The Pirate Next Door

by Jennifer Ashley

  Why hadn’t the stupid idiot confessed that he’d been madly in love with the woman? If Grayson had known that, he would have left her alone. Maybe. But he’d been young and blind, and Ardmore had been arrogant and proud. Grayson had assumed his friend had been finished with Sara and was handing Grayson his leavings. It would not have been the first time Ardmore had discarded a lady and directed her to Grayson for comfort.

  The incident had ended the four-year partnership of Finley and Ardmore, the co-captains of the Majesty who feared nothing on the seas. Ardmore had quit him, and Ian O’Malley had gone with him. Oliver, the pirate who had saved Grayson from a cruel pirate captain when he was fifteen, chose loyalty to Grayson and the Majesty. So had begun a long and dangerous rivalry, which had escalated to open hatred after the death of Ardmore’s younger brother, six years later.

  “It is easier to fall when you’re young,” Grayson agreed, looking into Jacobs’s miserable eyes. “But not always sensible.”

  “Precisely. I damned well wasn’t sensible about anything, sir.” He made a wry grimace. “She broke it off. Not me.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  He shook his head. “Five years, two months, and three days. And still the only music I hear is in her voice.”

  Grayson exhaled slowly. He sympathized because he knew exactly what Jacobs meant. Alexandra’s lovely voice whispering his name had driven him to mad heights of desire. He would never forget it.

  “I know,” he said. “Some women can turn you inside out, and damned if you know why.” He shook his head. “But I need you, Jacobs. You are the only I can trust for this. You know Ardmore; you can anticipate him. But you cannot if you are walking head down in your own misery. Talk to Mrs. Fairchild. Argue it out with her. Give her a good tumble if you have to.” He paused. “After you make certain Maggie is safe with Oliver or me, of course.”

  “She wants to leave, sir. She said she would speak to you about it.”

  Grayson rubbed his jaw. “Yes, she already tried to corner me for an appointment.” What he really wanted was a bath and a change of clothes—that and another few hours in bed with Alexandra. But as ship’s captain, he was used to having to solve the personal problems of his crew. A pirate with woman troubles was a sad sight, indeed. Grayson’s usual remedy was to pat the man on the back, hand him whatever alcoholic beverage was a specialty of the country they were in, and say, “Have at it, lad.”

  Jacobs’s problems were a little more complex and a lot more troubling. This was the first time the young man had been anything other than his efficient, somewhat ruthless, self.

  He said to Jacobs, “Find her and tell her I will speak to her now.”

  “I will send Oliver for her.”

  Grayson ground his teeth. “Whatever you like. Just get her here.”

  Jacobs fled.

  Grayson spent the intervening moments staring out into the garden, or what would have been a garden if his tight-fisted predecessor had spent the money to cultivate it. His impatience prodded him to do something, anything, to speed his task to conclusion. He should be back at the shop, shaking the pretty young Frenchwoman until she blurted out where her father had taken King Louis. He should be making an efficient list, like Alexandra’s, with little codes next to each item that distinguished its importance. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the windowsill, waited to pry into his first officer’s love affairs, and fought off his thoughts of the past.

  He had not thought about Sara in a very long time. She had left him—that was that. He’d never expected to hold her anyway. She’d been like a wild tropical bird, an out-of-reach blossom no one could pluck, a creature no one could cage. She’d moved from her native Polynesia across the seas, slipping away from Grayson as easily as she’d slipped away from Ardmore to begin with.

  Grayson remembered clearly the last night he’d seen her. They’d put into port and Grayson had stood on his quarterdeck, watching the stars and the weather. She’d come to him and simply told him she would not be traveling on with him. He’d grown angry, but she’d remained firm.

  “Sometimes you call me ‘bird,’ ” she’d said in her husky voice. “Give me your hand, Grayson.” He’d complied, bemused, and she’d opened his hand flat. With her slim fingers, she’d drawn feather-light lines on his palm. “Bird rests here. You close your hand, try to trap it, what do you do?” She curled his fingers into his palm, pressing them tight. “Poor bird. She dies.”

  Grayson had looked down at his closed fist, frowning. She gently pried open his hand and touched the palm again. “The bird is here, for a time. Then she flies away. Alive. And free.”

  “To another hand,” he’d said regretfully.

  She’d flashed him her beautiful smile. “Perhaps. Or perhaps one day, the bird flies back.”

  She’d kissed him on the lips, a faint echo of the passionate kisses they’d shared below decks in his cabin, then she was gone, lost to the night.

  Now he stood in chilly England, with the sky clouding over and blotting out the sun. He had found a woman who’d made the memory of Sara pale and fade, and what was he doing? Taking her into his arms and showing her the passion that burned and raged inside him? No, here he stood, alone, in this cold and dark house, waiting for Ardmore to make a move, and trying to keep the Admiralty satisfied so they would not arrest him and his crew. His man of business had explained that if he were arrested and convicted of piracy, his title, estate, and money could be seized by the crown, and Maggie would be left destitute. He could not let that happen, even if he had to toady to St. Clair for the rest of his life.

  The door opened. Mrs. Fairchild entered, her gown rustling faintly. She closed the door and waited.

  Grayson turned to her. She might stand calmly, but trepidation and anxiety flared in her eyes.

  “My lord,” she said before he could speak. “I have come to give notice. I know I have only just arrived. I will stay until you find someone suitable, if you like.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Grayson studied her for a time. She stood perfectly composed, the respectful governess speaking to her master, but deep in her eyes flickered a restless anguish that he well recognized. She met his gaze tranquilly, but her right hand clenched until the skin whitened.

  At last he said, “Request denied, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  She blinked. “What? But Robert said he told you everything. Certainly you would not want a woman like me with your daughter…” She trailed off.

  Grayson held up his hand. “Mr. Jacobs told me you two once had a steamy and illicit affair. And that you ended it yourself. I am curious. Why?”

  She flushed a dull red. “My lord, why do you think? He was young—he did not need me clinging to him, did he, an aging woman who could only drag him into shame?”

  “Ah. So you broke his heart for his own good.”

  She looked panicked. “Broke his heart?”

  “These things do not always resolve neatly. I will be blunt. I need you here. I do not have time to look for another governess. I need Jacobs, too, and I need him close to Maggie. I am sorry if you are uncomfortable. You and Jacobs will just have to come to some kind of agreement.”

  Mrs. Fairchild opened and closed her pretty mouth a few times. “I will find another governess for you, my lord. And stay until she arrives.”

  Damn it. “No.” When she blinked in astonishment, he hurried on. “Look, Mrs. Fairchild, you must be Maggie’s governess, and only you. Alexandra chose you. She said you were the very best. Anyone else will be less so, and I want only the best for Maggie.”

  “There are many competent governesses, my lord, who would be eager for a position in a viscount’s household.”

  He raked his hand through his hair. “Yes, but you see, Alexandra sent you. Understand? If you leave, she’ll blame me.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Why should she?”

  “Because she believes I am the worst excuse for a father since King Herod. You should have read the letter she s
ent me, outlining everything I was doing wrong. And I have been doing absolutely everything wrong. I know that; I’ve only been a father for six months, and I was a pirate for nineteen years.”

  “Pirate—?”

  “I have never had any training for the job. I only saw what the missionaries had done, and I swore to God I’d do the opposite. They never broke her spirit, but they certainly tried.”

  Mrs. Fairchild said, “Oh,” but Grayson barely heard her.

  He remembered the tight politeness of Alexandra’s note explaining that daughters of lords in Mayfair should neither wear breeches nor soiled pink concoctions that had been made for ballrooms several seasons ago. Grayson had not had a chance to explain that he’d bought the pink frock in Jamaica in a fit of rage. He’d purchased it because the garment was the direct opposite of the horrible gray dress they’d stuffed Maggie into. Maggie should be wearing the loveliest gowns money could buy and should be smiling and laughing, not dour and quiet, like the missionaries wanted her to be.

  The lady shoppers in the secondhand clothier where he’d so incompetently searched for the gown had found him amusing. They’d taken pity on him and helped him find the sweet pink thing they’d said a young girl would love. They had been right. Maggie had been so pleased with the gift that she’d refused to take the dress off for days.

  Alexandra had written, stiffly, that Maggie needed morning dresses and walking dresses and dresses for rides in the park, for outings to museums, for visits to the theatre with her father or herself—not, he noted, both of them together. She also needed a proper and well-trained governess, not to quash her, but to teach her how to become a graceful and lovely young woman.

  If Mrs. Fairchild left him, Alexandra would write him another letter equally as polite and pointed. Or she’d stand before him, bathing him in a sorrowful look, and express her disappointment in him.

  He eyed Mrs. Fairchild, who looked a bit stunned. “Will it help if I beg?” he asked.

  “My lord—”

  He abandoned the polite viscount, who was doing him no good, and resurrected Captain Finley, terror of the seas. “Mrs. Fairchild, I do not have time for histrionics. You and Mr. Jacobs will have to talk through your problems and reach some conclusion. But do not let it distract you from taking care of Maggie. Make her your first priority. Understand?”

  Mrs. Fairchild’s stare was a mix of amazement and outrage. “But, my lord—”

  “No buts, Mrs. Fairchild. Dismissed.”

  She gazed at him for one more astonished second, then snapped her mouth closed. Giving him a look that told him King Herod was a pleasant and forgiving gentleman compared to him, she turned on her heel and strode out the door.

  There, Grayson thought as he closed it behind her. I am not as bad at this as Jacobs thinks.

  “M’lady, I vow to you, there are no pins to be had!”

  Alexandra looked into Mr. Priestly’s red and exasperated face and barely contained her glee. She sat demurely at Grayson’s desk in his cabin perusing an out-of-date lady’s magazine. “Do you mean, Mr. Priestly, that in the entire Thames estuary, not one shop possesses ladies’ dressmaking pins?”

  “I give you my word, I looked!”

  She heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Mr. Priestly.”

  “M’lady,” he almost wailed.

  She shook her head. “My silk became torn last night when his lordship rescued me. I cannot possibly mend it with implements for repairing sails. I must have pins, silk thread, and the thinnest of needles. Why is this so impossible?”

  Priestly mopped his brow. He’d worn a haggard look all afternoon, and the last time she had ventured on deck to summon him, he had actually fled her.

  “M’lady, my men went up and down, searching. They asked; they looked in shops. They found no pins and no needles and no silk thread.”

  Alexandra smiled secretly at the thought of Grayson’s rough-looking pirates shambling through the streets asking for ladies’ dressmaking pins. Still keeping her expression dark, she feigned a heavy sigh. “I suppose it is not your fault. Someone will simply have to send to Town for another gown. Or I will have to go.”

  His lips thinned. “M’lady, I was ordered explicitly by Captain Finley himself that I am not to let you off this ship.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Alexandra said. “He also ordered you to obtain for me whatever I needed. Did he not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I need a change of clothing. I cannot possibly wear my theatre gown all day and all night. Perhaps you can send your men into town again to a secondhand clothing shop. They will have ready-made garments. I will write down my measurements.”

  “I do not think,” Mr. Priestly said carefully, “that the sailors will obey an order to go into a shop and purchase lady’s clothing.”

  “And a nightdress, if I am to sleep here. And a few pairs of stockings, and some garters.” She tapped her cheek. “That young man called Thomas is about my height and girth. Perhaps he could try on the gown, make certain the fit is right—”

  “No!” Priestly shouted. His voice filled the room. A sailor above peered in through the opened skylight. Priestly balled his hands, shaking, his face red. “Mrs. Alastair, I can take no more. I have brought you ribbons and combs and oranges and magazines—”

  “None of them Le Belle Assemble,” she put in.

  “M’lady, I could not find one! All I could find was Le Beau Monde. And I do not speak French.”

  She tapped the journal on the desk. “It is three months out of date. And they are all in English, Mr. Priestly.”

  “I do not read ladies’ magazines,” he said desperately. “You have made me and my men a laughingstock. You sent us out for oil of jasmin, and I do not even know what that is!”

  She gave him a severe look. “Really, Mr. Priestly, there is no need to shout at me.”

  “There is need. I am at the end of my tether. What the devil do you want me to do?”

  “Restrain your language for a start, sir. I am only asking for the accoutrements I will need if I am forced to stay here. Surely the viscount does not expect me to shiver in a torn garment and exist on grog and biscuits.”

  “He expects us to,” Priestly muttered.

  “I do not believe the viscount thought it through when he ordered you to keep me here.”

  “No,” he agreed fervently. “But I can’t let you go ashore, m’lady. He’ll peel the skin off my hide and hang it up to dry, then nail the rest of my body beside it.”

  His lips were white, his breathing fast. A little foam flecked the sides of his mouth.

  Alexandra felt pity for him, but she could not relent just yet. “Then I must have a change of clothing. You see that.” She sighed. “Or you will have to take it up with the viscount.” She frowned, pretending to think. “Please tell young Thomas that I am particularly fond of yellow.”

  Priestly stared at her, fists tight. Then he cried “Gaahhh!” and stormed from the cabin.

  It had grown quite dark by the time the viscount returned to the Majesty. The stars were out, thick and bright against the dark throat of night. Alexandra gazed at them from the quarterdeck. In Town, so many lights from houses and passing coach lanterns, not to mention the smoke from chimneys and the fog or clouds that habitually hung over the city, obscured the stars. Here, the wind parted the clouds and allowed the beauty of the night to shine through.

  Alexandra smoothed the cotton of her yellow gown, proudly brought to her by young Thomas. She’d relented in her suggestion that he try the clothes on for her, and had written a note with her measurements for Priestly to give to a clothier. The gown did not quite fit, but it would have to do.

  She sighed and continued to study the stars. Stargazing always reminded her of home, of the rolling green swards of Kent, of happy summers spent lying in sweet grass, feeling as if she were falling upward into the stars, dreaming dreams great and glorious.

  A heavy step sounded behind her, and presently, she sensed him next t
o her, his bulk of warmth and his masculine scents of musk and the night. He leaned on the rail, his strong arms taking his weight, the wind from the sea lifting his blond-streaked hair.

  She did not, as she longed to, fling her arms about him and joyfully cry his name. She continued to watch the stars and the horizon, as if it made no difference that he’d joined her.

  “Alexandra,” he began. His baritone flowed over her like cool water in the heat. “I have been captaining ships since I was eighteen years old. I have faced frigates that outgunned me and hostile islanders ready to boil me up for supper and the fiercest pirates on the seas. And never once in that long career have my men disobeyed my orders or threatened a mutiny.” He turned his head and looked at her. “Until today.”

  She felt her face heat, but she kept her voice innocent. “I only asked for the things I needed, my lord.”

  Grayson choked back a laugh. The battle between her and Priestly must have been fierce. Only months ago, he had seen Priestly boarding a frigate, pistols blazing, a cutlass in his teeth, fighting like mad and roaring obscenities. But this afternoon Priestly’s face had been tinged gray, and his dark-circled eyes wild with terror. “She sent us off for women’s undergarments, sir. And cream to keep off wrinkles. She hasn’t got any wrinkles! And she told us the wrong name, so we had to keep asking and asking.”

  Grayson had worked hard to keep from bursting into laughter. He imagined his men running from shop to shop desperately seeking wrinkle cream and garters. He had known that Alexandra, with her independent spirit, would chafe at her confinement, but he had anticipated her trying to climb over the side and attempting to steal a boat and row it by herself. Her choice of how to fight back was delicious.

  “How long do you plan to keep me prisoner, my lord?” she asked primly.

  He looked out over the water again. The ship rocked a little at its anchor. “The danger is so great, Alexandra.”

  “Well.” She traced patterns on the varnished wooden rail. “You could simply send a few guards to my house while I prepare for my soiree. Which is in two days, by the way. They could make themselves useful hanging garlands and carrying tables about.”