by Julia Quinn
Poppy almost smiled. She almost laughed, she was so relieved.
“But you must not fight them,” the tavernkeeper warned. “You must not give them trouble. You too, Captain,” he said. “You must not make trouble when they take you away or they will send someone back and—”
He made a cutting motion across his throat.
Poppy recoiled. She looked up at Andrew, who could not see, and realized she had to translate the gesture. She swallowed, forced herself to say the words. “They will kill him. They will slit Billy’s throat if we make trouble.”
“And they will set him free if we don’t?” Andrew said from beneath the burlap sack.
“Sim.”
Yes. One of a handful of Portuguese words Poppy now understood. “I will cooperate,” she said.
The tavernkeeper’s sad nod was the last thing Poppy saw before a sack was roughly pulled down over her head too.
She froze. She hadn’t expected it to be so instantly dark.
Or hot.
She tried to breathe.
The air around her face turned thick. She exhaled, and the heated air bounced back onto her mouth and nose. She tried to draw breath, but she couldn’t—no, she could, and she thought she did, but nothing was reaching her lungs.
No one was holding her throat. Why wasn’t she getting air?
She could hear herself breathing, could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but it wasn’t working. She was dizzy, disoriented. Unable to see her own feet, she suddenly wasn’t sure how to stand.
She needed to hold on to something.
“Poppy?” she heard Andrew call out. “Poppy, are you with me?”
He sounded very far away.
“Poppy!”
“I need to hold his hand,” she gasped. And then when no one did anything, she screamed it. “Let me hold his hand!”
There was a rush of movement around her, a crisp cadence of voices, one of them belonging to Senhor Farias. And then, miraculously, she felt her hand being placed between Andrew’s hands.
It was awkward. His hands were bound behind his back. She could barely link her fingers with his.
But it was a lifeline.
“You’re all right, Poppy,” he said. “I promise.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“You can.”
“I’m not.”
“Clearly, you are.” There was gentle humor in his voice, almost enough to pierce her panic. He squeezed her fingers. “I need you to be strong.”
“I’m not strong.”
“You’re the strongest person I know.”
“I’m not. I’m really not.” She didn’t know why she sounded like she was begging.
He squeezed again, and she heard him chuckle. “This isn’t even your first time being abducted.”
“It’s not the same,” she snapped. She twisted her head around to where she thought she might be facing him. “Honestly, Captain. That’s the falsest equivalence imaginable.”
“And you say you’re not strong,” he murmured.
“You—” She stopped. Felt his fingers curl around hers.
“Poppy?”
It took her a moment to realize what he’d done.
“Are you breathing now?”
She nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her and said, “I am.” And then: “Thank you.”
“We will make it through this,” he said.
“Do you really think so?”
He paused for a moment too long before saying yes.
But at least Poppy was breathing.
Chapter 19
Andrew had no idea where they were.
Back at the tavern, he and Poppy had been loaded unceremoniously into a wagon. They’d traveled well over an hour, but with a hood over his head—and a heavy blanket thrown over both of them—he could hardly have made sense of the journey.
The only thing of which he was certain was that they had gained elevation. But that was hardly a distinguishing fact. They’d started at sea level; they could hardly have gone any direction but up.
They were moved inside a building, then up a steep flight of stairs, and then to a room at the rear. A door shut and a lock turned, and then someone grabbed Andrew’s hood from the back and pulled it over and off his head, the angle ensuring that the burlap scraped roughly across his skin. He’d prepared himself to be blinded by sunlight, but the air was murky and dim. The room contained but one window, and it was covered by exterior wooden shutters—closed tightly and presumably nailed shut.
He turned just in time to see one of the men take hold of Poppy’s hood and pull it off. She took a massive gulp of air the moment it was lifted, but although she looked a bit shaky, she appeared unharmed. It had been hot and sticky under that blanket, and after her reaction to the burlap hood, he’d been terrified that she would have another breathing attack. He’d tried to talk to her in the wagon—that seemed to have helped before—but he was rewarded with a slap to the head from the man who was riding along with them in the back. It hadn’t hurt—the blanket had absorbed a great deal of the impact—but if it was meant as a warning, it had worked. Andrew kept his mouth shut and didn’t try anything.
He’d had no other choice.
Which was galling.
It had brought to mind the time when—it must have been the first or second day after Poppy had come aboard the Infinity—he had asked her why she was being so agreeable. She had replied that she had no good reason not to be agreeable. She couldn’t very well escape while they were at sea.
At the time he’d thought her eminently sensible. He still did, he supposed.
But now he realized how colossally he’d missed the point. How impotent she must have felt, to be forced into meekly accepting her fate. There was nothing satisfying about choosing one’s best option when all of the options were terrible.
He could not have left her in England—not with such strict orders to ferry the diplomatic pouch to Portugal and keep the cave’s location a secret until the prime minister’s emissary got there for the documents he’d brought from Spain. Truly, he’d had no choice but to take Poppy with them on the journey.
But he could have been more understanding. More . . . compassionate?
More something. He could have been more something.
Maybe more honest. She did not even know his true name.
He looked over at her, trying to speak with his eyes since he dared not yet make a sound. She seemed to understand; her own eyes opened wide and her lips pinched up at the corners. The two men who had brought them into the house still stood by the door, speaking to each other in rapid Portuguese.
As the men talked, Andrew took stock of their surroundings. They were in a bedchamber—nothing large or luxurious, but as best as he could tell, tidy and clean. The decor was a step or two above what one might find in a posting inn; whoever lived here had a small measure of wealth.
Andrew caught a few words from the conversation—money, man, woman. He thought one of them might have said seven, although he wasn’t sure what that might be in relation to. And maybe it wasn’t that at all. It was entirely possible that the only reason he’d recognized man, woman, and money was because he’d been expecting to hear them.
Tomorrow.
Stupid.
Home.
He thought he heard these words too.
Abruptly, the men turned toward them, and one of them flicked his hand in their direction as he barked out an order.
He wanted them to move. Andrew nudged Poppy with his shoulder, and they edged backward until the backs of their legs hit the bed.
Poppy looked at him with wide, apprehensive eyes, and he gave his head a tiny shake. No questions. Not yet.
The men grew animated as they spoke, and then Andrew saw the glint of a knife.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t have time to think. He just leapt, trying to cover her body with his own. Except that with his hands bound, he was clumsy and off-balance.
Poppy let out a grunt as she stumbled back onto the bed, and Andrew fell to the floor, feeling the veriest fool.
The man with the knife strode over and actually rolled his eyes as he grabbed Poppy’s wrists and sliced through her bindings.
He looked down at Andrew. “Idiota.”
And then he left, taking his friend with him.
Andrew closed his eyes. He needed a moment. Surely he deserved a moment to pretend he wasn’t lying on a floor with his hands bound behind his back somewhere in the vicinity of Lisbon.
He tasted blood. He must have bitten his tongue.
“Captain?”
He sighed.
“Captain?”
She sounded a little panicked the second time, so he forced himself to open his eyes. Poppy was standing over him, her brow knit with worry.
“I’m fine,” he said flatly.
She reached down to help him to his feet. “I can try to untie you.”
He shook his head. Whoever had bound his wrists had done so with knots worthy of the most seasoned of sailors.
There was irony there.
Sod it.
“They should have retied them in front of your body,” Poppy said, once he was back upright.
“Or,” he said in a brittle voice, “they should have not kidnapped us.”
“Well . . . yes.” She laughed nervously.
“How are you?” he asked. It should have been the first thing he’d asked. It should have been the first thing he’d thought, not some rot about feeling sorry for himself and wanting to keep his eyes closed.
“I . . .” It seemed to take her some time to choose her answer. “I am all right,” she finally decided. “I’m not sure what happened to me when they put that sack over my head. I have never experienced anything like it. When we were in the cart, I spent half the time trying to remember to breathe and the other half trying to remember how to breathe.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for. His list of transgressions was grotesquely long.
But Poppy did not seem to have heard the thickness in his voice. “It was so strange,” she went on. “It happened so fast. I could not breathe. And yet, I think I was breathing. But I didn’t know that I was. I know— I’m not making any sense.”
“Such things rarely do.” He cleared his throat. “I have seen it before. What happened to you. One of my men cannot take more than a step into the cave.”
“The cave?” she echoed, blinking with surprise. “I had no trouble with the cave.”
He shrugged, since his tied-up hands precluded him from making any of his usual gesticulations. “I would imagine it’s different for everyone. For all I know, he can sit happily for days with a bag over his head.”
Poppy’s lips parted as she considered that. “I suppose you’re right. It’s silly to expect logic in something so entirely illogical.”
He nodded slowly and sat down on the bed. He was exhausted. Now that the immediate danger was gone—all the knives and guns (and the people holding the knives and guns) were on the other side of a door—it was as if the energy had just drained from his body.
Or poured. Draining sounded slow. This had been instant. One moment he was poised and ready to fight, and the next he had nothing.
For a moment Poppy looked as if she might sit beside him, but then she turned and awkwardly hugged her arms to her body. “It was very helpful,” she said haltingly. “When you spoke to me. It calmed me down. Thank you.”
“Do not thank me,” he said roughly. He did not want her gratitude. He could not bear it.
If they got out of this room alive, if he was the one to make that happen, then she could say thank you. But until then, he was just the man who might get her killed.
“Do you know where we are?” she finally asked.
“No.”
“I—” She swallowed, then looked toward the blocked window. “How long do you think we were in the cart? An hour? We are probably rather far out of town by now.”
“Or they retraced their path six times and we’re right around the corner from the tavern.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you really think so?”
“No,” he admitted, “not right around the corner. But we might be much closer than the length of our journey would indicate.”
Poppy went to the window and pressed her ear to the glass.
“Can you hear anything?”
She gave a nod—a tiny one, meant to shush him as much as it did to signal agreement. “I can’t make much out,” she said, “but it’s not silent. Wherever we are, it’s not isolated.”
Andrew made his way to her side and leaned his ear against the window. Facing each other, they listened. She was right. It wasn’t quiet outside. There was . . . life. Things were happening.
It was just about the least specific descriptor he could have imagined—things were happening—and yet it said so much.
“I think we’re still in the city,” he said slowly. “Or at least not very far out.”
Poppy made a murmuring sound of agreement and pressed herself more firmly against the glass. “Some of those voices are female,” she said.
Andrew raised a brow. “Somehow I don’t think our captors have a secret female division of their gang.”
“Which means they must have brought us to a very ordinary part of town. Or near the town.”
“That is very good news. The less remote we are, the better.”
“The greater the chance someone will be able to find us?”
“The greater the chance we might escape.” At her questioning look, he added, “It’s much easier to hide in a city.”
She nodded, then pushed herself off the window and took a few steps toward the center of the room. “I think I will sit down.”
“That’s a good idea.”
She moved toward the bed, then stopped and turned around. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I don’t suppose you have a knife hidden in your dress,” he muttered.
“Nor a gun,” she said, her eyes telling him that she remembered him saying almost the same thing on the day she’d arrived on the Infinity. “Nor a purse of gold. Alas.”
“Alas,” he agreed.
Damn it.
Two hours later
There was nothing to do but stare at the door.
Someone had come for Andrew a few minutes earlier. He’d been half pushed, half pulled out the door, and she’d not seen him since. Poppy had not heard anything either, which she thought was a good sign. Gunshots were by definition loud, and if they tried to injure him in some other way—surely that would make noise.
Wouldn’t it?
She’d searched the room for something she might use as a weapon, but the only movable objects of heft were the chairs.
“Needs must,” she muttered, and she pulled one close to the door. If she had to, she could heave it into the air and bring it down upon someone’s head. It might even knock someone unconscious.
Hopefully not Andrew.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, waiting and listening. Ten minutes? Twenty? Certainly not thirty. She’d never been good at estimating the passage of time.
And then finally—
Footsteps. She gripped the top rail of the chair. She had no idea how she’d know whether to attack or not. If she heard Andrew’s voice? If she didn’t hear his voice?
She was just going to have to wait until the door opened. See who walked in.
The noises drew closer.
She picked up the chair. Held it over her head.
A key turned in the lock.
She held her breath.
The door swung open.
And Andrew stumbled in.
Poppy caught herself mid-swing, halting the downward motion of the chair just before it crashed onto his head.
“Aaaaaa!”
He yelled.
She yelled.
They both yelled, and then so d
id someone in the hallway, presumably to tell them to shut the hell up.
“Get that away from my head,” Andrew shouted, bringing his hands up in defense.
“They untied you!” Poppy exclaimed. He’d been pushed into the room with enough force to land him on the floor, and she’d not immediately noticed that he’d been freed.
“The chair,” he ground out.
“Oh, sorry.” The bottom of one of the legs was but an inch from his eye. She hastily set it down behind her. “Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened? Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Let me just get up.”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry.” She helped him to his feet. “Wh—” She bit her tongue. She’d been about to ask him what happened again.
“They brought in someone who speaks English,” he said once he’d dusted himself off.
“And?”
“And he pretended to be my friend. Said he was appalled at our treatment, insisted my hands be untied.”
Poppy wondered why his tone was so close to a sneer. “That’s . . . good? Isn’t it?”
“Probably not. It’s a well-known tactic when taking prisoners. One person acts kindly. Tries to gain your trust.”
“Oh.” Poppy considered this. “Still, it’s better that than everyone treating you badly, isn’t it?”
His head cocked to the side in a considering manner. “I suppose. Most other methods of interrogation involve a great deal of blood, so yes, this is preferable.”
She pressed her lips together but did not chide him for such a flip comment. “Did they tell you what they want? I mean, I know they want money, but did they tell you how much?”
“More than I can easily amass.”
Poppy’s lips parted. She didn’t know why, but it had not occurred to her that they might not be able to meet a ransom demand. “I have money,” she said haltingly.
“In Portugal?” His answer was sarcastic, almost derisive.
“Of course not. But if we told them—”
“Don’t be naïve.”
She felt her teeth press together. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.” He raked his hand through his hair. “I know.”
Poppy watched him carefully. His second “I know” had been louder than the first, more emphatic.
