, I think.”

  Did he not know? Alexandra wanted to learn everything about the child. Her heart ached with envy, to have such a beautiful daughter would be wonderful.

  “May I—may I ask you one more thing?”

  “Be warned. If I don’t like the question, I will be forced to take another liberty.”

  She swallowed. She had to be mad. She ought to run away while she could, escape to the quietude of her house next door. Instead, she let her quavering fingertip hover just above the jagged scar that started at his collarbone. “How far down does that go?”

  The smile he turned on her made her whole body hot. He took her fingertip in his hand, kissed it softly, then guided it downward to a point on his breeches, just an inch or so to the right of his groin. “Here,” he said. The leather stretched very tight there.

  She snatched her shaking hand away. “Was it a duel?”

  He shook his head. “A man with a cutlass. I was trying to get between my manservant, Oliver, and someone trying to hit him with a boathook.”

  “Did you win the fight? And save Mr. Oliver?”

  “No, I lost. Oliver saved me.”

  “Oh.” Such violence was foreign to her. Duels happened in her world, yes, but they were civilized and rule-laden, not bathed in out-and-out brutal carnage. “Well.”

  She took a step back. “You must attend to your friends. Good night, my lord.”

  He only looked at her. He must know that she was ba
bbling because she was trembling all over, her heart racing like a rabbit’s. His must know that if he touched her again, she’d melt to the floor like warm pudding and beg for him to lap her up.

  Gathering her strength, she managed to turn away and walk out of the room and toward the stairs.

  “Mrs. Alastair.”

  His velvet baritone made her turn back. She clutched the newel post to prevent the pudding from taking over. “Yes?” she asked brightly.

  “I ask a favor of you.”

  She swallowed. “Yes?”

  He gave her a long look, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. “When you return to your bed tonight—sleep bare.”

  She clutched the railing beside her, feeling her legs go slack. “I beg your pardon?”

  He leaned against the doorframe of the unused room, his gaze warm on her body. “Sleep without clothes when you return to bed. I want to think of you doing so—on the other side of the wall.”

  Her mind seemed to float, heat sliding up and down her body. “Why?”

  He gave her an incredulous look, then slanted her a smile that turned her heart inside out. She pried her hand from the railing and raced down the stairs on shaking legs. His dark laughter floated behind her.

  “Alexandra always has the best cakes,” Cynthia Waters declared, sinking into the delicate-legged Sheraton chair in Alexandra’s front reception room. She plucked a daintily frosted petit-four from the three-tiered tray before her and munched it whole.

  Lady Featherstone seated herself next to Alexandra on the Empire settee and squeezed her arm. “Did you decide?” she whispered as Mrs. Waters and Mrs. Tetley conversed about the merits of Alexandra’s confections.

  “Decide what?” Alexandra asked absently.

  “About Viscount Stoke.”

  Alexandra hid a start. Her late-night adventure had left her tired and sandy-eyed, and she’d actually snapped at Alice—Alexandra, who believed in kindness to all. She gazed at Lady Featherstone’s bright face now and winced inwardly. Did everyone know she’d lain on Viscount Stoke’s bedchamber floor and let him kiss her and kiss her—not to mention later when he’d ever so gently licked her lips.