The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(20)

“I understand,” she said.

He had half expected her to respond with a bristly “I said I would douse the lantern.” That she had not . . .

He was bizarrely pleased.

“I thank you for your good sense,” he said. He noticed that she had not pulled up the rail for the bed, so he walked over to take care of it.

“Captain James!” she exclaimed, and she frantically pressed herself against the back wall.

“Have no fear for your virtue,” he said in a tired voice. “I was merely intending to do this .” He yanked up the rail and clicked it into place. It was a solid piece of wood, meant to keep the occupant of the bed in bed when the weather was rough.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was . . . instinct, I suppose. I am on edge.”

He felt his brow draw down. That wasn’t a rote apology. Her tone had been too full, too . . . something. He turned back to look at her. She had not moved from the corner, and she looked so small—not in size but in expression, if that made any sense.

Not that anything had made sense today.

In a quiet voice, she said, “I am aware that you would not attack me.”

That she might think she needed to apologize, or even worse, reassure him in some way . . . it made him ill. “I would never harm a woman,” he said.

“I—” Her lips parted, and her eyes grew unfocused with thought. “I believe you.”

Something inside him grew fierce. “I would never harm you .”

“You already have,” she whispered.

Their eyes met.

“I fear my reputation will not be so fortunate,” she said.

He cursed himself for having nothing but platitudes, but still he said, “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“And yet I cannot stop thinking about it.”

His chest squeezed. Christ, it felt like someone had taken his heart in their fist. He turned away—cowardly, he knew, but he didn’t have the words to respond to her quiet statement, and he suspected he never would. His voice was rough as he said, “I’d best get my bed ready.”

He pulled some extra blankets from the wardrobe and laid them on the carpet. He’d told her he’d be sleeping at the door, but that hardly seemed necessary, given the sturdy lock and his unquestionable command over his men. The carpet wasn’t much of a cushion, but it was better than the planked wood of the floor. He blew out one lantern, and then another, until all that remained was the one by the bed, illuminating the book that lay open on Miss Bridgerton’s lap.

“You should take the pillow,” she said. “I don’t need it.”

“No.” He sighed. This was his penance, he supposed. He hadn’t wanted to kidnap her, but he could not escape the bitter truth: this wretched situation was far worse for her than it was for him. He didn’t bother looking at her as he shook his head. “You keep—”

The pillow hit him mid-chest.

He smiled wryly. She was stubborn even in her generosity. “Thank you,” he said, and he lay down on his back, the least uncomfortable position on such a hard surface.

He heard her rustling about, and then the room went dark.

“I thought you were going to read,” he said.

“I changed my mind.”

It was just as well. In the dark, it would be easier to forget her presence.

Except it wasn’t. She fell asleep first, and then he was alone in the night, listening to her move as she slept, hearing her voice in each quiet breath. And it occurred to him—he’d never spent a night with a woman, not an entire night. He’d never listened to a woman sleep, never even imagined the strange intimacy of it.

It was oddly compelling, lying there and waiting for each soft noise to rise through the air. He could not bring himself to close his eyes, which made no sense. Even if the cabin were lit, he would not be able to see her, tucked away behind the bed rail as she was. He did not feel he needed to remain alert, but he could not stop himself from remaining aware.

What had she said earlier? She was on edge.

He knew exactly what she’d meant.





Chapter 6




When Poppy opened her eyes the following morning, Captain James was already gone. She chewed on her lower lip as she took in the sight of his bedroll on the other side of the cabin. He couldn’t have had a good night’s sleep. She’d given him the pillow, but other than that, he’d had only the carpet to cushion him.

But no . She was not going to feel guilty over his discomfort. He was going about his regular business. She was the one who quite possibly had an army of people searching for her, fearing that her body might wash up on the beach. And her family—dear heavens, she could not begin to imagine their distress if Elizabeth had gone ahead and alerted them to Poppy’s disappearance.

Her parents had already lost one child, and it had nearly killed them. If they thought Poppy had met with an ill fate . . .

“Please , Elizabeth,” she whispered. Her friend would be frantic with worry, but if she kept quiet, at least she’d be the only one.

“He’s a monster,” Poppy said aloud, even though she knew it wasn’t true. She hated Captain James for any number of reasons, and she did not believe him when he told her that he’d had no choice but to take her to Portugal—because honestly, how was that even possible? But the captain was treating her with far more care than she imagined most men of his profession would, and she knew—because it was impossible not to know—that he was a gentleman, and a man of honor.