The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, wincing inwardly at his dismissive tone. She wouldn’t suffocate, but she would be miserable. He could already tell that Poppy Bridgerton was not a person who did well with boredom.

  But he couldn’t have her wandering the length and breadth of the ship. She was a distraction his men could well do without, and furthermore, she knew nothing of safety at sea. Not to mention how superstitious sailors were about women being bad luck on a ship. Half his men would likely be crossing themselves every time they saw her.

  On the other side of the cabin, Miss Bridgerton was still visibly distressed. And stammering. “But—but—”

  He moved back toward the door. “I am sorry, Miss Bridgerton, but that is the way it must be. It is for your own safety.”

  “But for a fortnight? Not to see the sun for an entire fortnight?”

  He quirked a brow. “You were just complimenting me on my fine windows.”

  “It is not the same, and you know it.”

  He did, and he sympathized. Truly, he did. He couldn’t imagine being forced to remain in a ship’s cabin for two weeks, even one as well-appointed as his.

  “Captain James,” she said, after what sounded like a fortifying breath, “I am asking you as a gentleman.”

  “That is where you are in error.”

  “Do not dissemble, Captain. You may wish to hide it, or perhaps you wish to hide from it, but you were born a gentleman. You have already as much as confessed to it.”

  He crossed his arms. “On this ship, I am no gentleman.”

  She crossed hers. “I don’t believe you.”

  And then something inside him snapped. Just snapped. Since the moment he’d first seen her, tied up and gagged on his bed, he’d spent every minute of his time dealing either with her or with the myriad problems her presence wrought—and was about to wreak—on a very delicate mission.

  “For the love of Christ, woman,” he half exploded, “have you no sense?”

  Her mouth opened, but he didn’t allow her an answer.

  “Do you have any concept of your perilous situation? No? Well, allow me to explain. You have been kidnapped. You are trapped on a ship on which you are the only female, and half the men out there”—he waved his arm almost violently toward the door—“think your very presence means that a typhoon is on its way.”

  “A typhoon?” she echoed.

  “There are no typhoons in this region,” he ground out. “Which should give you some indication of how much they don’t want you aboard. So in my humble opinion, not that you’re likely to heed it, you should start speaking with a bit more circumspection.”

  “I did not ask to be here!” she shouted.

  “I am well aware,” he shot back. “For the record—again—I am not pleased to be hosting you.”

  Her lips pressed together, and for one terrifying moment he thought she might cry. “Please,” she said. “Please do not force me to remain in this cabin for the duration of the voyage. I beg of you.”

  He sighed. Damn her. It was so much easier to dismiss her concerns when they were yelling at each other. “Miss Bridgerton,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “it is my duty as a gentleman to ensure your safety. Even if it means your discomfort.”

  He half expected her to say, “So you are a gentleman.” But she surprised him with restraint, and after a heavy beat of silence, she said, “I will see you later this evening, then.”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “You will be three hours, you said?” Her voice was formal, almost businesslike, and it made him oddly uncomfortable, almost because it didn’t sound like her.

  Which was patently ridiculous. He didn’t know Poppy Bridgerton. He hadn’t even been aware of her existence until this very afternoon, at least not in a specific sense. She’d been one of many vague and hazy Bridgerton cousins, utterly nameless, and to him, irrelevant.

  So he should not know when she sounded unlike herself.

  And he should not care that she did.

  “I will be ready,” she said, with a touch of haughty pride that still wasn’t quite right.

  But it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

  “I bid you good evening, Miss Bridgerton,” he said. He gave a brief bow of farewell and exited the cabin. Bloody hell. He needed a drink. Or maybe a good sleep.

  He glanced back at his door, now closed and locked behind him. He’d be on the floor tonight. A good sleep was highly unlikely.

  A drink it was, then. And not a moment too soon.

  Miss Bridgerton was still fully clothed when Andrew returned three and a half hours later, but she’d removed the pins from her hair, and it now lay across her shoulder in a sleeping plait. She was sitting upright on his bed, the blankets pulled over her lap. A pillow was wedged between her back and the wall behind her.

  His pillow.

  Andrew noticed that the curtains were still open, so he crossed the cabin and drew them shut. His cabin was port, and he did not think she would enjoy the blazing eastern sun in the morning. They were not far past the solstice; sunrise was blindingly early this time of year.

  “Are you ready for bed?” he asked. The most mundane of questions, and yet he found it remarkable that he had been able to utter it in such a normal tone of voice.

  Miss Bridgerton glanced up from the book she was reading. “As you can see.”

  “You won’t be too uncomfortable in your dress?” he asked.

  She turned slowly to look at him. “I see no alternative.”

  Andrew had some experience removing such frocks from women; he knew she had to have some sort of shift underneath it that would be far more comfortable for sleeping.

  But far too revealing for either of their comfort.

  Not that he had any intention of bedding her. God help him if he even so much as kissed the girl. But she was rather attractive, objectively speaking. Her eyes were a gorgeous shade of green, somewhere between leaf and moss, and she had the Bridgerton hair, thick and lustrous, with the color of warm chestnuts. Her mien would never be placid enough for conventional standards of beauty, but he’d never liked expressionless females. Hell, he’d never liked expressionless males either, and Lord knew he’d met enough of those when he was out in society. Andrew had never understood why it was so fashionable to appear bored.

  Disinterested equaled disinteresting.

  He considered that. An excellent new catchphrase. He’d use it on his family the next time he went home. They’d likely roll their eyes, but they sort of had to. It was what family did.

  God, he missed them. He had eleven nieces and nephews now, and he hadn’t even met the most recent two. Of the five Rokesby siblings, only he and his younger brother, Nicholas, were still unwed. The other three were blissfully happy and reproducing like rabbits.

  Not with each other, of course. With their spouses. He winced, even though he alone was privy to his convoluted thoughts. He was so tired. It had been a hell of a day, and it was about to get worse. He had no idea how he expected to get any sleep tonight. Between his spot on the floor and the simple presence of her in the room . . .

  She was impossible to ignore. Maybe it would have been better if she’d been frightened and meek. There would have been tears, but at least when she was out of his sight, she’d have been out of his mind.

  He walked over to a built-in set of drawers. His nightshirt was there, as were his tooth powder and brush. Billy usually left a small basin of water on the table, but clearly the boy had been too terrified of Miss Bridgerton to enter the room again. He picked up the toothbrush and regarded it, sighing at the lack of necessary liquid.

  “I didn’t brush my teeth either.”

  He smiled. So she had been watching him. She’d been trying a little too hard to appear absorbed in her book, but he’d been almost certain that she would give up the ruse the moment his back was turned. “We shall both be foul of breath in the morning,” he said.

  “A charming prediction.”

&nb
sp; He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I don’t plan to kiss anyone. Do you?”

  She was too smart to take such obvious bait, so he popped his toothbrush into his mouth and gave himself a powderless cleaning. It was better than nothing.

  “I don’t suppose you have an extra on board,” she said. “A toothbrush, I mean.”

  “I’m afraid not, but you’re welcome to use your forefinger and some of my powder.”

  She sighed but nodded, and he found himself oddly pleased that she was so unfussy. “There will be water in the morning,” he told her. “There is usually some at night, but I believe you have frightened Billy away.”

  “He did come to remove the dishes.”

  “Well, there is that.” He didn’t tell her that he’d had to grab the boy by his collar and shove him in the right direction. But better Billy than anyone else on the ship. Brown or Green would have been acceptable—Andrew had known both of them long enough to know that they’d not imperil her safety—but he doubted either one of them wanted anything to do with her.

  Andrew reached into his drawer for his nightshirt, then stopped. Bloody hell, he was going to have to sleep in his clothing too. He couldn’t undress unless he did so after snuffing out the lanterns, and there was something that felt undignified about wearing his nightshirt while she remained fully clothed.

  “Are you ready for sleep?” he asked.

  “I’d been hoping to read for a bit longer. I trust you don’t mind that I borrowed a few of your books.”

  “Not at all. You’ll go mad without something to occupy your time.”

  “How positively liberal of you.”

  He rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to rejoin. “The light of one lantern won’t matter. Just make sure you don’t fall asleep with it burning.”

  “Of course not.”

  He felt the need to reiterate the point. “Aboard a ship there is no greater disaster than fire.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  He had half expected her to respond with a bristly “I said I would douse the lantern.” That she had not . . .

  He was bizarrely pleased.

  “I thank you for your good sense,” he said. He noticed that she had not pulled up the rail for the bed, so he walked over to take care of it.

  “Captain James!” she exclaimed, and she frantically pressed herself against the back wall.

  “Have no fear for your virtue,” he said in a tired voice. “I was merely intending to do this.” He yanked up the rail and clicked it into place. It was a solid piece of wood, meant to keep the occupant of the bed in bed when the weather was rough.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was . . . instinct, I suppose. I am on edge.”

  He felt his brow draw down. That wasn’t a rote apology. Her tone had been too full, too . . . something. He turned back to look at her. She had not moved from the corner, and she looked so small—not in size but in expression, if that made any sense.

  Not that anything had made sense today.

  In a quiet voice, she said, “I am aware that you would not attack me.”

  That she might think she needed to apologize, or even worse, reassure him in some way . . . it made him ill. “I would never harm a woman,” he said.

  “I—” Her lips parted, and her eyes grew unfocused with thought. “I believe you.”

  Something inside him grew fierce. “I would never harm you.”

  “You already have,” she whispered.

  Their eyes met.

  “I fear my reputation will not be so fortunate,” she said.

  He cursed himself for having nothing but platitudes, but still he said, “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “And yet I cannot stop thinking about it.”

  His chest squeezed. Christ, it felt like someone had taken his heart in their fist. He turned away—cowardly, he knew, but he didn’t have the words to respond to her quiet statement, and he suspected he never would. His voice was rough as he said, “I’d best get my bed ready.”

  He pulled some extra blankets from the wardrobe and laid them on the carpet. He’d told her he’d be sleeping at the door, but that hardly seemed necessary, given the sturdy lock and his unquestionable command over his men. The carpet wasn’t much of a cushion, but it was better than the planked wood of the floor. He blew out one lantern, and then another, until all that remained was the one by the bed, illuminating the book that lay open on Miss Bridgerton’s lap.

  “You should take the pillow,” she said. “I don’t need it.”

  “No.” He sighed. This was his penance, he supposed. He hadn’t wanted to kidnap her, but he could not escape the bitter truth: this wretched situation was far worse for her than it was for him. He didn’t bother looking at her as he shook his head. “You keep—”

  The pillow hit him mid-chest.

  He smiled wryly. She was stubborn even in her generosity. “Thank you,” he said, and he lay down on his back, the least uncomfortable position on such a hard surface.

  He heard her rustling about, and then the room went dark.

  “I thought you were going to read,” he said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  It was just as well. In the dark, it would be easier to forget her presence.

  Except it wasn’t. She fell asleep first, and then he was alone in the night, listening to her move as she slept, hearing her voice in each quiet breath. And it occurred to him—he’d never spent a night with a woman, not an entire night. He’d never listened to a woman sleep, never even imagined the strange intimacy of it.

  It was oddly compelling, lying there and waiting for each soft noise to rise through the air. He could not bring himself to close his eyes, which made no sense. Even if the cabin were lit, he would not be able to see her, tucked away behind the bed rail as she was. He did not feel he needed to remain alert, but he could not stop himself from remaining aware.

  What had she said earlier? She was on edge.

  He knew exactly what she’d meant.

  Chapter 6

  When Poppy opened her eyes the following morning, Captain James was already gone. She chewed on her lower lip as she took in the sight of his bedroll on the other side of the cabin. He couldn’t have had a good night’s sleep. She’d given him the pillow, but other than that, he’d had only the carpet to cushion him.

  But no. She was not going to feel guilty over his discomfort. He was going about his regular business. She was the one who quite possibly had an army of people searching for her, fearing that her body might wash up on the beach. And her family—dear heavens, she could not begin to imagine their distress if Elizabeth had gone ahead and alerted them to Poppy’s disappearance.

  Her parents had already lost one child, and it had nearly killed them. If they thought Poppy had met with an ill fate . . .

  “Please, Elizabeth,” she whispered. Her friend would be frantic with worry, but if she kept quiet, at least she’d be the only one.

  “He’s a monster,” Poppy said aloud, even though she knew it wasn’t true. She hated Captain James for any number of reasons, and she did not believe him when he told her that he’d had no choice but to take her to Portugal—because honestly, how was that even possible? But the captain was treating her with far more care than she imagined most men of his profession would, and she knew—because it was impossible not to know—that he was a gentleman, and a man of honor.

  What the devil he was doing on a pirate ship, she couldn’t imagine.

  She noticed that a small basin of water had been set on the table, and she had a brief queasy moment at the thought of Billy entering the cabin while she slept.

  She took some comfort in the fact that he’d probably felt worse.

  She decided not to feel guilty about that either.

  It took her a few tries to get the bed rail down, and once she had her feet on the floor she raised and lowered it several times until she understood how it worked. It was very cleverly made, and she wishe
d she could see the inner workings—hinges and springs and whatnot. One of her brothers had fallen out of bed quite frequently as a child; a contraption such as this would have been brilliant.

  She set the rail into its down position, then moved to the basin so she could splash some water on her face. She might as well greet the day, such as it was. The cabin was dim, with only a thin stripe of light filtering in at the curtain’s edge. A glance at the clock told her it was already half eight, so she took care with her balance—the captain had been correct; the sea was rougher now that they were well into the Atlantic—and wobbled over to the windows to draw back the heavy fabric.

  “Oh!”

  The sound escaped her lips without conscious thought. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see—well, to be honest, she’d expected exactly what she did see, which was the ocean, stretching out for miles and miles until it kissed the blue edge of the horizon. But even so, she had not been prepared for the sheer beauty of it, the enormity, the immensity of it all.

  Or how very small it would make her feel.

  But it was gorgeous. No, it was more than that. It was tremendous, and she could almost be glad for the circumstances that had brought her here to see it.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. For ten minutes she stood there, watching the play of the waves, the way they formed frosty tips like meringues. Every now and then a bird flew into view, and she wondered how far they were from land, and how far a bird could fly before it needed to set itself down. And surely some birds could fly farther than others—what made them able to do that? The weight? The wingspan?

  There were so many things she did not know, and so many things she hadn’t known to ponder, and now she was stuck here in this cabin instead of up on deck where she might have a grander view of the world.

  “They can’t be that superstitious,” she muttered, pushing herself back from the window. Honestly, it was ridiculous that the sailors clung to such nonsense in this day and age. Her eyes fell on the tooth powder the captain had left out for her. She hadn’t used it yet. It would serve those sailors right if she ignored it and then went above deck and breathed on everyone.