The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(13)

“Please, God,” Andrew said, with the sheepish expression of one who didn’t often make divine entreaties. But if ever there was a time for prayer, this was most definitely it. He was confident that he could manage Poppy Bridgerton, but still, he’d rather have her off his hands as soon as possible. As it was, her presence meant the eventual end of his career. At some point she would learn his true name; given how close he was to her cousins, it seemed impossible that she wouldn’t.

“Sir?”

Andrew nodded, acknowledging Billy Suggs, at thirteen the youngest hand on the ship.

“Sir, Pinsley says there’s a woman on the ship,” Billy said. “Is that the truth?”

“It is.”

There was a pause, and then Billy said, “Sir? Isn’t that devilish bad luck, sir? To have a woman aboard, sir?”

Andrew fought the urge to close his eyes and sigh. This was exactly what he was worried about. Sailors were a notoriously superstitious lot. “Nothing but foolish talk, Billy,” he said. “You won’t even know she’s here.”

Billy looked dubious, but he headed back to the galley.

“Hell,” Andrew said, despite the fact that there was no one close enough to hear, “If I’m lucky, I won’t even know she’s here.”





Chapter 4




By the time Poppy heard the door to the captain’s cabin open, she was in a ferociously bad mood.

One to which she rather thought she was entitled. Being bound hand and foot tended to lower the spirits. Well, one hand and two feet. She supposed Captain James had showed some degree of kindness when he’d left her right hand free. Not that it had served her any use. He had not exaggerated when he’d boasted about the quality of sailors’ knots. It had taken but a minute for her to conclude that she had no hope of wriggling the rope loose. She supposed a feistier female might have persisted, but Poppy was not fond of raw skin or broken nails, and it was quite clear that that was all she’d achieve if she kept working at the knot.

“I’m hungry,” she said, without bothering to look and see who had entered the cabin.

“Thought you might be,” came the captain’s voice. A warm, crusty roll landed on the bed next to her shoulder. It smelled heavenly.

“Brought you butter too,” the captain said.

Poppy thought about turning to face him, but she’d long since realized that any change in position involved a rather undignified amount of grunting and twisting. So she just said, “Shall I fill your bed with crumbs?”

“There are so many interesting rejoinders to such a statement,” he said, and she could hear the lazy smile in his voice, “but I will refrain.”

Score one for him, again . Damn it.

“If you’d like,” he said mildly, “I’ll free you from your bindings.”

That was enough to make her twist her head. “We’re well out to sea, then?”

He stepped forward, holding a knife. “Far enough that one would have to be far less clever than you to attempt an escape.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Compliment?”

“Absolutely,” he said, his smile positively lethal.

“I assume you plan to use that knife on my bindings.”

He nodded, slicing her free. “Not that the alternatives aren’t tempting.”

Her eyes flew to his face.

“I jest,” he said, almost rotely.

Poppy was not amused.

The captain just shrugged, tugging the rope out from under her ankles. “My life would be far simpler if you were not here, Miss Bridgerton.”

“You could have left me in Charmouth,” she reminded him.

“No,” he said, “I couldn’t have done.”

She picked up the roll and took a bite of unladylike proportions.

“You are hungry,” he murmured.

She shot him a look that told him what she thought of his overly obvious statement.

He tossed another roll in her direction. She caught it one-handed and managed not to smile.

“Well done, Miss Bridgerton,” he said.

“I have four brothers,” she said with a shrug.

“Do you now?” he asked mildly.

She glanced up briefly from her food. “We’re fiendishly competitive.”

He pulled a chair out from his surprisingly elegant dining table, then sat, resting one ankle on the opposite knee with lazy grace. “All good at games?”

She leveled her gaze onto his. She could be every bit as nonchalant as he. And if she couldn’t, she’d die trying. “Some better than others,” she said, then finished up the first roll.

He laughed. “Meaning you’re the best?”

She lifted a brow. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I like to win.”

“Most people do.”

She fully intended to respond with a cuttingly witty rejoinder, but he beat her to the punch with “You, I imagine, however, like to win more than most.”

She pursed her lips. “Compliment?”

He shook his head, his lips still curved into a vexing little smile. “Not this time.”

“Because you’re afraid I’m going to best you?”