by Julia Quinn
Something had changed the night before, and she wasn’t thinking of the kiss.
Well, no, she was certainly thinking about the kiss. She might have declared that they should never speak of it again, but she’d been aghast when the captain had suggested that they pretend it never happened. She’d almost told him so, was going to say in no uncertain terms that it was exactly the sort of thing a person should take care to remember, if only to make sure it wasn’t repeated.
That had seemed petty, though, and maybe even mean, so then she almost said that it was her first kiss, and a girl only got one of those, and he was mad if he thought she was going to pretend it never happened.
But that was exactly the sort of thing he’d misunderstand. She didn’t want him to think she was lying in bed thinking about him, even if she was.
For now.
It wasn’t as if she had plans to lie in bed and think about him for the rest of her life. She would be back in England in less than a week, and then she’d never see him again. If Elizabeth kept her mouth shut, Poppy’s life would continue as normal, which meant that eventually she would marry some nice gentleman her family approved of, and she’d lie in bed and think about him for the rest of her life.
And if Elizabeth didn’t keep her mouth shut, and Poppy’s social standing drew down to zero, she’d have far bigger problems keeping her awake than the devastatingly handsome Captain Andrew James.
Poppy glanced over at the clock to check the time, and as if on cue, Billy knocked on her door. She did not need to hear his voice to know it was he. Billy and the captain were the only two people who ever came to see her, and their knocks were as different as chalk and cheese.
“Come in!” she called, because unlike the captain, Billy always waited for her permission to enter. Her hair was still in its sleeping braid, but she’d given up caring about that. And since she slept in her clothes, it wasn’t as if anyone would ever see her improperly dressed.
“I brought breakfast, miss,” he said, carrying his usual tray. “It’s nothing fancy. Just some toast, tea, an’ apples. Most of the men will be going ashore to eat.”
“Will they?” Poppy murmured, her envious eyes wandering back to the window.
Billy nodded as he set down the tray. “They have to finish up on board, of course, an’ they can’t all leave the ship at once, but the captain makes sure everyone has a chance to stretch his legs.”
“Everyone, eh?”
Billy missed her undertone and sailed on. “Oh yes, though it’s a right confusing place if you don’t know what’s what. It’s not just the language, though it’s good to know a few words. Sim for yes, no for no.”
“Well, that’s handy,” Poppy remarked.
“No seems to be no in just about every place we go,” Billy said with a cheeky grin. “It’s spelled different, I think, but it sounds close enough.”
Poppy took her usual seat at the table, then adjusted it to give the best view of the port. “In German it’s nein.”
“Is it?” Billy scratched his head. “I’ve not been there. They don’t have a coast, I think.”
Poppy poured herself a cup of tea. “Hamburg,” she said absently.
“Eh?”
She looked up. “They speak German in Hamburg. It’s a busy port city near the Baltic Sea. I would show it to you on the map, but I’ve already disassembled it.”
Billy nodded; he’d seen her working on the dissected map earlier in the week. “Maybe I should give it a try,” he said. “Be useful to know something more of geography. I can read, y’know,” he said proudly. “An’ I can do sums better than half the men on the ship.”
“That’s wonderful,” Poppy said. Maybe they could work on the puzzle on the voyage back. It would be her third time, but it would be great fun to have company. She would have to petition Captain James to release Billy from some of his duties, but if she explained that it was for the boy’s education . . .
He would say yes to that. She was sure of it.
“Tell me more about Lisbon,” she said with an encouraging smile. “I want to hear everything.”
“Oh, it’s a lively city, miss. Y’can’t really tell from here.” He plopped down in the chair across from her and motioned toward the window. “This is just the waterfront. We’re moored in real close this time, so you’ve got a right good view, but it’s not the city. The city is grand.”
“Grand?” Poppy murmured. She took a careful sip of her tea. It was still a little too hot.
“Oh yes, and a real different sort of place. Nothing like home, not that there’s anything wrong with home. It’s just—it’s nice to see things that are different.”
“I’m sure,” Poppy murmured, bringing her teacup to her lips to mask whatever sarcastic tone she’d not been able to keep from her words.
“Everything looks different,” Billy continued. “Well, most everything, and the food isn’t the same. Takes some getting used to, but it’s good, the food. I’ve been here six times now, so I know my way around.”
Poppy managed a small smile.
Billy paused, finally noticing her expression. “I could, ah . . . Well, I could ask if we could bring you something. They make a nice rice pudding, though that’s not so easy to carry. An’ there’s these little bready things that sometimes come rolled in sugar.” His eyes actually rolled back in his head as he relived his culinary ecstasy. “I could bring you one of those, if you want.”
“From the looks of you,” Poppy said, “I think I might want more than one.”
Billy laughed. “They won’t be as good as when they’re fresh hot, but you’ll still like ’em. An’ the cook will be getting provisions, so he might make something that’s a little Portuguesey.”
“This is all very kind of you, Billy.”
He gave her a sympathetic smile. “The captain’s not a bad man for making you stay on board. It wouldn’t be safe for you to go out on your own. Wouldn’t be safe even if we were docked back in London. The ladies here near the water . . .” He blushed, powerfully, and his voice lowered as he said, “Not all of them are ladies, if you get what I mean.”
Poppy decided not to inquire further about that. “What do you think would happen if I went ashore with Captain James?” she asked. “Surely Lisbon is not such a dangerous city that he could not protect me.”
“Well . . .” Billy pondered this for a moment, his mouth pursing on one side as he thought. “I suppose he could just take you through the docks area and over to the nicer bits.”
Poppy’s mood brightened considerably. “Brilliant! I—”
“But he’s not here.”
Well, damn. “Not here?”
Billy shook his head. “Was the first one off the ship. Had some sort of business. He usually does.”
“Do you know when he will be back?”
“Hard to tell,” Billy said with a shrug. “It usually depends on what he’s carrying.”
“Carrying?” Poppy echoed.
“Sometimes it’s a package, sometimes just papers. And of course, sometimes nothing at all.”
Sometimes nothing at all? Poppy found this interesting, although she couldn’t say why. Probably just because she had nothing better to wonder about. She’d already been through just about every permutation of her return to England (ninety percent involved her ruin; the other ten percent required a spectacular and unlikely combination of good luck).
So, yes. She was going to wonder why the captain sometimes carried packages and sometimes carried papers. She was going to do her damnedest to think only about things of this sort until she got home and had to deal with far more serious issues.
“Does he often carry papers?” she asked.
Billy stood and pushed his chair back into place. “Sometimes. Don’t know, really. He doesn’t tell any of us what his business is that’s not the ship’s business.”
“He has business that’s not the ship’s business?”
He shrugged. “He has friends here. Has to.
He’s been so many times.”
Poppy knew that Billy had been on the Infinity for only nine months; he’d told her that the second time he brought her breakfast. If he had been to Lisbon six times already, Poppy could only imagine how often Captain James had visited over the years. According to Billy (because just about everything she knew was according to Billy), he’d been captaining the ship since 1782.
It seemed like an awful lot of trips to Portugal, but then again, what did she know about privateering? Maybe it made sense to stick with a dependable, loyal network of traders.
And just like that, she was thinking like a criminal. Good heavens.
Poppy sipped her tea, which had finally cooled to an acceptable temperature. “Have a good time in town,” she said. “I assume you’re going.”
“Oh yes. Soon, actually. One of the men said he’d take me with him.” Billy looked at her with a sheepish expression. “The captain doesn’t let me go by myself either.”
The captain, Poppy was coming to realize, had a softer heart than he wanted others to realize. It was difficult to imagine another ship captain worrying over the welfare of a thirteen-year-old boy.
Not that she had experience with any other ship captains, but still.
“I’d best be going,” Billy said. “I’ve got to finish my duties before I can go ashore, an’ I don’t think Mr. Brown will wait if he’s ready before I am.”
Poppy nodded and bid him farewell. She made quick work of breakfast—there were only so many ways to bite a pattern into a toast triangle—then took her tea to the window to watch the show.
It was rather like going to the theater. Not any theater she’d had occasion to attend, but she was determined to enjoy it all the same. At first she tried to take in the entire panorama, but there was too much happening at once, so she decided to follow the path of just one man, watching as he went about his tasks.
“I shall call you José,” she announced. It was the name of a recent king, so surely it was appropriate to the region. “José Goodhope. You shall have three children, four dogs, and a rabbit.”
She frowned. He’d probably eat that rabbit. Best not get too attached to it.
“Are you married, Mr. Goodhope? Or widowed?” She watched her mystery man as he lifted a crate from a wagon and carried it toward a ship. “Widowed,” she said decisively. “Much more dramatic.”
Shakespeare would be proud. It was a play, after all.
“And your poor motherless children. You must work so hard to feed them. My goodness, they’re hungry.”
She thought about that.
“But not hungry enough to eat the rabbit,” she said firmly. This was her story, and she wanted to save the rabbit. It was white and fluffy and thoroughly nonexistent, but that was the beauty of writing one’s own tale. She could do whatever she wanted.
She’d always wanted to be an evil overlord.
Or a nice one. She had no real preference. Just so long as she was in charge.
José set down his crate and returned to the wagon, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He picked up another crate, this one heavier than the first if his posture was any indication. After he set that one down, he stood straight and rolled his neck a few times.
Poppy did the same. There was something about watching someone stretch that made her need to do it too.
When she was once again facing forward, she saw that José had twisted to call out to someone over his shoulder. Then he reached down to the hem of his shirt . . .
And took it off.
Poppy leaned forward. Now this was interesting.
Did dockworkers routinely perform their duties shirtless? Was this a Portuguese custom? It was certainly warmer here than it was in London, but then again, she’d never been to the London docks. Maybe the men ran around all the time with their chests bare as day.
And if that was the case, why had no one told her?
“Oh, José,” she murmured, setting down her teacup. “It’s a very hot day, isn’t it?”
This seemed reason enough to stand and move closer to the window. Maybe she needed to reengineer her plot. Did she really want José to be a widower? Wouldn’t it make more sense to make him a never-married bachelor?
With no children. Maybe a dog. And the rabbit could stay.
It was so lovely and fluffy. Who wouldn’t want to keep it in the story?
“Are you courting anyone, José?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she watched his muscles flex with exertion. First it was his arms, as he reached down to grip the crate, but then once he reached the ship she had a good view of his back.
She had no idea a man’s back could be so interesting. She’d seen her brothers shirtless, but not recently, and none of them had looked as sculpted as José.
“Sculpted,” she said aloud. Another word she thought sounded a bit like its meaning. But only if one was working in a soft medium. She squeezed her hands in the air as if molding clay. Sculpting. It sounded like the motion of scooping and mashing.
She shook her head. She was getting entirely off topic, and José was right there on the dock. What were those muscles called? The ones on a man’s chest that made it so . . .
Her hands wiggled in the air, still sculpting.
So . . . defined.
Poppy had taken drawing classes, of course; all young ladies did. Her instructor had talked about the muscles of the body, but he’d never mentioned the ones on a man’s chest. What were they called?
She glanced at Captain James’s bookshelf. Somehow she doubted she’d find the answer in Agrarian Masterpieces of Kent.
Poppy moved closer to the window. She didn’t think anyone would be able to see her from the dock. It was much brighter outside than in.
“How old are you?” she wondered. José was taking a break now, sitting atop one of the crates he’d just moved. He didn’t look very much older than she was. Certainly not more than thirty. And he had all his hair. It was dark—darker than the captain’s, of course—but just as thick. It would probably also have that soft, springy quality.
She’d touched the captain’s hair a few days earlier when the ocean had taken a dip and set her off-balance. She’d lurched forward and grabbed the first thing she could, which turned out to be the captain’s head.
It was entirely accidental, of course.
José’s hair had a similar wave. Poppy decided she liked it. If the breeze hit it just so, it would fall rakishly over his forehead. There had been a gentleman like that in London, and all the ladies had swooned. There was something about a mussed man, one of Poppy’s acquaintances had said. It meant he was so very vigorous. Poppy had thought she was talking her usual nonsense, but now, looking at José, vigor was taking on an entirely new meaning.
She had a feeling José was most vigorous.
He was handsome, her José. Nothing on the captain, of course, but not every man could be as beautiful as Andrew James.
“But José,” she said aloud, “I think you come close.”
“Close to what?”
Poppy jumped nearly a foot, almost knocking her teacup off the table. Captain James was standing by the door, watching her with arched eyebrows and an amused expression.
“You didn’t knock!” she accused.
“I did,” he said plainly. “And who’s José?”
Poppy just stared at him like an idiot, which was probably not a bad thing, since she doubted she could have managed anything that was either intelligent or nonincriminating. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard him knock.
Or the door opening.
Or closing.
She cleared her throat and bid him good morning. It seemed the best course of action.
But Captain James was undeterred. “What are you watching that has you so entranced?”
“Nothing!” she said, far too loudly. “I mean, just the docks, of course. I’m sure it’s not interesting to you, but it’s the first thing I’ve had a chance to look at that’s not just water.”
He took off his tricorn hat. “Did you miss me?”
“Of course not.”
He acknowledged this with a slightly sardonic nod, then ambled over to join her at the window. Poppy found herself trying not to squirm as he tilted his head to the side and perused the scene.
“It looks like an ordinary day loading cargo,” he said.
Poppy resisted the urge to babble some sort of agreement and instead just made a few meaningless noises and nodded.
Outside, José had gone back to work, but thankfully Captain James was looking elsewhere. He motioned with his hand toward a nearby ship and said, “The Marabella’s off to South America tomorrow.”
“Really? That sounds exciting.”
“It’s a longer voyage than I’ve ever made.”
“I imagine so,” Poppy responded, trying to keep her attention from wandering back to José, who was still laboring without a shirt.
“I don’t think I’d want to do it,” the captain said, his tone thoughtful.
“You could see Cape Horn,” Poppy pointed out.
He shrugged. “Hardly anyone goes that far south. The Marabella is heading for Salvador.”
“Salvador?” Poppy echoed. José was walking right toward her.
“In Brazil,” the captain confirmed.
Poppy tried to remember if Salvador had been marked on the dissected map, but out of the corner of her eye she saw José stretching again, and—
“Why, Miss Bridgerton,” the captain drawled, “are you ogling a naked man?”
“He’s not naked,” Poppy retorted.
In retrospect, it would have been far wiser to have denied the other part of the question.
Captain James smiled. Broadly. “So you are ogling him.”
“I’m not ogling anyone.”
“He does look like a fine specimen of man,” the captain said, stroking his chin.
“Stop.”
“Very muscular.”
Poppy’s face began to burn. “Stop.”
“Now I understand,” the captain said with unmistakable delight. “That’s José!”
