The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(43)

“There are many reasons to feed one’s men well,” he said, “not the least of which is the fact that they are human.”

Poppy nodded, mesmerized by the quiet ferocity of his voice.

“But there is more,” he continued. “A ship is not the same as a mill or a shop or a farm. If we do not work together, if we do not trust one another, we die. It is as simple as that.”

“Is that not the reason why discipline and order are so essential in the navy?”

He gave a sharp nod. “There must be a chain of command, and ultimately there must be one man in charge. Otherwise it will be anarchy.”

“Mutiny.”

“Indeed.” He used the side of his fork to cut a potato, but then he seemed to forget that he’d done so. His eyes narrowed, and the fingers of his free hand drummed along the table.

He did that when he was thinking. Poppy wondered if he realized this. Probably not. People rarely recognized their own mannerisms.

“However,” he said so suddenly that she actually jerked to attention, “this is not the navy, and I cannot invoke king and crown to foster loyalty. If I want men who will work hard, they must know that they are respected, and that they will be rewarded.”

“With good food?” she asked dubiously.

This seemed to amuse him. “I was thinking more about a small share in the profits, but yes, good food helps too. I don’t want to lead a ship of miserable souls. There’s no pleasure in that.”

“For you or the souls,” she quipped.

He tipped his fork at her in salute. “Exactly. Treat men well, and they will treat you well, in return.”

“Is that why you have treated me well?”

“Is that what think?” He leaned forward, a warm, lazy smile on his face. “That I’ve treated you well?”

Poppy forced herself not to react to his expression. He had a way of looking at her as if she were the only human being in the world. It was intense, and thrilling, and she’d had to learn how to steel herself against it, especially since she knew she could not possibly be its sole recipient.

“Have you treated me well?” she echoed. “Aside from the actual fact of the kidnapping, yes, I suppose you have done. I cannot say that I have been mistreated. Bored out of my skull, perhaps, but not mistreated.”

“There’s an irony there,” he remarked. “Here you are on what will probably be the biggest adventure of your life, and you are bored.”

“How kind of you to point that out,” she said dryly, “but as it happens, that exact thought has already entered my mind. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“An hour,” she ground out. “Twice a bloody hour. At least.”

“Miss Bridgerton, I did not know you cursed.”

“It’s a relatively new habit.”

He smiled, all white teeth and mischief. “Formed in the past week?”

“You are so astute, Captain James.”

“If I might be permitted to pay you a compliment . . .”

She inclined her head graciously; it seemed expected.

“Of all my conversational sparring partners, you rank easily in the top five.”

She quirked a brow. “There are four other people in this world who find you as vexing as I do?”

“I know,” he said with a woeful shake of his head. “It’s hard to believe. But”—at this he raised his fork, complete with carrot speared to the end—“the counterpart to that is there are four people in the world who vex me as much as you do.”

She considered that for a moment. “I find that reassuring.”

“Do you?”

“Once I’m back home, never to see you again . . .” She clasped her hands over her heart and sighed dramatically, as if preparing herself for her final soliloquy. “It will warm my heart to know that somewhere in this big, cruel world, some one is irritating you.”

He stared at her for moment, stunned into silence, and then he burst into laughter. “Oh, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, getting the words out when he was able, “you have risen to the number one spot.”

She looked over at him with a tipped-up chin and a clever smile. “I do try to excel in all of my endeavors.”

Captain James lifted his glass. “I do not doubt that for a moment.” He drank, seemingly in her honor, then added, “And I have no doubt that you succeed.”

She thanked him with a regal nod.

He took another long drink, then held the glass in front of him, watching the dark red liquid as he swirled it about. “I will confess,” he said, “that for all of my egalitarian views, I don’t share my wine.”

“You did with me.”

“Yes, well, you are a special case.”

“Aren’t I just,” Poppy grumbled.

“I might even have shared my brandy,” he continued, “if I had any.” At her questioning look he added, “That was what Brown and Green were supposed to get at the cave.”

“And instead you got me.”

Poppy wasn’t positive, but she thought he muttered, “God help us both.”

She snorted. She couldn’t help it.

“Watch your manners,” he said without any bite whatsoever. “I could give you grog.”