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.”
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 Amer
ican, 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, consider 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.”
Chapter Eleven
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?”
&nb
sp; 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—”