by Julia Quinn
“Do you think it’s strange,” she asked once he was settled, “that we’re having such an ordinary conversation?”
He glanced at her sideways. “Bickering about where to sit?”
“Well, yes, and talking about childhood pranks, and my brother’s passing. I suppose that’s rather sad, but it’s certainly ordinary. It’s not as if we were having great philosophical discussions about the meaning of—”
“Life?” he supplied.
She shrugged.
He turned so that he could see her without twisting his neck. “Do you want to spend the evening having great philosophical discussions?”
“Not really, but don’t you think it seems as if we should? Given our precarious situation?”
He leaned back against the headboard and allowed just enough time to pass to give his next words the air of an announcement. “When I was in school they made us read this book.”
She turned with her whole body, so curious was she at his abrupt change of subject.
“It was awful,” he told her.
“What was it?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t even remember. That’s how bad it was.”
“Why did they make you read it?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Someone once said it was important.”
“Who gets to decide such things?” she wondered.
“Which books are important? I have no idea, but in this case, they made a grave mistake. I tell you, every word was torture.”
“So you read it, then? The whole book?”
“I did. I hated every moment of it, but I read the blasted thing because I knew we would be quizzed upon it, and I did not wish to disappoint my father.” He turned and looked at her with a dry expression. “That’s a bloody bad reason to read a book, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“A person should read a book because it speaks to something in his heart.” Andrew said this with a passion that belied the fact that he’d never actually thought about this before. At least not in this way. “Because it fills a thirst for knowledge that is his, not that of some man in a tower two hundred years ago.”
She regarded him for a moment, then said, “Why are we talking about this, exactly?”
“Because we shouldn’t have to talk about whether the universe can fit into a man’s soul if we don’t want to.”
“I do not,” she said with wide eyes. “I truly do not.”
“Good.” He settled back into his position and they sat in silence for a bit. It was all rather peaceful and banal until she said—
“We might die.”
“What?” Everything snapped—his voice, his head as he whipped around to face her. “Don’t talk that way.”
“I’m not saying we will die. But we could. Don’t lie to me and deny it.”
“We’re worth too much,” Andrew told her. “They won’t kill us.”
But did the men realize the prize they’d captured? Thus far, everything pointed to a normal (if there was such a thing) kidnapping. It was not inconceivable the Portuguese gang had seen two obviously well-to-do foreigners and figured that someone would be willing to pay a ransom for them.
But on the other hand, it was possible that someone had uncovered his role in the government. If that was the case, and the men holding them were politically motivated, then Andrew became a different sort of prize.
(And God only knew which politics might motivate them; there were fringe groups the world over who detested the British.)
Captain Andrew James was not entirely unknown in Lisbon. He had met with Robert Walpole—the British envoy—just that morning. He had employed no special subterfuge; he’d long since learned that on his sorts of missions, it was most effective to hide in plain sight. He put on his finer clothes, walked and talked like an aristocrat, and strolled right up to Mr. Walpole’s home.
“They won’t kill us,” he said again. But he wasn’t sure he meant it.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Poppy said.
Andrew blinked. “What?”
“What you said. About our being too valuable. We’re only valuable if they know we’re valuable.”
“They know I have a ship in the harbor.”
But then again, if they knew he carried secrets for the crown, they might see more value in his elimination than any riches he might bring.
“We really won’t know anything until morning, will we?” she asked.
He sighed. “It’s not likely. But as I told you, I think I may have convinced them to let you go.”
She nodded.
“Do not insist upon staying with me,” he added.
“I would never,” Poppy said.
Andrew paused. “You wouldn’t?”
“Of course not. How can I help you from within this prison? If I leave, I might be able to do something to get you out.”
“Precisely.” Andrew was pleased by her swift grasp of the situation, and yet at the same time slightly pricked that she was quite so eager to depart.
Still, if he did manage to get her out, she would not be returning to rescue him. He had connections in Lisbon who could get her back to England; he needed only to deliver her to them.
Or as the case would likely be, she needed to deliver herself.
He thought of all the causes he’d thought were worth dying for. Not a one of them meant a thing compared to the life of this woman.
Was this love? Could it be? All he knew was that he could no longer conceive of a future without her.
She was laughter.
She was joy.
And she might die because he’d been too bloody selfish to leave her on the ship.
He’d known it was safer to keep her on board. He’d known it, and still he’d brought her ashore.
He’d wanted to see her smile. No, it was far more selfish than that. He’d wanted to be her hero. He’d wanted her to look at him with worship in her eyes, to think the sun rose and set on his face.
He closed his eyes. He had to make this up to her. He had to protect her.
She wasn’t his to protect, and now she might never be, but he would see her safe.
Even if it was the last thing he did.
Andrew was not sure how long they sat in silence, resting side by side at the head of the bed. Every now and then he thought Poppy might say something—she would make one of those small but sharp and sudden moves, as if she were about to speak. Finally, just when he thought they’d settled into the stillness of the night, she spoke.
“Last night . . . I don’t think I told you, but it was my first kiss.”
He went still. He’d assumed as much, but it had seemed rude to ask, especially since she’d declared they would never speak of it again.
“Captain—”
“Andrew,” he cut in. If indeed this was their last night, he was damn well going to spend it with someone who called him by his name.
“Andrew,” she repeated, and it felt like she was trying it out on her tongue. “It suits you.”
It seemed an odd thing to say. “You knew that was my name,” he pointed out.
“I know. But it’s different to say it.”
He wasn’t sure he understood what she meant by that. He wasn’t sure she knew either. But it was important. Somehow they both knew that.
“You were talking about the kiss,” he said quietly.
She nodded, and he could see tension in her throat as she swallowed. She was nervous; of course she was. He himself was terrified. This was not the first time he’d found himself in a dangerous situation. It was not even the first time he’d thought he might die.
But it was the first time he thought he might take an innocent soul with him.
“It was my first kiss,” she said, “and it was lovely. But I know there’s more.”
“More?” he echoed. He cast a wary look at her.
“Not more more. I know a bit of that.”
“You know a bit of . . . what?”
“Not know know.”
“Dear God,” he said under his breath.
“I know what happens between a husband and wife,” she said, almost as if she wished to reassure him.
He could only stare. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but are you trying to tell me that you know know?”
“Of course not!” She flushed; even in the dim light of their candle he could see that.
“Surely you can see my confusion.”
“Honestly,” she muttered, and he could not tell if she was embarrassed or chagrined.
He let out a breath. Surely this was the end of the conversation. He’d not led a saintly life, but he’d done nothing to deserve this.
But no. Poppy pressed her lips together, and in an uncharacteristically officious voice said, “My cousin told me.”
He cleared his throat. “Your cousin told you.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
Because he had a feeling he was going stark, raving—
“It’s probably a sign of how much I do not wish to have this conversation,” he said instead.
She ignored this. “My cousin Billie is married, and—”
He fought the urge to howl with bitter, inappropriate laughter. He knew Billie Bridgerton—Billie Rokesby now. She was his sister-in-law and one of his oldest friends.
“Billie is a woman,” Poppy said, obviously misinterpreting the horror on Andrew’s face. “It’s a very unusual nickname, I know. But it suits her. Her given name is Sybilla.”
“Of course it is,” he muttered.
She looked at him with a queer expression. Or rather, she looked at him as if he had a queer expression. Which he undoubtedly did. He felt a little sick, to be honest. She was talking about Billie, and if there had ever been a time for him to tell her who he really was, this was it.
And yet he couldn’t do it.
Or maybe he could.
Would it make her safer? Could the knowledge of his true identity somehow give her a tool that would help her get home? Or was the opposite true? Perhaps she was better left in the dark.
“Andrew. Andrew!”
He blinked.
“You’re not listening to me. This is important.”
Everything was important now. Every moment.
“My apologies,” he said. “My thoughts are racing.”
“As are mine!”
He took a moment to compose himself. It didn’t work. He took a breath, then another, then adopted a bland expression and looked her in the eye. “How can I help you?” he said.
His resolute affability seemed to take her off guard. But only for a moment.
And then Andrew saw his downfall unfold on her face.
Was it possible that he’d once thought that he loved to watch her think? He was an idiot, clearly.
Her lips parted and then pursed. Her gaze flitted up and to the right as was so often her habit. She turned her head—not a tilt but a turn—to the side.
He’d seen her do all these things. He’d thought them enchanting. But now, as she turned back to look at him, her dark eyelashes sweeping up until her green gaze met his, he knew that his life was about to be forever altered.
“Kiss me,” she said.
He froze.
“Please,” she added, as if that were the reason he had made no response. “I know there is more to a kiss.”
Her words hung in the air. It was like one of those awkward moments when all conversation stops, and one person is talking too loudly, and then everyone hears a shout.
Except Poppy had not been shouting.
“Isn’t there?” she asked.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t even bring himself to nod.
“If I’m going to die, I’d like to have a proper kiss.”
“Poppy,” he finally managed to say. “I—”
She looked at him expectantly, and God help him, his gaze dropped to her lips.
The universal signal.
He wanted to kiss her so bad.
But he said, “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Of course it isn’t. But I want to do it anyway.”
So did he. But he wasn’t going to.
One of them was insane. He was sure of it. He just didn’t know which.
“Do you not want to kiss me?” she asked.
He nearly burst out in laughter at that. Not want to kiss her? At that moment he wanted it more than he wanted to breathe.
“I want— Bloody hell, Poppy, I want—” He swore, again, and the vehemence of it seemed to turn his head. He looked past his shoulder, down to the hardwood floor. His words, when he found them, felt ripped from his soul. “I’ve already wronged you in so many ways.”
“Oh, now you’re trying to be a gentleman.”
“Yes,” he practically barked. “Yes, I am. And my God, you’re making it difficult.”
She smiled.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“It’s just a kiss,” she said.
“That’s your tactic now?” He mimicked her tone. “It’s just a kiss.”
She deflated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never tried to convince a man to kiss me before.”
Andrew closed his eyes and groaned. This need he felt for her—it had been simmering for days, a low, steady flame he knew how to control.
Until now.
He might be able to withstand her if they were back on the ship. Or if the flicker of the candlelight didn’t send such tantalizing shadows dancing across her chest.
He could stay firm if they weren’t sitting on a bed, for God’s sake, if she had not turned to him with those perfect lips and endless green eyes and asked him to kiss her.
That slow burn . . . the one so quiet and constant he’d almost gotten used to it . . .
It wasn’t quiet anymore.
“If I kiss you,” he said, each word its own brand of torture, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”
“Of course you will,” she said, almost brightly.
He could only stare. Was she trying to reassure him?
“You’re a gentleman,” she said, as if that were enough explanation for her. “You will stop the moment I ask you to.”
He let out a rough, humorless laugh. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
It took a moment for him to realize that his head was shaking in disbelief. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said hoarsely. Hell, he wasn’t sure he knew what he was saying either. He barely knew what he was thinking right now.
But she was undeterred. “I know exactly what I’m saying, and I know you.”
“Poppy . . .”
“Earlier today you said that I know you as well as anyone. I’m telling you, I know that you will stop the moment I ask you to.”
And then, before he could formulate a reply, she said, “You will probably stop before I ask you to.”
“Christ,” he burst out, practically jumping off the bed. “You have no idea. No bloody idea. Do you know anything of what it means to be a man?”
“I might die,” she whispered.
“That’s no reason to barter away your innocence.”
She climbed down from the bed and stood in front of him. “All I want is a kiss.”
He grabbed her. Pulled her close. “It won’t be just a kiss, Poppy. It could never be just a kiss between us.”
And then—God help him—she whispered, “I know.”
Chapter 21
Poppy did not close her eyes.
She could not miss this moment. She would not. And indeed, she saw exactly when Andrew gave in, the very second he realized he could no longer deny her.
Or himself.
But if she saw that moment, she did not see the next. He moved so quickly, he literally stole her breath. One instant she was watching passion spark and flare in his eyes, and the next his mouth was on hers, fierce and hungry.
Relentless.
It was a kiss that made the other one—under the stars, on the deck of the Infinity—seem a different species.
If her first kiss had been magic, this one was a beast. Poppy felt enveloped, overwhelmed, almost overtaken.
He kissed her like a man possessed, maybe even like a man with nothing to lose.
His mouth was demanding, almost unforgiving, and whatever part of her that still retained sanity wondered if he was punishing her for having pushed him too far.
It should have scared her. His passion, finally unleashed, was a primal, dangerous thing.
But she felt dangerous too.
Reckless.
She felt amazing.
So she kissed him back. She had no idea what she was doing, but it seemed like instinct. All she knew was that she wanted more. More of his touch, more of his heat. More of him.
And so when his tongue swooped into her mouth and explored, she did the same with her own. When he nipped at her bottom lip, she nipped at his top. And when his hands slid down her back and cupped her bottom, hers did the same.
He drew back, almost smiling. “Are you copying me?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
He squeezed, lightly.
So did she.
He brought one of his hands to her hair, winding a thick lock around his fist.
She sank both of her hands in his unruly mane, pulling him down for another kiss.
“You always were a quick study,” he murmured against her lips.
She chuckled, loving the way it felt to laugh right into his skin. “You say that as if you’ve known me longer than a week.”
“Is that all it’s been?” He twisted them around until Poppy’s back was to the bed. “I think I’ve known you forever.”
His words rang inside her, unlocking something she’d been afraid to examine. It did feel as if she’d known him forever, as if there were things she could say to him that she could not share with anyone else.
If she asked a silly question he might laugh, but only because he found joy in her curiosity, not because he thought her a curiosity herself.
He had secrets, of that she was certain, but she knew him. She knew the man within.
