a lungful of sea air and one beautiful, too-curious virgin to turn him back into the wharf rat he’d worked so hard to forget.
CHAPTER SIX
AINSLEY BECKET STOOD in the shadows and watched as Chance carelessly descended the wide marble staircase. The younger man kept his hands at his sides, his confident grace, as always, reminding Ainsley of how deftly the young Chance had sidled through a wharfside pub crowded with drunken sailors, smoothly lightening the load of coins in their pockets.
Ainsley had sat with his back to the wall and idly watched the tanned, barely clothed, underfed boy ply his trade. He was only amusing himself, especially when he saw the boy bump into Billy, murmur an apology and then walk away after Billy cuffed him on the ear. The boy had grinned widely then, even as he’d pretended to howl in pain, with Billy’s pocket now empty and the seaman none the wiser.
“Fool’s too drunk to know he’s been dipped. Do we tell him, Cap’n?” Jacko had asked, using his mug of ale to point at Billy.
Ainsley hadn’t answered. He was already on his feet, for one of Edmund’s men had taken hold of the boy’s arm and was leering down into the suddenly white, pinched face. Saying something, whispering to the boy.
“Damn him, I warned Edmund about that one,” Ainsley had said as the seaman made a grab at the boy’s crotch. “He’d poke a knothole.” Then he’d looked down at Jacko, who was taking another drink from his mug. “You with me?”
“Better with you than against you, Cap’n, although I would remind you I said not to come in here. Back to the wall or nay, never drink in another man’s pub,” Jacko had said in that lazy, smiling way of his. He’d put down the mug and pushed his thickset body out of the chair. Both men had slipped out their knives, holding them low at their sides as they’d pushed their way toward certain trouble, Jacko whistling Billy to heel.
The rest of that evening remained a partial blur in Ainsley’s memory, although the chipped tooth in the front of Jacko’s mouth was one reminder. By dawn, the three of them had been nursing their wounds, some greasy bastard named Angelo who stood behind the small serving bar had been made the richer by ten gold pieces, Edmund was short three of his crew and Ainsley had acquired a brat. He’d thought it an amusing bit of justice that he’d put Billy in charge of the boy.
How old had Chance been when he’d come to the island? Eight? Ten? And a man nearly grown by the time—Ainsley closed his eyes, let the pain roll over him, not as crippling now, but still there to remind him, then finished the thought—by the time they’d all died and gone to England.
“It’s good to see you, boy.”
Chance paused with his right foot on the stone floor of the wide entrance hall, then moved again, turning to his right, following the sound of Ainsley’s voice. “Sir,” he said, then held out his hand to the man. Nearly five years had passed since they’d spoken, communicated in any way. “Thank you for not sending Jacko to the door with a brace of pistols.”
“And why would I do that? This is your home, Chance. Alice is welcome here. Come along, I’ve got brandy warming by the fire in my study.”
“Yes, sir,” Chance said and followed Ainsley down the dimly lit hallway, secretly pleased to see that Ainsley continued to dress all in black, but that he still walked like a man who owned the world while gracious enough to share it with lesser mortals.
He’d been a god to Chance, his savior from a fate Chance hadn’t really understood until Billy had taken him aside and explained in graphic detail what the sailor had wanted from him that night in Angelo’s pub. His savior in all things.
How Chance had worshipped Ainsley, the tall, deceptively powerful man, his tanned face lean and strong, his sharp eyes missing nothing, his voice quietly commanding respect, his smiles rare but wonderful to behold.
He was still strong and straight, but there was some silver scattered now in his black hair, and the lines in his face had carved deeper, especially across his brow. Time does that to a man. As does pain.
Strange. Chance had never thought about Ainsley growing old, being anything but invulnerable. Even that day, that last day, he’d been the one who’d kept his head, who’d held them all together. Chance had hated him for that.
They entered the study, Chance following behind Ainsley.
Books. Ainsley’s study was filled with books. Books on shelves that lined every wall and disappeared in the dark as they climbed toward the ceiling. Books piled on every surface, stacked on the floor. A newspaper not more than three days old was spread out on one of the tables, along with several maps.
Chance walked over to the table, taking hold of one of the maps at one corner and pulling it around so he could better see it. Several areas were circled with thick black ink, on both land and sea. “You’re following the battles?”
“Other people’s wars are often interesting, although nothing has been quite so intriguing since Trafalgar. England lost a good man in Nelson.”
Chance dropped the corner of the map. “Yes. Maybe one day they’ll raise a monument to him somewhere. In the meantime, they’re allowing his beloved Emma to starve. I heard she’s been imprisoned for debt, actually. Ainsley, it’s been a long day and I’m really rather tired….”
“One drink, Chance. Just one. And some conversation.”
The fire in the grate had been freshly fed, as if Ainsley had planned on a long night, a plan Chance didn’t share. He waited for the man to take his seat in one of a pair of wing chairs in front of the fire, then sat in the other one, a low table between them holding a brandy decanter and two snifters.
Ainsley lifted his snifter, swirled the liquid a time or two, then sipped. With the glass still in front of his face, he looked at Chance over the rim. “Once more, Chance, my condolences on the loss of your wife. Or perhaps you didn’t receive my letter. The others would have come to you—”
“If I’d let you all know in time. Yes, I’m aware of that. Arrangements were necessarily rushed. Beatrice was interred in her family’s mausoleum in Devonshire.”
“I know her father died a few years ago, but didn’t her mother offer to take Alice for you while you’re so busy in London?”
Chance held his own snifter, pretended a great interest in the swirling brandy. “Priscilla wed again last year. Beatrice’s brother holds the estate now, and Priscilla is off traipsing some moor in Scotland with her new husband.” He looked at Ainsley. “But if you don’t feel Alice can stay here, I—”
“Alice will be fine here. The girls can’t wait to see her, spoil her. I only worry that she’ll rarely see her papa. When were you last at Becket Hall, Chance? I believe that was when Alice was a mere infant in arms. She’s—what—five now? Six?”
“Five,” Chance said, still looking straight at Ainsley. “Beatrice didn’t care for the country.”
Ainsley smiled one of his rare slight smiles. “Don’t blame a dead woman, Chance. That isn’t gentlemanly. How long have we two been together?”
Chance turned his gaze toward the fire. “I was nine or ten when you bought me from Angelo, seventeen when…when we left the island.”
“So now you’re a grown
