by Julia Quinn
“I can see that,” she muttered with a nod toward the head.
He fought a chuckle. “A compromise, if you will. In this case, the men trade a bit of their dignity for a far cleaner ship. Believe me, it gets rank enough on board during a long voyage.”
She made a little frown—the kind that was accompanied by a tilt of the head when people decided they approved of something. Still, she said, “I can’t believe I am having this conversation.”
“Likewise.”
“You brought it up.”
“So I did.” He frowned, trying to remember why. “Oh, right. It was because you had commented on the delicate manners of my men.”
“This was your way of refuting my claim?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
She frowned. “But you said you—”
“I used to,” he admitted. “Not on the Infinity, but on other ships, when I wasn’t in command.”
She gave a little shudder.
“The King of France sits on the chamber pot in front of his entire court,” Andrew said cheerfully.
“He does not!”
“He does, I swear. Or at least the last one did.”
She shook her head. “The French.”
Andrew burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are, as you know.”
She tried to scowl, but it didn’t work. She was clearly too proud of herself. Andrew thought she looked delightful.
“I suppose you’ve been to France,” she said.
“I have,” he confirmed.
“All over, or just to Paris?”
“And the ports.”
“Of course.” Her eyes flicked sheepishly to the side. “You can’t sail a ship of this size all the way to Paris.”
“Not generally, no. We can go as far as Rouen. Sometimes we do, sometimes we dock at the coast. In Le Havre, usually.”
Poppy was quiet for a moment, long enough for the wind to pull a wispy lock of her hair from behind her ear. It tickled Andrew’s skin, almost made him sneeze.
“What will you do when you’ve done everything?” she finally asked. Her voice was more serious now, thoughtful and curious.
He thought that a most interesting question, one he could not imagine anyone else asking of him. “Is that possible?” he wondered. “To do everything?”
Her brow drew down as she thought about that, and even though Andrew knew the lines that formed were due to thought and not worry, he had the hardest time keeping his fingers from smoothing them out.
“I think it might be possible to do enough,” she finally said.
“Enough?” he murmured.
“So that nothing feels new anymore.”
Her words echoed his own recent thoughts so closely it nearly pulled his breath from his body. It wasn’t that his work was no longer exciting, or that he never got to do anything new. It was more that he was starting to feel ready to go home. To be with the people he loved.
With the people who loved him.
“I don’t know,” he said, because her question deserved honesty, even if he didn’t have a proper answer. “I don’t think I’ve reached that point yet,” he said. “Although . . .”
“Although?”
He might be getting close.
But he didn’t say that. He let himself lean forward, just far enough so that he could imagine setting his chin on the top of her head. He fought the urge to move his hands forward, to wrap them around her and pull her against him. He wanted to hold her in place, just the two of them against the wind.
“I should like to go to Ethiopia,” she said suddenly.
“Really?”
Poppy Bridgerton was more adventurous than most, but this surprised him.
“No,” she admitted. “But I like to think that I’d like to go there.”
“You’d like to . . .” He blinked. “What?”
“I’ve had a great deal of time to myself lately,” she said. “There is little else to do besides imagine things.”
Andrew generally thought himself an intelligent man, but he was having the damnedest time following her. “So you imagine going to Ethiopia?”
“Not really. I don’t know enough to imagine it properly. I can’t imagine what little I’ve heard is accurate. In England people speak of Africa as if it’s one big happy place—”
“Happy?” It wasn’t the word he’d have used.
“You know what I mean. People speak of it as if it’s one place, like France or Spain, when in actuality it’s huge.”
He thought of the dissected map, of how much fun she’d had while putting it together. “So says the map,” he murmured.
She nodded her agreement, then befuddled him completely when she said, “I imagine being the sort of person who would want to go to Ethiopia.”
“There’s a difference?”
“I think so. Perhaps what I mean is that I’d like to be the type of person who wants to do such things. I think someone like that would be brilliant at parties, don’t you?”
Andrew was dubious. “So you’re saying your goal is to be brilliant at parties.”
“No, of course not. My current goal is to avoid such gatherings at all costs. That’s why I was in Charmouth, if you must know.”
“I suppose I must,” he murmured, mostly because there didn’t seem any other appropriate response.
She gave him a look that was half peeved and half indulgent before carrying on. “What I’m trying to say is that if I went to a ball and met someone who had been to Ethiopia on purpose—”
“On purpose?”
“I don’t think it counts if one goes under duress.”
Andrew turned her around. He needed to see her face. It was far too difficult to follow the conversation otherwise.
He studied her, looking for what, he did not know. Signs of mischief? Of madness? “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” he finally admitted.
She laughed, and it was a glorious thing. “I’m sorry, I’m not being terribly clear. But that’s your own fault for leaving me to my own devices for so long. I’ve had far too much time to do nothing but think.”
“And this has led you to sweeping conclusions about social discourse and the Ethiopian Empire?”
“It has.” She said it quite grandly, stepping back as if that might broaden her stage. Not that there was anyone else to listen; they’d passed only two crewmembers on the way to the beakhead, and both men had wisely made themselves scarce.
It wasn’t often they saw their captain hand-in-hand with a lady, even if it was just so he could pull her along behind him.
But Poppy’s step back meant that he had to release his hold on her hips, which was a damn shame.
When she was confident of his attention, she made her pronouncement. “There are two types of people in this world.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“For the purposes of this conversation, yes. There are people who want to visit Ethiopia, and people who don’t.”
Andrew fought very hard to maintain an even expression. He failed.
“You laugh,” she said, “but it’s true.”
“I’m sure it must be.”
“Just listen to me. Some of us have an adventurous, wandering soul, and some of us don’t.”
“And you think a person has to want to travel to the east of Africa to prove he has a thirst for adventure?”
“No, of course not, but as an indicator—”
“You, Miss Bridgerton, have an adventurous soul.”
She drew back with a pleased smile. “Do you think so?”
He swept his arm through the air, motioning to the sea and the sky, to their spot at the bow of a cleverly crafted pile of wood that could somehow carry them from one land to another, across liquid depths no man could withstand on his own.
“It doesn’t count if it’s under duress,” she reminded him.
Enough. He planted his hands on her shoulders
. “There are two types of people in this world,” he told her. “The ones who would curl up in a ball and sob their way through this sort of unexpected voyage, and—”
“Those who wouldn’t?” she interrupted.
He shook his head, and he felt the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips as he touched her cheek. “I was going to say you.”
“So it’s me against the world?”
“No,” he said, and something began to tumble inside him. He was weightless, and it was like the time he’d fallen from a tree, except there was nothing below, just an empty expanse of space and her.
“No,” he said again. “I think I’m on your side.”
Her eyes grew wide, and although it was clearly too dark to make out the color of her irises, it still somehow felt as if he could see it, the dark moss giving way to flecks of something paler. Younger, like new shoots in the grass.
Something light and luminous began to rise within him. That heady, fizzy feeling of infatuation, of flirtation and desire.
No, not desire. Or not just desire.
Anticipation.
The moment before. When you could feel the beat of your heart in every corner of your body, when every breath felt as if it reached all the way down to your toes. When nothing could quite compare to the perfect curve of a woman’s lips.
“If I kissed you,” he whispered, “would you let me?”
Her eyes grew soft, with something like amusement.
Amusement?
“If you kissed me,” she replied, “I would not have the opportunity to let you or not let you. It would be done.”
Trust this one to split hairs. He would not allow her to get out of the question so cleanly.
“If I leaned toward you, like this . . .” He followed his words with actions, and the space between their faces grew smaller. “And if my eyes dropped to your mouth, in what we all know is a universal signal that one is pondering a kiss, what would you do?”
She licked her lips. He doubted she even realized that she’d done so. “I’m not sure,” she whispered.
“But it’s happening right now. I’ve leaned in.” He reached out, brushed her skin. “I’m touching your cheek.”
She turned almost imperceptibly into his hand.
Andrew felt his voice grow husky, even before he formed words. “It’s no longer what would you do but what will you do.”
He moved even closer, so close that his eyes could no longer focus on her face. So close that he could feel the light touch of her breath on his lips.
But still not a kiss.
“What will you do, Poppy?”
And then she leaned. She swayed. Just a little, but that was all it took for her lips to brush softly against his.
It was the lightest of kisses.
It shot through his heart.
His fingers landed on her shoulders, and some very small corner of his mind realized it wasn’t to pull her close, but rather to keep himself from doing so. Because if he did . . .
And heaven knew he wanted to.
Dear God, he wanted so much. So much of her.
He wanted the length of her body against his. He wanted the curve of her back beneath his hand, the heat of her as he nudged his leg between hers.
He wanted to press himself against her, so that she would feel his desire, so that she would know it, and she would know what she had done to him.
He wanted all that, and then he wanted more, which was why he drew an unsteady breath and stepped back.
To continue would be heaven.
To continue would be madness.
He turned away, needing a moment to catch his breath. That kiss . . . it had lasted less than a second, but he was undone.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy in his throat.
She blinked several times. “You are?”
He looked back at her. Her fingers were lightly touching her lips, and she looked dazed, as if she wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.
Welcome to the club.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, because it seemed slightly kinder than saying it shouldn’t have happened. Although he wasn’t sure why.
“It’s . . .” Her brow wrinkled, and she looked as if she was thinking very hard about something. Either that or she couldn’t figure out what she ought to be thinking about.
“Poppy?”
Her eyes flicked back to his, as if something inside her had woken up. “It’s all right,” she said.
“All right?” he echoed. That sounded . . . tepid.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “I kissed you.”
“Please,” he said patiently, “we both know—”
“I kissed you.” She said it firmly, between her teeth. “You dared me to.”
“I—” But he said no more. Was it the truth? Had he dared her? Or had he just been making sure she had wanted it too? Because even just one kiss . . . it could ruin her.
It may well have ruined him.
“That’s what happened,” she said. “That’s what happened, and I don’t regret it.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Weren’t we just discussing the irony of my being bored while on the adventure of my life? You are many things, Captain James, but you are not boring.”
His mouth might have gone slack. “Thank you?”
“But we will never speak of it again.”
“If that is your wish.” It wasn’t his wish, but it should be.
She regarded him with an oddly penetrating expression. “It has to be, don’t you think?”
He had no idea what he thought any longer, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “I bow to your judgment, Miss Bridgerton.”
She gave a little snort, as if she didn’t believe that for a second. He supposed he deserved it; he was usually employing some degree of irony when he said such things.
“Very well,” he said. “We shall pretend it never happened.”
She opened her mouth as if she might argue—and in fact he was quite certain she wanted to argue; he’d seen that expression on her face enough times to know what it meant. But in the end she didn’t say anything. She snapped her mouth shut and nodded her agreement.
That seemed to be the end of the conversation, so Andrew just stared off at the horizon, barely discernible in the moonless night. They’d made good time; barring an unexpected change in the weather, they’d be in Lisbon by morning. Which meant that he needed to get some sleep. He had to be off the ship and into town first thing.
“I’m afraid I need to take you back down below,” he said to Poppy.
She could not hide her disappointment, but at the same time, it was clear she’d been expecting this. “Very well,” she said with a sigh.
He held out his hand.
She shook her head. “I can manage.”
“At least allow me to help you up from the beakhead.”
She did, but the moment she was on the main deck, she pulled her hand from his grasp. He let her lead the way back, and soon enough, they were at his cabin door.
“I just need to gather a few things before I go to Mr. Carroway’s cabin,” he said.
“Of course.” She stepped to the side as they entered, and it was all very polite, and strangely not awkward.
Rather like nothing had happened.
Which was how they wanted it.
Wasn’t it?
Chapter 14
Poppy awakened the following morning with the strangest feeling. It was almost vertigo, and she grasped the bed rail for several seconds before she realized—
They were not moving.
They were not moving!
She leapt out of the bunk and rushed to the window, inexplicably stumbling on the stillness. With an excited breath, she pulled back the curtains to reveal . . .
Docks.
Of course.
She wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to her that she would not be able to see the proper center of Lisb
on from her ship’s window. The docks in London weren’t anywhere near the sights of the capital.
Still, it was something to look at that wasn’t the endless water of the Atlantic, and Poppy took it all in eagerly. She could see only a small sliver of what was surely a large canvas, but even so, the scene before her was buzzing with life and activity. The men—and they were all men; she did not see a woman among them—moved about with strength and efficiency, carrying crates, pulling on ropes, performing all manner of tasks, the purpose of most Poppy could not deduce.
And how strange and different the men were . . . and at the same time, not different at all. They were performing all the same tasks she assumed English dockworkers did, jostling and laughing and arguing in the manner of men, and yet even if she had not been aware that she was in Portugal, she would have known that these men were not English.
It was not their looks, although it was true that many had darker hair and skin than most of Poppy’s countrymen. It was more in their movements, their gestures. When they spoke, she could tell just by looking at them that their words were of a different language. The men’s mouths moved differently. They used different muscles. They made different expressions.
It was fascinating, and she wondered if she would have noticed it if the sounds of their voices had not been brought to such a low volume by the wall and windows between them. If she could hear them—really hear the sound of the Portuguese language—would her eyes have found the changes in their faces?
There was so much to think about. So much to see.
And she was stuck in this cabin.
Captain James had made it clear that she would not be permitted to disembark in Lisbon. He’d said it was too dangerous, he wasn’t there to serve as a guide, he had business to conduct, this wasn’t a pleasure voyage . . .
He was just full of reasons.
Then again, he had also told her that under no circumstances would she be allowed on deck.
And last night he had changed his mind.
Poppy leaned her forehead on the window, the glass cool and soothing against her skin. As she’d lain in bed the night before, reliving every moment up under the stars, she’d allowed herself to hope that maybe he would relent and take her into town.
