The Other Miss Bridgerton Page 3
“Does it matter?”
“Not just now, but it may,” he said, “when we return.”
“You can’t take me!” she protested.
“It’s either that or kill you,” he said.
Her mouth fell open. “Well, you can’t do that either.”
“I don’t suppose you have a gun hidden in your dress,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the wall as he crossed his arms.
Her lips parted with surprise, and then she quickly covered her reaction and said, “Maybe.”
He laughed, drat the man.
“I’ll give you money,” she said quickly. Surely he could be bought. He was a pirate, for heaven’s sake. Wasn’t he?
He lifted a brow. “I don’t suppose you’ve a purse of gold hidden in that dress.”
She scowled at his sarcasm. “Of course not. But I can get you some.”
“You want us to ransom you?” he asked, smiling.
“No! Of course not. But if you release me—”
“No one’s releasing you,” he interrupted, “so just stop your—”
“I’m sure if you think about it—” she cut in.
“I’ve thought all I need to—”
“—you’ll see that it—”
“We are not letting you—”
“—really isn’t such a good idea to—”
“I said we’re not letting you—”
“—hold me hostage. I’m sure to get in the way and—”
“Can you be quiet?”
“—I eat a lot too, and—”
“Does she ever shut up?” the captain asked, turning to his men by the door.
Green and Brown shook their heads.
“—I’ll surely be an inconvenience,” Poppy finished.
There was a moment of silence, which the captain seemed to savor. “You make a rather fine argument for killing you,” he finally said.
“Not at all,” she quickly put in. “It was an argument to let me go, if you must know.”
“Clearly, I must,” he muttered. Then he sighed, the tired sound his first sign of weakness, and said, “Who are you?”
“I want to know what you plan to do with me before I give up my identity,” Poppy said.
He motioned lazily to her bindings. “You’re not really in a position to make demands now, are you?”
“What are you going to do with me?” she repeated. It was probably foolish to remain so headstrong, but if he was going to kill her, he was going to kill her, and her display of temper wasn’t going to tip the scales either way.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his nearness disconcerting. “I will humor you,” he said, “since despite your waspy tongue, you’re here through little fault of your own.”
“No fault,” she muttered.
“You never learn, do you?” he asked. “And here I was going to be nice to you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“Not terribly sincere, but I’ll allow it,” he said. “And much as it pains me to inform you, you will be our guest aboard the Infinity for the next two weeks, until we complete our voyage.”
“No!” Poppy cried out, the horrified sound escaping her lips before she could press her bound hands to her mouth.
“I’m afraid so,” he said grimly. “You know where our cave is, and I can’t leave you behind. Once we return, we’ll clear it out and let you go.”
“Why don’t you clear it out now?”
“I can’t,” he said simply.
“You mean you won’t.”
“No, I mean I can’t,” he repeated. “And you’re starting to annoy me.”
“You can’t take me with you,” Poppy said, hearing her voice crack. Good God, she wanted to cry. She could hear it in her voice, feel it in the burning sensation behind her eyes. She wanted to cry like she hadn’t cried in years, and if she didn’t get ahold of herself, she was going to lose her control right here in front of this man—this awful man who held her very fate in his hands.
“Look,” he said, “I do sympathize with your plight.”
Poppy shot him a look that said she didn’t believe him for a second.
“I do,” he said gently. “I know how it feels to be backed into a corner. It isn’t fun. Especially for someone like you.”
Poppy swallowed, unsure if his words were compliment or insult.
“But the truth is,” he continued, “this ship must depart this afternoon. The wind and tides are favorable, and we must make good time. You should just thank your maker we’re not the killing sort.”
“Where are we going?” she whispered.
He paused, obviously considering her question.
“I’m going to know when we get there,” she said impatiently.
“True enough,” he said, his small smile almost a salute. “We sail for Portugal.”
Poppy felt her eyes bug out. “Portugal?” she echoed, her throat strangling over the word. “Portugal? Will it really be two weeks?”
He shrugged. “If we’re lucky.”
“Two weeks,” she whispered. “Two weeks.” Her family would be frantic. She’d be ruined. Two weeks. A whole fortnight.
“You have to let me write a letter,” she said urgently.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A letter,” she repeated, struggling to sit up. “You must allow me to write one.”
“And what, pray tell, do you plan to include in such a missive?”
“I’ve been visiting a friend,” Poppy said quickly, “and if I don’t return this evening, she will call out the alarm. My entire family will descend on the district.” She bored her eyes into his. “Trust me when I tell you that you do not wish for this to happen.”
His gaze did not leave hers. “Your name, my lady.”
“My family—”
“Your name,” he said again.
Poppy pursed her lips, then said, “You may call me Miss Bridgerton.”
And he blanched. He blanched. He hid it well, but she saw the blood drain from his face, and for the first time in the interview, she felt a little rush of triumph. Not that she was about to go free, but still, it was her first victory. A tiny one, to be sure, but a victory nonetheless.
“I see you’ve heard of my family,” she said sweetly.
He muttered something under his breath that she was quite certain would not hold up in polite circles.
Slowly, and with what looked to be great control, he stood up. “Green!” he barked.
“Yes, sir!” the older man said, jumping to attention.
“Kindly fetch Miss Bridgerton some writing materials,” he said, her name sounding like a dread poison on his lips.
“Yes, sir,” Green said, hurrying out the door, Brown hot on his heels.
The captain turned to her with resolute eyes. “You will write precisely what I direct you to write,” he said.
“Begging your pardon,” Poppy said, “but if I did that, then my friend would know immediately that there was a problem. You wouldn’t sound like me,” she explained.
“Your friend will know there is a problem when you don’t return this evening.”
“Of course, but I can write something that will assuage her,” Poppy returned, “and at the very least, ensure that she doesn’t notify the authorities.”
He ground his teeth together, then said, “It will not be sealed without my approval.”
“Of course,” she said primly.
He glared at her, his eyes somehow hot and cold and so so blue.
“I’ll need my hands untied,” Poppy said, lifting her wrists in his direction.
He crossed the room. “I’m waiting until Green returns.”
Poppy decided not to argue any further. He appeared about as movable on the point as a glacier.
“Which branch?” he said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“To which branch of the family do you belong?” His voice was sharp, each word enunciated with military precision.
It was on the tip of her tongue to make an insolent retort, but it was clear from the captain’s expression that this would be most unwise. “Somerset,” she said quietly. “My uncle is the viscount. They are in Kent.”
His jaw clenched, and the seconds ticked by in silence until Green finally reappeared with paper, a quill, and a small pot of ink. Poppy sat patiently while the captain untied her hands, her breath sucking over her lips at the pain as the blood returned to her fingers.
“Sorry about that,” he grunted, and she looked sharply at him, his apology taking her by surprise.
“Habit,” he said. “Not heartfelt.”
“It was difficult to imagine that it might be,” she returned.
He made no response, merely held out his hand as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Am I to hop to the table?” she asked. Her ankles were still bound.
“I would never be so ungallant,” he said, and before she had any idea what he was about, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the dining table.
And dropped her most unceremoniously into a chair. “Write,” he ordered.
Poppy took the quill between her fingers and dipped it gingerly in the ink, chewing on her lip as she tried to figure out what to say. What sort of words would possibly convince Elizabeth not to summon the authorities—and her family—while Poppy disappeared for two weeks?
Dearest Elizabeth, I know you will be worried . . .
“What is taking so long?” the captain snapped.
Poppy looked up at him and lifted her brows before replying. “If you must know, this is the first time I’ve had the occasion to write a letter explaining—without, of course, actually explaining—my having been kidnapped.”
“Don’t use the word kidnapped,” he said sharply.
“Indeed,” she replied, shooting him a sarcastic glare. “Which accounts for the delay. I’m forced to use three words where a reasonable person would use only one.”
“A skill one would think you’ve long since mastered.”
“Nevertheless,” she said, trying to speak over him, “it tends to complicate the message.”
“Write,” he directed. “And say you’ll be gone a month.”
“A month?” she gasped.
“I hope to God not,” he muttered, “but this way, when we get you back in a fortnight, it will be cause for celebration.”
Poppy was not quite certain, but she thought he muttered under his breath, “My celebration.”
She decided to let it pass. It was the least of his insults thus far, and she had work to do. She took a deep breath and continued with:
. . . but I assure you that I am well. I shall be gone for a month, and I must beg you to keep my disappearance to yourself. Please do not alert my family or the authorities, as the former will only worry and the latter will spread the tale so far and wide that my reputation will be forever ruined.
I know this is a great deal to ask of you, and I know that you will have a thousand questions for me upon my return, but I implore you, Elizabeth—please trust me and all shall be explained soon.
Your sister in spirit,
Poppy
“Poppy, eh?” the captain said. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
Poppy ignored him.
“Pandora, perhaps, or Pauline. Or even Prudence, if only for the irony—”
“Poppy is a perfectly acceptable name,” she snapped.
His eyes held hers in an uncomfortably intimate gaze. “Lovely, even,” he murmured.
She swallowed nervously, noticing that Green had departed, leaving her quite alone with the captain. “I signed it ‘sister in spirit’ so that she would know I wasn’t coerced. It is how we have always signed our letters.”
He nodded, taking the missive from her fingers.
“Oh, wait!” she blurted, taking it back. “I need to add a postscript.”
“Do you now?”
“Her maid,” Poppy explained. “She was my chaperone for the afternoon, and—”
“There was another person at the cave?” he questioned sharply.
“No, of course not,” Poppy retorted. “I managed to be rid of her in Charmouth.”
“Of course you did.”
His tone was such that she was compelled to shoot him a slitty side-eyed glance. “She was not of sufficient physical constitution to accompany me,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I left her at a tea shop. Trust me, we were both happier that way.”
“And yet you ended up kidnapped and on your way to Portugal.”
Score one for him. Damn it.
“At any rate,” she continued, “Mary could be trouble, but only if Elizabeth doesn’t get to her before she realizes something is wrong. If Elizabeth asks her not to say anything, she won’t. She’s fiendishly loyal. Mary, that is. Well, Elizabeth too, but that’s different.”
He rubbed one hand over his brow, hard, as if he was having trouble following her.
“Just let me write the addendum,” she said, and she hastily added:
Postscript: Please assure Mary that I am well. Tell her I came upon one of my cousins and decided to join him for an outing. She must not talk indiscreetly. Bribe her if you must. I shall repay you.
“Your cousins?” he murmured.
“I have many,” she said, angling for an ominous tone.
Other than a slight lift of his brow, he gave no reaction. Poppy held out her now-finished missive, and he took it, giving the words one last glance before folding it neatly in half.
The motion was crisp, and horribly final. Poppy exhaled, because it was either that or cry. She waited for him to go—surely he would take his leave now, but he just stood there looking thoughtful, until he said, “Your name is very unusual. How did you come by it?”
“It’s not so unusual,” she muttered.
He leaned toward her, and she could not seem to look away as his eyes crinkled merrily. “You’re no Rose or Daisy.”
Poppy didn’t intend to respond, but then she heard herself say, “It had nothing to do with flowers.”
“Really?”
“It came from my brother. He was four, I suppose. My mother let him touch her belly while she was carrying me, and he said it felt like I was popping about.”
He smiled, and it made him even more impossibly handsome. “I imagine he’s never let you hear the end of that.”
And that broke the spell. “He died,” Poppy said, looking away. “Five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Habit or heartfelt?” she asked waspishly, quite before she had a chance to think about her words. Or her tone.
“Heartfelt,” he said quietly.
She said nothing, just looked down at the table, trying to make sense of this strange reality she’d been thrust into. Pirates who apologized? Outlaws who spoke as finely as any duke? Who were these people?
“Where shall I have this delivered?” the captain asked, holding up her letter.
“Briar House,” Poppy said. “It’s near—”
“My men will know where to find it,” he cut in.
Poppy watched as he walked to the door. “Sir!” she suddenly called out. “Er, Captain,” she amended, furious with herself for offering him the respect of a sir.
He lifted one brow in silent question.
“Your name, Captain.” And she was delighted that she managed to say it as a statement, not a question.
“Of course,” he said, sweeping into a courtly bow. “Captain Andrew James, at your service. Welcome aboard the Infinity.”
“No ‘We’re delighted to have you’?” Poppy asked.
He laughed as he placed his hand on the doorknob. “That remains to be seen.”
He poked his head out the door and barked out someone’s name, and Poppy watched his back as he gave instructions—and the letter—to one of his men. She thought he might then depart, but instead he shut the door and leaned against it, regarding her with a resigned expr
ession.
“Table or bed?” he asked.
What?
So she said it. “What?”
“Table”—he nodded at her before jerking his head toward the corner—“or bed.”
This could not be good. Poppy tried to think quickly, to figure out in under a second both his intentions and her possible responses. But all she said was “Ehrm . . .”
“Bed it is,” he said crisply.
Poppy let out a shriek as he scooped her up again and tossed her onto the bed.
“It will be better for us both if you don’t struggle,” he warned her.
Her eyes grew wide with terror.
“Oh, for the love of—” He bit off his statement before he blasphemed, then went on to utter something far worse. He took a moment to compose himself, then said, “I’m not going to defile you, Miss Bridgerton. You have my word.”
She said nothing.
“Your hand,” he said.
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she lifted her hand nonetheless.
“The other one,” he said sharply, then grabbed her left hand—the one with which she wrote, despite her governess’s best attempts to force her to switch—and pulled it against the bed rail. Before she could count to five, he’d tied her to the long slat of wood.
They both looked at her free hand.
“You could try,” he said, “but you won’t get it undone.” And then he smiled, damn the man. “No one ties knots like a sailor.”
“In that case, could you untie my ankles?”
“Not until we’re well at sea, Miss Bridgerton.”
“It’s not as if I can swim,” she lied.
“Shall we toss you in the water to test the truth of that statement?” he asked. “Rather like setting a witch afire. If she burns, she’s innocent.”
Poppy ground her teeth together. “If I drown—”
“Then you’re trustworthy,” he finished, smiling broadly. “Shall we give it a go?”
“Get out,” she said tightly.
He let out a bark of laughter. “I’ll see you when we’re well at sea, my little liar.”
And then, before she had the chance to even think about throwing something at him, he was gone.