The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(70)

He looked urgently about, trying to assess the situation. It was clear that the three men he’d seen earlier were but a few of a larger group. Andrew could not be sure how many there were in total. He counted four in the alley, but from the noises coming through the open doorway, there were at least that many inside as well.

The four men exchanged words in Portuguese too rapid for Andrew to follow, and then the one who’d had his hand wrapped tightly around Poppy’s arm adjusted his position and hauled her back against him, his beefy arm making a pointed elbow around her throat.

“Get your hands off her,” Andrew roared, but the foul cretin only laughed, and Poppy let out a strangled cry as she was pulled even more tightly against his chest.

“You son of a—” But Andrew’s growl was choked off when he was slammed back against the stone wall of the tavern.

The man holding Poppy laughed anew, and he wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger before tickling the underside of her chin.

He would be the first to die.

Andrew had no idea how he would do it, but as God was his witness, he was going to disembowel him.

“Let her go!”

Billy. Dear God, he’d forgotten about the boy. And apparently everyone else had as well, because no one was restraining him when he ran forward and kicked Poppy’s captor in the shin.

“Billy, no!” Andrew yelled, because anyone could see that he did not stand a chance.

But the thirteen-year-old urchin from the wrong side of Portsmouth had the heart of a gentleman, and he would not allow his lady’s honor to be besmirched.

“Let her go!” Billy screamed again. And then—Holy Mother of God they were going to kill him for this —he sank his teeth into the large man’s arm.

The howl of pain that ensued was enough to curdle bones, and whether it was revenge or reaction, Andrew would never know, but the man’s fist came down on Billy’s head like a cudgel.

The boy dropped like a stone.

“Billy!” Poppy cried.

And then, as Andrew watched in horrified awe, Poppy went mad .

“You brute!” she snarled, and she delivered a double blow—first slamming her foot onto her captor’s instep, then jabbing her pointy elbow into his belly.

The foot did nothing, but the elbow stunned him enough to let her go, and Poppy dropped to the ground, cradling Billy’s head as she tried to rouse him.

“He’s a child!” she hissed.

“Ele me mordeu! ” The man who’d been holding her shoved his injured arm in her face.

Poppy looked up from Billy just long enough to snap, “Well, that’s your own bloody fault.”

The other brigands were laughing, which did nothing to soothe his temper, and he let out a stream of curses.

Funny how Andrew could understand that .

“Billy,” Poppy said, smoothing the boy’s hair from his face. “Please wake up. Can you answer me?”

Billy did not move.

“I hope that bite becomes infected,” Poppy said in a malevolent growl. “I hope your arm turns black and falls off. I hope your bollocks turn gree—”

“Poppy!” Andrew barked. He didn’t think any of these men spoke English, but if they did, bollocks was likely the first word they’d learned.

“Do any of you speak English?” he asked. “Inglês? ”

They grunted their no s, and one of the men poked his head back into the tavern and yelled something. A few moments later, one of the men Andrew had first seen in the tavern led Senhor Farias into the alley.

With a knife to his throat.





Chapter 18




“Billy?” Poppy murmured, lightly stroking his cheek. “Billy, please wake up.”

But the boy didn’t stir. He didn’t look ill, or pale, or any of those things Poppy thought would come from such a fierce blow to the head. He looked almost peaceful, as if his sleep was natural, and all he needed was a little nudge and reminder that it was time to open his eyes.

Water , she thought. Maybe some water splashed on his face would help. She knew the word for water. She’d learned it earlier that day.

“Agua ,” she begged, looking from man to man among the bandits. “Agua por the boy.”

But her mangled sentence went unheard. A commotion broke out inside the tavern—shouting, followed by the crash of broken wood and overturned tables. The man who had hit Billy rushed to the open doorway and disappeared inside.

There was more talk between the bandits, their voices quick and sharp and utterly incomprehensible to Poppy’s English ears.

She felt so bloody helpless. Earlier in the day it had all been so charming—the music of the Portuguese language swirling about her ears. It had been a game to wonder what they were saying, a marvel to consider just how huge the world really was.

Now she just felt illiterate. And lost. She might as well be an infant for all that she could tell what was happening around her.

She turned toward Andrew, not that he was likely to understand the fast chatter much better than she could. She’d spent the entire day with him; she had some idea of how much Portuguese he knew.

More than most, but far from fluent.

“Andrew.” She whispered his name, but she didn’t think he heard her. The two largest bandits had him pinned tightly against the wall, and just the sight of it caused Poppy’s throat to constrict. One of them had an elbow pressed hard into Andrew’s belly; the other held his jaw in a viselike grip. Both used the full weight of their bodies to keep him in place.