Read Online The Pirate Next Door by Jennifer Ashley - Free Book Online Page A

please leave my list alone.”
    She reached out to draw it away from him. He laid his own, stronger, hand on its edge. “Wait.” He lifted the pen and drew a heavy line through the name Zechariah Burchard.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Do you know Mr. Burchard well?”
    “Of course. He is a friend of Lord and Lady Featherstone.” She hesitated. “Although, I suppose he is only an acquaintance, really. They have not known him long. But he is a polite gentleman and very forthcoming, and we know absolutely nothing against him.”
    He let his voice go hard and matter-of-fact. “Zechariah Burchard is a pirate. He deals in any cargo, including slaves, and he will sink all who get in his way—naval frigates, other pirates, pirate hunters. What he does to those he captures from the merchantmen is unspeakable. And he has a bad habit of coming back from the dead.”
    She blinked. “What on earth does that mean?”
    “His death has been rumored at least three times. Each time, he disappears for a while, then appears again. The last time I saw him, James Ardmore had set him on fire.”
    Her eyes widened. “Set his ship on fire?”
    “Set him on fire. He got tangled in a piece of his own burning rigging, and then Ardmore shot him. End of Burchard. And now he turns up on your list of eligible suitors.”
    She looked at the list as if she’d never seen it before. “You must be mistaken. It cannot possibly be the same Zechariah Burchard.”
    “When did you first meet him?”
    “At the beginning of the season.”
    “Ardmore killed him last November. Plenty of time for him to lay low, recover—however he did it—and take up residence in Mayfair.” His eyes narrowed. If anyone were a candidate for making off with a French king, it was Burchard. Why the devil he’d want to, Grayson had no idea, but strange occurrences and Burchard often went together.
    This meant that Grayson would have to—damn it—talk to Ardmore. Ardmore and his pirate hunters hadbeen stalking Burchard for years. Grayson would have to break it to him that he’d missed again. He also did not in the least like that Burchard was walking around Mayfair— meeting with Mrs. Alastair. Damn, damn, damn.
    He did not want to have to search for Burchard and send him either to the grave or to the other side of the world—as far away from his lady as possible—on top of everything else. He had to help the Admiralty hunt a missing French king, and so far, his men had turned up nothing. He had to make certain that Maggie would get as much unentailed money and property as he could possibly leave to her before Ardmore became impatient and returned to his all-out war against Grayson.
    He did not want to deal with Burchard and Ardmore and the French king. He wanted to spend time in bed with Mrs. Alastair. She was lonely, she was hungry, and oh, God, he’d never met anyone like her. She had slept naked for him. Inconvenient that he had not been with her at the time, but she had done it. For him. Yes, snuggling under the sheets with this lady for the rest of June appealed to him. Everyone else could go to hell.
    Except Maggie, of course. He must keep his senses and keep his head for Maggie.
    The vivid vision of the day he had found her suddenly came to him. He remembered the damp Jamaican heat, the slim bones of Sara’s wasted hand, and his utter confusion when she’d led him through the house of the missionary couple to a wilted back garden. He had not seen Sara in twelve years, ever since she had deserted him in a port near Siam. How she’d turned up in Jamaica he did not know, but he’d known from the shadow on her face that she was dying. “Her father,” Sara had announced to the shocked Methodist man and his wife as she’d paraded Grayson past them. “I bring him.”
    And there, digging in the dirt with a garden trowel, dressed in a heavy wool skirt and square cotton blouse, had crouched his daughter, Maggie. He remembered with clairty the shock that had