The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(10)

“Do you now?”

“Her maid,” Poppy explained. “She was my chaperone for the afternoon, and—”

“There was another person at the cave?” he questioned sharply.

“No, of course not,” Poppy said brusquely. “I managed to be rid of her in Charmouth.”

“Of course you did.”

His tone was such that she was compelled to shoot him a slitty side-eyed glance. “She was not of sufficient physical constitution to accompany me,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I left her at a tea shop. Trust me, we were both happier that way.”

“And yet you ended up kidnapped and on your way to Portugal.”

Score one for him. Damn it.

“At any rate,” she continued, “Mary could be trouble, but only if Elizabeth doesn’t get to her before she realizes something is wrong. If Elizabeth asks her not to say anything, she won’t. She’s fiendishly loyal. Mary, that is. Well, Elizabeth too, but that’s different.”

He rubbed one hand over his brow, hard, as if he was having trouble following her.

“Just let me write the addendum,” she said, and she hastily added:

Postscript: Please assure Mary that I am well. Tell her I came upon one of my cousins and decided to join him for an outing. She must not talk indiscreetly. Bribe her if you must. I shall repay you.

“Your cousins?” he murmured.

“I have many,” she said, angling for an ominous tone.

Other than a slight lift to his brow, he gave no reaction. Poppy held out her now-finished missive, and he took it, giving the words one last glance before folding it neatly in half.

The motion was crisp, and horribly final. Poppy exhaled, because it was either that or cry. She waited for him to go—surely he would take his leave now, but he just stood there looking thoughtful, until he said, “Your name is very unusual. How did you come by it?”

“It’s not so unusual,” she muttered.

He leaned toward her, and she could not seem to look away as his eyes crinkled merrily. “You’re no Rose or Daisy.”

Poppy didn’t intend to respond, but then she heard herself say, “It had nothing to do with flowers.”

“Really?”

“It came from my brother. He was four, I suppose. My mother let him touch her belly while she carrying me, and he said it felt like I was popping about.”

He smiled, and it made him even more impossibly handsome. “I imagine he’s never let you hear the end of that.”

And that broke the spell. “He died,” Poppy said, looking away. “Five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Habit or heartfelt?” she asked waspishly, quite before she had a chance to think about her words. Or her tone.

“Heartfelt,” he said quietly.

She said nothing, just looked down at the table, trying to make sense of this strange reality she’d been thrust into. Pirates who apologized? Outlaws who spoke as finely as any duke? Who were these people?

“Where shall I have this delivered?” the captain asked, holding up her letter.

“Briar House,” Poppy said. “It’s near—”

“My men will know where to find it,” he cut in.

Poppy watched as he walked to the door. “Sir!” she suddenly called out. “Er, Captain,” she amended, furious with herself for offering him the respect of a sir .

He lifted one brow in silent question.

“Your name, Captain.” And she was delighted that she managed to say it as a statement, not a question.

“Of course,” he said, sweeping into a courtly bow. “Captain Andrew James, at your service. Welcome aboard the Infinity .”

“No ‘We’re delighted to have you’?” Poppy asked.

He laughed as he placed his hand on the doorknob. “That remains to be seen.”

He poked his head out the door and barked out someone’s name, and Poppy watched his back as he gave instructions—and the letter—to one of his men. She thought he might then depart, but instead he shut the door and leaned against it, regarding her with a resigned expression.

“Table or bed?” he asked.

What?

So she said it. “What?”

“Table”—he nodded at her before jerking his head toward the corner—“or bed.”

This could not be good. Poppy tried to think quickly, to figure out in under a second both his intentions and her possible responses. But all she said was, “Ehrm . . .”

“Bed it is,” he said crisply.

Poppy let out a shriek as he scooped her up again and tossed her onto the bed.

“It will be better for us both if you don’t struggle,” he warned her.

Her eyes grew wide with terror.

“Oh, for the love of—” He bit off his statement before he blasphemed, then went on to utter something far worse. He took a moment to compose himself, then said, “I’m not going to defile you, Miss Bridgerton. You have my word.”

She said nothing.

“Your hand,” he said.

She had no idea what he was talking about, but she lifted her hand nonetheless.

“The other one,” he said sharply, then grabbed her left hand—the one with which she wrote, despite her governess’s best attempts to force her to switch—and pulled it against the bed rail. Before she could count to five, he’d tied her to the long slat of wood.