The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(35)

He cleared his throat and motioned toward the far wall. “I need to retrieve something from my wardrobe.”

“A cravat, perhaps,” she murmured. She’d only ever seen her brothers in such a state of undress. But her brothers had not looked like this . Or if they had, she’d hardly cared.

The captain, on the other hand—well, she had already admitted to herself that he was good-looking. As long as she did not admit it to him , she had nothing to worry about.

He touched his throat, and she suspected he’d forgotten that he’d removed his neckpiece. “We often dispense with formalities on board.”

“Is it very warm today?”

“When one is in the sun.”

That was probably how his hair had come to be so liberally streaked with gold. She’d wager that it had not been so lustrous when he was living year-round in England.

Lustrous? She gave herself a mental shake. Adjectives such as that had no business in her head while she was stuck on this ship. It was fanciful and silly and . . .

True, dash it all. Weren’t pirates meant to be filthy and coarse? Captain James looked like he might take tea with the queen.

Provided he wore a cravat.

She watched as he rummaged about in his wardrobe. (His back was to her and thus she had no reason not to stare.) After a few moments, he pulled something out, but he tucked it into his pocket before she could see what it was.

She turned back to the puzzle just as he turned around.

“How is it coming along?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you,” she said, relieved that he had not caught her watching him. “I started with all of the edge pieces.” She gazed down at her work. She was rather proud of the rectangular frame she’d created.

His voice came from right behind her. “Always a sound plan.”

She startled. She hadn’t realized he was so close. “Ehrm . . . I’ve been trying to sort the rest of the pieces by color. It’s difficult, though. Most are very pale, and . . .”

Why was he so warm? He wasn’t even touching her, and yet she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She dare not turn around, but how close was he?

She cleared her throat. “I’m finding it difficult to tell the difference between pink and this shade.” She held up a piece that obviously contained both water and land. One corner was light blue, and the rest was something slightly peachy.

“This one is definitely pink,” he said near her ear, and then he leaned forward, his arm stretching past her as he reached for a triangular piece at the back of the array. The linen of his shirt whispered against the back of her head, and for a moment she could not remember how to breathe.

She could not remember if she knew how to breathe.

He set the piece into her pink pile and drew his arm back, lightly grazing her shoulder.

Her skin tingled.

It was the heat. It had to be. The sun had finally traveled high enough so that it was no longer streaming through the windows, but the cabin had had the entire morning to warm up. She’d been so engrossed in the puzzle that she hadn’t really noticed it. But now she had that prickly feeling one got when one needed a cool drink. And much the way she could never ignore hiccups when her mother said, “Just forget about them, and they’ll go away,” she could not stop being so aware of the sensation.

And of him, scandalously close.

The captain reached for another piece, this one lavender, but it was farther than the other one had been, and when she turned, she saw that his head was right next hers. If he turned . . . If she turned . . .

It would be a kiss.

“Stop!” she cried out.

He straightened. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, utterly mortified by her outburst. “No. No .” She tried to make the last no sound droll, but she had a feeling she had not succeeded. She cleared her throat, giving herself an extra few seconds to compose herself before she spoke again, and when she did, her hands were spread out like starfish on the table to steady her. “It is simply that I wish to complete this on my own. I don’t want any help.”

He’d moved out from behind her, and when she looked at his face she was relieved to see that there was nothing roguish or teasing or even knowing in his expression. Instead, he almost looked sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said. “I love things like this.”

“It’s—it’s all right,” she said, hating the stammer in her voice. “Just . . . no more.”

He stepped away, and she thought he was headed for the door, but suddenly he stopped and turned around, resting his hands on the back of the chair across from her. “Why are you being so agreeable?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re remarkably amiable today.” His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t quite look suspicious.

“As opposed to . . .”

His head tilted to the side, as if he hadn’t considered this. “When you arrived, I suppose.”

“You mean in a sack ?”

He waved that off. “Is it the puzzle?”

“Well . . .” Poppy paused, unsure of how to answer his question. Why was she being agreeable? The maddening man was holding her against her will—not that she could do anything about it, here on the open ocean. Perhaps she would behave differently if she was at an inn or a house—someplace from which she could reasonably envision escape. But here on the ship there was nothing to be gained from being contrary. Not when she had to spend a fortnight in his company.