by Julia Quinn
Andrew stalked after Poppy. They could leave out the back. It would take longer to reach the relative safety of the busy street, but it would have to do.
“Oh!” he heard Poppy exclaim. “Pardon me.”
But her voice was off, and when Andrew reached the door, his blood ran cold. Two more men stood in the alley. One had his hand on Billy’s shoulder.
The other had his hand on Poppy.
For the rest of his days, Andrew would remember that moment as if it had unfolded in quarter time. Yet even though every moment felt impossibly slowed down, he could not recall actually thinking. Words, language . . . they were gone, replaced by a world washed red with rage.
He lunged forward, and Poppy was knocked to the side as he wrapped his hands around the brigand’s throat. But within seconds, he was surrounded, and he only managed to get in two kicks before he found himself pinned against the tavern wall, each arm immobilized by members of the rough-looking gang he’d spotted inside the tavern.
He looked urgently about, trying to assess the situation. It was clear that the three men he’d seen earlier were but a few of a larger group. Andrew could not be sure how many there were in total. He counted four in the alley, but from the noises coming through the open doorway, there were at least that many inside as well.
The four men exchanged words in Portuguese too rapid for Andrew to follow, and then the one who’d had his hand wrapped tightly around Poppy’s arm adjusted his position and hauled her back against him, his beefy arm making a pointed elbow around her throat.
“Get your hands off her,” Andrew roared, but the foul cretin only laughed, and Poppy let out a strangled cry as she was pulled even more tightly against his chest.
“You son of a—” But Andrew’s growl was choked off when he was slammed back against the stone wall of the tavern.
The man holding Poppy laughed anew, and he wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger before tickling the underside of her chin.
He would be the first to die.
Andrew had no idea how he would do it, but as God was his witness, he was going to disembowel him.
“Let her go!”
Billy. Dear God, he’d forgotten about the boy. And apparently everyone else had as well, because no one was restraining him when he ran forward and kicked Poppy’s captor in the shin.
“Billy, no!” Andrew yelled, because anyone could see that he did not stand a chance.
But the thirteen-year-old urchin from the wrong side of Portsmouth had the heart of a gentleman, and he would not allow his lady’s honor to be besmirched.
“Let her go!” Billy screamed again. And then—Holy Mother of God, they were going to kill him for this—he sank his teeth into the large man’s arm.
The howl of pain that ensued was enough to curdle blood, and whether it was revenge or reaction, Andrew would never know, but the man’s fist came down on Billy’s head like a cudgel.
The boy dropped like a stone.
“Billy!” Poppy cried.
And then, as Andrew watched in horrified awe, Poppy went mad.
“You brute!” she snarled, and she delivered a double blow—first slamming her foot onto her captor’s instep, then jabbing her pointy elbow into his belly.
The foot did nothing, but the elbow stunned him enough to let her go, and Poppy dropped to the ground, cradling Billy’s head as she tried to rouse him.
“He’s a child!” she hissed.
“Ele me mordeu!” The man who’d been holding her shoved his injured arm in her face.
Poppy looked up from Billy just long enough to snap, “Well, that’s your own bloody fault.”
The other brigands were laughing, which did nothing to soothe his temper, and he let out a stream of curses.
Funny how Andrew could understand that.
“Billy,” Poppy said, smoothing the boy’s hair from his face. “Please wake up. Can you answer me?”
Billy did not move.
“I hope that bite becomes infected,” Poppy said in a malevolent growl. “I hope your arm turns black and falls off. I hope your bollocks turn gree—”
“Poppy!” Andrew barked. He didn’t think any of these men spoke English, but if they did, bollocks was likely the first word they’d learned.
“Do any of you speak English?” he asked. “Inglês?”
They grunted their nos, and one of the men poked his head back into the tavern and yelled something. A few moments later, one of the men Andrew had first seen in the tavern led Senhor Farias into the alley.
With a knife to his throat.
Chapter 18
“Billy?” Poppy murmured, lightly stroking his cheek. “Billy, please wake up.”
But the boy didn’t stir. He didn’t look ill, or pale, or any of those things Poppy thought would come from such a fierce blow to the head. He looked almost peaceful, as if his sleep was natural, and all he needed was a little nudge and reminder that it was time to open his eyes.
Water, she thought. Maybe some water splashed on his face would help. She knew the word for water. She’d learned it earlier that day.
“Agua,” she begged, looking from man to man among the bandits. “Agua por the boy.”
But her mangled sentence went unheard. A commotion broke out inside the tavern—shouting, followed by the crash of broken wood and overturned tables. The man who had hit Billy rushed to the open doorway and disappeared inside.
There was more talk between the bandits, their voices quick and sharp and utterly incomprehensible to Poppy’s English ears.
She felt so bloody helpless. Earlier in the day it had all been so charming—the music of the Portuguese language swirling about her ears. It had been a game to wonder what they were saying, a marvel to consider just how huge the world really was.
Now she just felt illiterate. And lost. She might as well be an infant for all that she could tell what was happening around her.
She turned toward Andrew, not that he was likely to understand the fast chatter much better than she could. She’d spent the entire day with him; she had some idea of how much Portuguese he knew.
More than most, but far from fluent.
“Andrew.” She whispered his name, but she didn’t think he heard her. The two largest bandits had him pinned tightly against the wall, and just the sight of it caused Poppy’s throat to constrict. One of them had an elbow pressed hard into Andrew’s belly; the other held his jaw in a viselike grip. Both used the full weight of their bodies to keep him in place.
Andrew. This time she only thought his name. She couldn’t have got his attention, anyway. He was staring at the doorway, his face locked in an expression that was almost devoid of emotion.
Devoid. Another word she thought sounded like its meaning.
Devoid. She despised it.
It was a word that should never be used to describe Captain Andrew James. He was full. He was replete. He was alive.
She thought he might be more alive than anyone she’d ever met.
And . . .
And . . .
She blinked, bringing her vision into focus. Andrew was still looking away from her, but it didn’t seem to matter any longer. She did not need to see his eyes; she knew they held more blue than the ocean. She did not need to hear his voice; she knew it would wash across her with the warmth of the sun.
What he’d said earlier in the day—he was right. She knew him.
Andrew James did not merely exist. He lived.
And he made her want to be the same way.
The realization took her breath away. She’d thought she was quick and adventurous and full of wit, and maybe she was, but when she was with Andrew, she was more. More of all that, and more of everything else, and more of things she’d not even known she might want.
It was not that he’d changed her; all of the seeds were already there.
But with him, she grew.
“Poppy.” Andrew’s voice. Low, and tight with warning. The noises emanating from the tav
ern had changed. Footsteps. Someone was coming toward them.
“Senhor Farias,” Poppy whispered. The tavernkeeper emerged first, propelled stiffly forward by a man who held his upper body immobile with one beefy arm wrapped tightly around his chest.
And a knife at his throat.
A third man hopped down the steps behind them—the leader of the bunch, Poppy thought. He said a few words in a chilling tone of voice, and then Senhor Farias said, “Do not fight them, Captain! They are many, and they have many weapons.”
“What do they want?” Andrew asked.
“Money. They say they want money. They see you are English, that you are rich.”
Poppy’s eyes darted from man to man, even as her hand kept stroking Billy’s cheek. Why would these men think they were rich? Well-to-do, certainly; it was obvious they were not laborers. But there was no way they could know that she was related to a wealthy viscount, that she had a family who would pay a king’s ransom for her safe return.
Not that her parents could afford such a ransom. But her uncle . . . he would pay.
If he knew she’d been kidnapped.
But he did not know she was in Lisbon. No one did. Not a soul who had ever mattered to her knew where she was. Funny how she’d never quite thought of it that way before.
Funny.
Maybe tragic.
Probably not both.
She looked back down at Billy. He mattered to her now, she realized, and so did Andrew. But if she disappeared into the dark side of Lisbon, so would they, and her family would never know her fate.
“I have some coin in my coat,” Andrew said, his voice slow and deliberately even. He nodded toward his chest. “If they reach into my breast pocket, they will find it.”
Senhor Farias translated, but Poppy did not need to understand Portuguese to know what the gang’s leader thought of Andrew’s suggestion. His reply was sharp, his expression malevolent.
And Senhor Farias blanched with fear.
“He says it is not enough,” the tavernkeeper said. “I ask how he knows it is not enough, and he says he knows who you are. He knows you captain Infinity. You have goods and cargo that don’t fit in a pocket.”
A muscle worked in Andrew’s face, and Poppy could see how hard he was working to remain in control of his temper when he said, “Tell them that if they let us go, they will be amply compensated.”
Senhor Farias’s mouth trembled as the man holding him pressed the knife more firmly to his throat. “I do not know that word, amplycomp—”
“I will pay them,” Andrew said sharply, grunting as he took an elbow to the gut. “If they let us go, I will pay them.”
Senhor Farias translated, and Poppy’s blood ran cold when the leader threw back his head and laughed. Once he’d wiped his eyes, he said a few words, and Senhor Farias turned back to Andrew.
“He says he will take you. He will get more that way.”
“Only if he releases—”
The leader cut him off with a few barked words.
Senhor Farias swallowed convulsively.
“What did he say?” Andrew demanded.
The tavernkeeper’s voice shook down to a whisper. “He says . . . he also takes the lady.”
A look came over Andrew that was positively feral. “Over my dead—”
“No!” Poppy cried.
Andrew’s eyes did not stray from the leader of the gang as he said, “Stay out of this, Poppy.”
“I’m already in it,” she shot back. “And a fat lot of good you’ll do me if anything has to be done over your dead body.”
Andrew looked down at her with a glare.
She returned the expression.
“Captain?” Senhor Farias’s voice choked with terror, and when Poppy looked at him she saw a tiny trail of blood slipping down his neck.
Andrew’s response was absolute. “She. Goes. Free.”
“Captain, I do not think they will agree to—”
“Basta!” The leader of the gang whipped a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Billy’s head.
“No!” Poppy threw herself over the boy. She didn’t want to die—please God, please—she didn’t want to die. But she could not let them shoot Billy. He had wanted only to protect her. And he was so small.
He just wanted to play with the cat.
The leader snorted with disgust, spat a few words toward Senhor Farias, and stalked away.
“What did he say?” Poppy whispered.
Senhor Farias’s lips trembled, and he shook his head.
“Do you know them?” Poppy asked.
He nodded. “I must pay them every month. For protection.”
“From whom?”
A bitter sound choked its way out of the tavernkeeper’s throat. “From them. We all must do it. Everyone in my—how do you say it—the streets near my house.”
“Neighborhood?”
“Yes. Neighborhood. We all pay. But they never do this before. They have hurt people, but not people like you.”
Somehow Poppy did not find that reassuring. Then again, she didn’t think Senhor Farias had meant it to be.
“Senhor.”
They all turned to Andrew, still held immobile by the wall, his chin tipped into an awkward position by the man pinching his jaw.
But his voice was sure when he said, “What did he say?”
Senhor Farias looked to Poppy and then back to Andrew. “He says they take all three.” The tavernkeeper’s lips trembled. “You, the lady, and the boy.”
Poppy gasped. “What? No! Billy—”
“They take all three,” Senhor Farias said, cutting her off before she could finish her objection. “Or they shoot two. Two of you . . . and me.”
The world went silent. Maybe people were still talking, maybe the sounds of the nearby street continued as usual. But Poppy heard nothing. The space between her ears felt thick, as if she’d dunked herself underwater and people were speaking above.
Slowly, she rose to her feet. She looked to Andrew. She didn’t say anything. She simply didn’t think she needed to.
He gave a single grim nod. He understood.
Fear was a strange beast. When Poppy was a child, she and her brothers had often played What if? and How would you?
What if you were being chased by a boar?
How would you react if someone pointed a gun at your head?
Didn’t all children play these games? Didn’t all adults?
She remembered one time with all four of her brothers—somehow the game had metamorphosed into What if Poppy were being chased by a boar? and How would Poppy react if someone pointed a gun at her head?
She’d countered with a pert: Which one of you would come to my aid?, but she’d been swiftly informed that this was not within the parameters of the game. After settling on the gun conundrum, Richard and Reginald had both decided she’d scream. This wasn’t entirely unexpected; Poppy didn’t often scream, but it had to be said—when she did, she was damn good at it.
Ronald had said that he thought she’d faint. When she pointed out that she’d never fainted in her life, he pointed out that she’d never had a gun to her head.
Which Poppy had to concede was relevant, even if she did not agree with his conclusion.
The game had dissolved shortly thereafter; Richard sniffed the air, declared that he smelled Cook’s apple tarts, and that was that. Later, though, Poppy had asked Roger why he hadn’t offered an opinion.
“I don’t know, Pops,” he’d said with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “I hardly know how I would react in such a situation. I don’t think we really can know until it happens.”
It was happening now.
And fear was indeed a strange beast, because whatever Poppy had thought she might do, however she’d thought she might react when her life was in danger, it wasn’t this.
It was almost as if she wasn’t there.
She was numb.
Detached.
Her movements were s
low and careful, but nothing felt deliberate. She was not thinking I will move slowly, I don’t want to startle anyone.
She just did it. And she waited patiently for the bandits to do what they would.
Andrew was subdued first, his hands pulled roughly behind his body and bound with rope. “Do not hurt her,” he warned, just as a coarse burlap sack was lowered over his head.
As Poppy watched, dread slid through her body like a wraith. There was something about being blinded—about him being blinded—that was terrifying. If he couldn’t see her, he couldn’t help her, and, dear heaven, she did not want to face this on her own.
She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say, and at any rate, she did not seem able to make a sound, at least not until one of the men grabbed her roughly by the wrist. His fingers pressed into her skin with enough bite that she let out a little yelp.
“Poppy?” Andrew struggled against his bindings. “What did they—”
His captor spat out a few words and slammed him into the wall.
“I’m fine!” Poppy yelled. “I’m fine. I promise. I was only surprised.”
She looked at the man holding Andrew. “Please don’t hurt him.”
He stared back as if she were an idiot. Which she probably was. She knew he couldn’t understand her.
But still, she had to try.
“The boy,” she said, directing her entreaty to the one with the kindest face. “Please be gentle.”
“Suavemente,” Senhor Farias said.
“Suavemente,” Poppy repeated, even though the man who was now covering Billy’s head had surely heard Senhor Farias himself. “Please.”
Poppy swallowed as she watched him tie the unconscious boy’s hands together. “Must they do this?” she entreated Senhor Farias. “They have the captain, and they have me. He’s just a boy.”
Senhor Farias looked at her with a pained expression.
“He probably won’t remember any of this,” Poppy said.
Senhor Farias let out a shaky exhale and said something to the man on the ground with Billy. Poppy’s eyes darted back and forth as the two men spoke in urgent tones. Finally, Senhor Farias turned to her and said, “He says the boy is too much trouble. They will leave him with me.”
