The Pirate Next Door by Jennifer Ashley Page A

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, kidnapped, 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 thisship, she