The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(44)

“What is grog?” She’d heard Billy talking about it. He seemed to like it.

The captain tore off a piece of his roll and popped it into his mouth. “Mostly just watered-down rum.”

“Mostly?”

“I try not to think about what else might be in there. I had enough of it when I—”

He stopped.

“When you what?” Poppy asked. He did that sometimes—started to tell her something, then cut himself off.

He set down his fork. “Nothing.”

And that was what he always said when she probed his silences.

But Poppy kept asking. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

Captain James stood and walked to the window, hands on his hips as he gazed at the indistinguishable horizon. “There’s no moon tonight.”

“I had wondered.” She’d been sitting by the window for hours, and she’d not seen one drop of moonlight flickering along the waves. It made for a slightly different seascape than the previous evenings.

“It means the stars will be staggeringly brilliant.”

“How nice of you to let me know,” she muttered.

She was fairly certain he’d heard her, but he did not react. Instead he asked, without turning around, “What time is it?”

Poppy shook her head. Was he so lazy that he could not twist his neck to look at the clock? “It is half ten.” Your Highness .

“Hmm.” It was a rather short hmm , one that said he accepted her words as true and was now pondering a related issue.

How she knew how to interpret his grunts, she did not know, but she would have bet real money that she was correct.

“Most of the men will be below by now,” he said. He turned back to face her, leaning against the spot where the wall met the windows. “They work in shifts. They each get eight hours for sleep, but more than half take it at night, from nine to five.”

It was interesting—she liked these sorts of details—but she could not imagine why was he telling her this now.

“I think,” he said with a slow, deliberate tilt of his lips, “that if I were to take you up to see the stars, it would not cause such a large commotion.”

Poppy went very still. “What did you just say?”

He looked at her, something in his expression hinting at a smile.

And something hinting at something more.

“You heard me,” he said.

“You need to say it,” she whispered. “You have to say the words.”

He took a small step back, just enough so that he could offer her a courtly bow.

“My dear Miss Bridgerton,” he murmured, “would you like to join me on deck?”





Chapter 12




Poppy set down her book, never once taking her eyes from the captain’s face. She had the strangest notion that if she did, if she broke that contact for even a moment, his suggestion would pop in the air like a soap bubble.

She made the tiniest of nods.

“Take my hand,” he said, reaching out.

And even though everything within her that was sensible and true screamed that she ought not touch this man; she ought not let her skin even so much as brush against his . . .

She did.

He was still for moment, looking down between them as if he couldn’t quite believe she’d done it. His fingers curled slowly around hers, and when their hands were truly clasped, he brushed his thumb against the tender skin of her wrist.

She felt it everywhere.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s go above.”

She nodded dumbly, trying to make sense of the strange sensation that was unfurling within her. She felt light, as if at any moment her heels would rise from the floor, leaving her tiptoed and ungrounded. Her blood seemed to fizz beneath her skin, and she tingled . . . not where he touched her—her hand felt warm and secure in his—but everywhere else.

Every spot of her.

She wanted . . .

Something.

Maybe she wanted everything.

Or maybe she knew what she wanted and was afraid to even think it.

“Miss Bridgerton?” he murmured.

She looked up. How long had she been staring at their hands?

“Are you ready?”

“Do I need a shawl?” she asked. (Then realized the irrelevance of her question and blinked.) “I don’t have a shawl. But do I need one?”

“No,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “It’s quite mild. The breeze is light.”

“I do need shoes, though,” she said, pulling her hand from his. She paused, for a moment forgetting where her short black boots even were. She had not bothered to put them on since she’d arrived. When would she have needed to?

“In the wardrobe,” the captain said. “At the bottom.”

“Oh yes, of course.” How silly of her. She knew that. He’d put them there on her second day, after he’d tripped on them three times.

She grabbed her boots and sat down to lace them up. She’d sworn to herself—just this evening!—that she would not feel gratitude to any of the men on the ship, no matter how kind they were, but she could not seem to quell the traitorous urge inside her to throw her arms around him and gush thank you thank you until . . .