The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  Angry, even.

  She waited a moment, then asked, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “I was trying to.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t asking what happened. I was asking if you’re going to tell me. Because if you’re not, if you’re going to leave parts out because you think it’s for my own good, I’d like to know.”

  He stared at her as if she’d started speaking German. Or Chinese. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “You keep secrets,” she said simply.

  “I’ve known you a week. Of course I keep secrets.”

  “I’m not scolding you for it. I just want to know.”

  “For God’s sake, Poppy.”

  “For God’s sake, Captain,” she returned, letting her voice turn singsong.

  He gave her a look of supreme annoyance. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”

  “What else can I do? You won’t tell me anything.”

  “I was trying to,” he ground out. “You won’t stop harping about my keeping secrets.”

  “I have never harped in my life. And I never said you shouldn’t keep secrets! I just want to know if you are.”

  She waited for his retort, because surely he had one—that’s what they did. But instead he just made a sound—something strange and unfamiliar and ripped from the very heart of him. It was a growl but it wasn’t, and while Poppy watched with fascinated trepidation, he turned roughly away.

  He planted his hands against the wall above his head, almost groaning as he pressed forward. There was something wild in him, something Poppy should have found frightening.

  She should.

  But she didn’t.

  Her hand tingled. As if she should touch him. As if she might die if she didn’t.

  Her whole body felt strange. Needy. And though she might be an innocent, she knew this was desire. Inappropriate and ill-timed, but still there, unraveling within her like a needy beast.

  She took a step back. It was self-preservation.

  It didn’t help.

  What did it mean that she felt this way now, when he was at his most uncivilized?

  Back on the ship she’d felt hints of awareness. She’d wondered for hours what would have happened if she’d swayed closer when they’d kissed on deck. She’d dreamed about his skin, the wicked little patch of it that was revealed when he left off his cravat.

  It wasn’t just his neckpiece. He rolled up his sleeves too, and she was mesmerized by his arms—the play of muscles beneath his skin. Most of the men she knew didn’t work. They rode, they fenced, they walked the perimeter of their property, but they didn’t work. It made her wonder at the strength of him, what those arms could do that hers could not.

  And she was always aware of his heat. There was a cushion of air around his body that was always a few degrees warmer than the rest. It made her want to move closer, and then closer still, to see if it grew hot when she was just a whisper away.

  She knew such thoughts were scandalous. Wicked, even. But all of that— No, none of that had brought her to such a quivering point as this.

  She watched as he took a long breath, his body taut, as if he were protesting some invisible restraint. His hands had become claws, only the fingertips pressing into the wall above his head.

  “Captain James?” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if he heard her. He was close enough—the room was far too small for even the softest murmur to go unnoticed. But whatever was going on in his head—it was loud. It was loud, and it was primal, and it had left him on the edge of something very fierce.

  “Capt—”

  He took a step back. Closed his eyes as he took a breath. And then, with composure that was far too even and restrained, he turned to her.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  Poppy didn’t know what to say.

  “Where were we?”

  She had no idea.

  “Right,” he continued, as if she weren’t goggling at him like a speechless loon. “I might have convinced them to let you bring the ransom note to the Infinity.”

  Her mouth fell open. Why hadn’t he said that first?

  He raked his hand through his hair and strode to the other side of the room. It was only a few steps, but he seemed rather like a caged cat. “It was the best I could do,” he said.

  “But—” Poppy fought for words. All she came up with was: “Me?”

  “It would be a show of good faith.”

  “I was not aware that they had good faith.”

  “And proof of life,” he added in a more brittle tone.

  “Proof of— Oh,” she said, suddenly understanding the term. “That’s a terrible phrase.”

  He rolled his eyes at her naïveté. “The man I talked with has to consult someone else. We won’t have their answer until tomorrow morning.”

  Poppy looked toward the window. Earlier, there had been a narrow sliver of light between the wooden shutters.

  “Night has fallen,” Andrew confirmed.

  “One would think such men would prefer to work under the cover of darkness.”

  Again, he rolled his eyes. And again, there was no levity in it, nothing to say that they were in this together. “I have little insight into the workings of their minds,” he said.

  Poppy held her tongue for a few seconds, but that was all she could manage. “Why are you being so mean?”

  A look of impatient incomprehension swept over his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m just saying that you could be a little kinder.”

  “Wh—” He shook his head, apparently unable to complete the word.

  “You have done nothing but growl and snap since you got back.”

  He gaped as if he could not believe the cheek of her. “We are being held captive by God-knows-who and you’re complaining that I’m not being kind?”

  “No, of course not. Well, yes, I am. Every time I try to make a suggestion—”

  “You have no experience in such things,” he cut in. “Why should I listen to you?”

  “Because I’m not stupid, and the worst that could come of listening to me is that you’ll disagree with what I have to say.”

  Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. “Poppy,” he said, the word as much of a growl as it was a sigh. “I cannot—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted. She thought back to what he’d just said. “Do you mean to say that you do have some experience in such things?”

  “Some,” he admitted.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means this is not the first time I have had to deal with unsavory characters,” he retorted.

  “Is it the first time you’ve been kidnapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “The first time you’ve been tied up?”

  He hesitated.

  She gasped. “Captain Ja—”

  “In this manner,” he said quickly. And with great volume and emphasis, as if he needed to cut off her query about as much as he needed, for example, air.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t ask that question.”

  It was possibly the first time she had seen him truly blush, which should have been enough to make her want to force him to answer. But given the circumstances, she decided to let it pass. For the most part.

  She gave him a shrewd look. “Can I ask you that question later?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There was a noise people sometimes made—it was halfway between a laugh and a cry but it just ended up sounding like irony.

  Andrew made that noise, right before saying, “Not even a little bit.”

  Poppy took a step back. It seemed wise. After a few moments of wary silence, she asked, “What do we do tonight?”

  He looked almost relieved she asked, even if his tone was blunt. “I’m going to inspect the room more carefully now that my hands are untied, but I don’t anticipate find
ing a means to escape.”

  “So we just wait?”

  He gave a grim nod. “I counted at least six men downstairs, plus two across the hall. I don’t like doing nothing, but I’m even less fond of suicide.”

  That sound he had made earlier—the one with the laughing and the crying and the horrible irony . . .

  She made it too.

  Chapter 20

  Several hours later—after Andrew and Poppy had eaten the bread and cheese the kidnappers had tossed at them, after a comprehensive inspection of the room yielded absolutely nothing, after a long stretch of silence eased them into a tacit truce—Andrew sat down. He put his back to the wall, stretched his legs out long in front of him, and sighed.

  “You don’t want the chair?” Poppy asked. She was on the bed. She’d opened her mouth to protest when he had told her to take it a few minutes earlier, but he’d held up his hand and given her such a stare of Do not argue that she did not say a word.

  He shook his head. “Somehow it looks less comfortable than this.”

  She looked at the chair, then back at him. “I can see that.”

  He smiled wryly.

  “The bed isn’t— Well, it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not, well, an excellent bed.”

  At this, he actually laughed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “It’s not a lie, exactly. It’s all in how you phrase it.”

  He snorted. “Said every politician in London.”

  This made her smile, which brought him such an absurd amount of joy that he could only ascribe it to the fact that making someone smile under such circumstances could be treated as nothing short of a triumph.

  “Here,” she said, grabbing her pillow, “you should have it.”

  He did not try to catch it; there was something much more pleasing about letting it sail through the air and clip him on the shoulder. “Just like old times,” he murmured.

  “How I wish.”

  He looked up at her. She was sitting cross-legged, her knees bumping out the sides of her blue skirt until the frock formed something of a triangle. He tried to remember the last time he’d sat in such a position. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her do it either.

  It made perfect sense. No one sat that way in public. It was for home. For unguarded moments.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The words came slowly, not because he was reluctant to say them, but rather because he felt them more keenly than he expected. “For being so short of temper earlier.”

  She went still, her lips parting as she absorbed the sudden change of topic. “It’s all right,” she said.

  “It’s not.”

  “It is. This is . . .” She looked up toward the ceiling, shaking her head. She looked like she couldn’t quite believe her predicament. “Anyone would be short of temper. It’s probably a small miracle I haven’t strangled you.”

  He smiled. “It’s not easy, you know, to strangle a man.”

  Her head fell to her chest as she laughed. When she looked up she said, “I’ve learned that recently.”

  “Really. Where would a gently bred woman such as yourself learn such a thing?”

  “Well.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin in her hands. “I’ve fallen in with a band of pirates.”

  His gasp was worthy of the stage. “Never say it.”

  She responded in kind, with wide eyes, breathless drama, and a hand to her heart. “I think I might be ruined.”

  And because something inside him felt like it was falling back into place, he gave her a crooked smile and said, “Not yet.”

  A week earlier such a quip would have offended her sensibilities, but this time she didn’t even try to pretend. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head and said, “It’s a pity I don’t have another pillow to throw at you.”

  “Indeed.” He made a show of glancing at the floor around him. “I would be living in luxury.”

  “Did you ever have pillow fights with your siblings?”

  He’d been adjusting the pillow she’d thrown at him behind his back, but at this, he paused. “You have to ask?”

  She giggled. “I know. Stupid question.”

  “Did you?” he asked.

  “Oh, of course.”

  He looked at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I was waiting for you to tell me that you always won.”

  “To my desperate shame, that would be a falsehood.”

  “Do my ears deceive me? Was there a contest in the Bridgerton household that Poppy Bridgerton did not win?”

  “Poppy Louise Bridgerton,” she said officiously. “If you’re going to scold, you should do it correctly.”

  “My apologies. Poppy Louise. But tell me, who emerged victorious?”

  “My two older brothers, of course. Mostly Richard. Roger said I wasn’t worth the effort.”

  “Too easy for him to beat you?”

  “He was a full head taller,” she protested. “It could never have been a fair fight.”

  “Good of him to bow out, then.”

  She pressed her lips together peevishly. “He was hardly so gallant. He said he had more interesting ways to torture me.”

  “Oh yes.” Andrew grinned. “He was the one who taught you a new language, didn’t he?”

  “A new language, indeed. You’d better watch out or I’ll farfar you.”

  He snorted right into a laugh. “I wish I’d known your brother. I would have worshipped at his feet.”

  “I wish that too,” she said with a sad smile, and he knew that what she really meant was that she wished Roger were still alive, still able to make new friends and, yes, devise new ways to torture his little sister.

  “How did he die?” he asked. She’d never told him that, and until now it felt too intrusive to ask.

  “Infection.” She said it so plainly, as if everything tragic had long since been wrung out of the word and the only thing left was resignation.

  “I’m sorry.” He’d seen more than one man succumb to infection. It always seemed to start so simply. A scrape, a wound . . . His brother knew a man who’d worn an ill-fitting pair of boots and then died of a purulent blister.

  “He was bitten by a dog,” Poppy said. “It wasn’t even a very bad bite. I mean, I’ve been bitten by a dog before, haven’t you?”

  He nodded, even though he hadn’t.

  “It didn’t heal properly. It looked like it was going to. It was completely fine for a few days, maybe just a little red. Swollen. And then . . .” She swallowed and looked to the side.

  “You don’t have to finish,” he said softly.

  But she wanted to. He could see it in her face.

  “He had a fever,” she continued. “It came on overnight. He went to bed, and he seemed fine. I was the one who brought him a mug of hot cider, so I know.”

  She hugged her arms to her body, closing her eyes while she drew a long breath. “He was so hot. It was unnatural. His skin was like paper. And the worst part was, it wasn’t even fast. It took five days. Do you know how long five days can be?”

  It was one day less than her time aboard the Infinity. Which suddenly didn’t seem like very much time at all.

  “Sometimes he was insensible,” she said, “but sometimes he wasn’t, and he knew—he knew he was going to die.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  She shook her head. “He would never. He kept saying, ‘I’ll be fine, Pops. Stop looking so worried.’”

  “He called you Pops?” Andrew tried not to smile, but there was something irresistibly charming about it.

  “He did. But only sometimes.” She said that in a way that made him think this had not occurred to her before. She cocked her head to the side, her eyes tipping up and to the left as if she might find her memories there. “It was when he was serious, but he was perhaps trying to sound as if he wasn’t.”

  She looked over at Andrew, and he was relieved to see that some of the bleakness had left her face. “He was
rarely serious,” she said. “Or at least that’s what he wanted people to think. He was very observant, and I think people were less guarded around him because they thought he was a scapegrace.”

  “I have some experience with that particular dichotomy,” he said in a dry voice.

  “I would imagine you do.”

  “What happened next?” he asked.

  “He died,” she said with a tiny helpless shrug. “To the very end, he tried to pretend it wasn’t going to happen, but he never could lie about important things.”

  Whereas Andrew had only lied about important things. But he was trying so hard not to think about that right then.

  Poppy let out a sad little puff of a laugh. “The morning before he passed, he even boasted that he was going to massacre me in the egg roll at the next May fair, but I could see it in his eyes. He knew he would not live.”

  “Massacre?” Andrew echoed. He liked this particular choice of words.

  She gave a watery smile. “It would never have been enough just to beat me.”

  “No, I expect not.”

  She nodded slowly. “I knew he was lying. He knew I knew it too. And I wondered . . . Why? Why would he cling to his story when he knew he wasn’t fooling me?”

  “Perhaps he thought he was doing you a kindness.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She did not seem to have more to say on the subject, so Andrew went back to fussing with his pillow. It was both flat and lumpy, and it was impossible to get into the right position. He tried mushing it, pushing it, folding it . . . Nothing worked.

  “You look very uncomfortable,” Poppy said.

  He didn’t bother glancing up from his efforts. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you going to lie to me like Roger did?”

  That got his attention. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Just come over and sit on the bed,” she said in an exasperated voice. “It’s not as if either of us will sleep tonight, and if I have to watch another moment of your fidgeting I’m going to go mad.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You were.”

  They held each other’s stare for a moment or two, narrow-eyed and quirky-browed.

  She won.

  “Fine.” He got up. “I’ll sit on the other side.” He moved round to the far side of the bed and sat near the edge. She was right. It wasn’t a particularly excellent bed. Still, it was a far cry better than the floor.