The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(18)

“There is nothing wrong with it,” she replied, “but I can’t wear it for two weeks straight.”

“My men generally wear the same clothes for the duration.” He didn’t, but his men did.

“Nevertheless,” she said, looking very much as if she was trying not to cringe, “I don’t think my dress is going to be practical on deck.”

Finally. A problem with an easy solution. “You won’t be on deck,” he told her.

“Ever? ”

“It’s not safe,” he said simply.

“I’ll suffocate in here.” She waved her arm about, looking less like she was motioning to the cabin and more like she was slightly deranged.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, wincing inwardly at his dismissive tone. She wouldn’t suffocate, but she would be miserable. He could already tell that Poppy Bridgerton was not a person who did well with boredom.

But he couldn’t have her wandering the length and breadth of the ship. She was a distraction his men could well do without, and furthermore, she knew nothing of safety at sea. Not to mention how superstitious sailors were about women being bad luck on a ship. Half his men would likely be crossing themselves every time they saw her.

On the other side of the cabin, Miss Bridgerton was still visibly distressed. And stammering. “But—but—”

He moved back toward the door. “I am sorry, Miss Bridgerton, but that is the way it must be. It is for your own safety.”

“But for a fortnight? Not to see the sun for an entire fortnight?”

He quirked a brow. “You were just complimenting me on my fine windows.”

“It is not the same, and you know it.”

He did, and he sympathized. Truly, he did. He couldn’t imagine being forced to remain in a ship’s cabin for two weeks, even one as well-appointed as his.

“Captain James,” she said, after what sounded like a fortifying breath, “I am asking you as a gentleman.”

“That is where you are in error.”

“Do not dissemble, Captain. You may wish to hide it, or perhaps you wish to hide from it, but you were born a gentleman. You have already as much as confessed to it.”

He crossed his arms. “On this ship, I am no gentleman.”

She crossed hers. “I don’t believe you.”

And then something inside him snapped. Just snapped. Since the moment he’d first seen her, tied up and gagged on his bed, he’d spent every minute of his time dealing either with her or with the myriad problems her presence wrought—and was about to wreak—on a very delicate mission.

“For the love of Christ, woman,” he half exploded, “have you no sense?”

Her mouth opened, but he didn’t allow her an answer.

“Do you have any concept of your perilous situation? No? Well, allow me to explain. You have been kidnapped. You are trapped on a ship on which you are the only female, and half the men out there”—he waved his arm almost violently toward the door—“think your very presence means that a typhoon is on its way.”

“A typhoon?” she echoed.

“There are no typhoons in this region,” he ground out. “Which should give you some indication of how much they don’t want you aboard. So in my humble opinion, not that you’re likely to heed it, you should start speaking with a bit more circumspection.”

“I did not ask to be here!” she shouted.

“I am well aware,” he shot back. “For the record—again —I am not pleased to be hosting you.”

Her lips pressed together, and for one terrifying moment he thought she might cry. “Please,” she said. “Please do not force me to remain in this cabin for the duration of the voyage. I beg of you.”

He sighed. Damn her. It was so much easier to dismiss her concerns when they were yelling at each other. “Miss Bridgerton,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “it is my duty as a gentleman to ensure your safety. Even if it means your discomfort.”

He half expected her to say, “So you are a gentleman.” But she surprised him with restraint, and after a heavy beat of silence, she said, “I will see you later this evening, then.”

He gave a curt nod.

“You will be three hours, you said?” Her voice was formal, almost businesslike, and it made him oddly uncomfortable, almost because it didn’t sound like her .

Which was patently ridiculous. He didn’t know Poppy Bridgerton. He hadn’t even been aware of her existence until this very afternoon, at least not in a specific sense. She’d been one of many vague and hazy Bridgerton cousins, utterly nameless, and to him, irrelevant.

So he should not know when she sounded unlike herself.

And he should not care that she did.

“I will be ready,” she said, with a touch of haughty pride that still wasn’t quite right.

But it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

“I bid you good evening, Miss Bridgerton,” he said. He gave a brief bow of farewell and exited the cabin. Bloody hell. He needed a drink. Or maybe a good sleep.

He glanced back at his door, now closed and locked behind him. He’d be on the floor tonight. A good sleep was highly unlikely.

A drink it was, then. And not a moment too soon.