The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(74)

He turned just in time to see one of the men take hold of Poppy’s hood and pull it off. She took a massive gulp of air the moment it was lifted, but although she looked a bit shaky, she appeared unharmed. It had been hot and sticky under that blanket, and after her reaction to the burlap hood, he’d been terrified that she would have another breathing attack. He’d tried to talk to her in the wagon—that seemed to have helped before—but he was rewarded with a slap to the head from the man who was riding along with them in the back. It hadn’t hurt—the blanket had absorbed a great deal of the impact—but if it was meant as a warning, it had worked. Andrew kept his mouth shut and didn’t try anything.

He’d had no other choice.

Which was galling.

It had brought to mind the time when—it must have been the first or second day after Poppy had come aboard the Infinity —he had asked her why she was being so agreeable. She had replied that she had no good reason not to be agreeable. She couldn’t very well escape while they were at sea.

At the time he’d thought her eminently sensible. He still did, he supposed.

But now he realized how colossally he’d missed the point. How impotent she must have felt, to be forced into meekly accepting her fate. There was nothing satisfying about choosing one’s best option when all of the options were terrible.

He could not have left her in England—not with such strict orders to ferry the diplomatic pouch to Portugal and keep the cave’s location a secret until the prime minister’s emissary got there for the documents he’d brought from Spain. Truly, he’d had no choice but to take Poppy with them on the journey.

But he could have been more understanding. More . . . compassionate?

More something. He could have been more something.

Maybe more honest. She did not even know his true name.

He looked over at her, trying to speak with his eyes since he dared not yet make a sound. She seemed to understand; her own eyes opened wide and her lips pinched up at the corners. The two men who had brought them into the house still stood by the door, speaking to each other in rapid Portuguese.

As the men talked, Andrew took stock of their surroundings. They were in a bedchamber—nothing large or luxurious, but as best as he could tell, tidy and clean. The decor was a step or two above what one might find in a posting inn; whoever lived here had a small measure of wealth.

Andrew caught a few words from the conversation—money, man, woman . He thought one of them might have said seven , although he wasn’t sure what that might be in relation to. And maybe it wasn’t that, at all. It was entirely possible that the only reason he’d recognized man, woman , and money was because he’d been expecting to hear them.

Tomorrow.

Stupid.

Home.

He thought he heard these words too.

Abruptly, the men turned toward them, and one of them flicked his hand in their direction as he barked out an order.

He wanted them to move. Andrew nudged Poppy with his shoulder, and they edged backward until the backs of their legs hit the bed.

Poppy looked at him with wide, apprehensive eyes, and he gave his head a tiny shake. No questions. Not yet.

The men grew animated as they spoke, and then Andrew saw the glint of a knife.

He didn’t think.

He didn’t have time to think. He just leapt, trying to cover her body with his own. Except that with his hands bound, he was clumsy and off-balance. Poppy let out a grunt as she stumbled back onto the bed, and Andrew fell to the floor, feeling the veriest fool.

The man with the knife strode over and actually rolled his eyes as he grabbed Poppy’s wrists and sliced through her bindings.

He looked down at Andrew. “Idiota .”

And then he left, taking his friend with him.

Andrew closed his eyes. He needed a moment. Surely he deserved a moment to pretend he wasn’t lying on a floor with his hands bound behind his back somewhere in the vicinity of Lisbon.

He tasted blood. He must have bitten his tongue.

“Captain?”

He sighed.

“Captain?”

She sounded a little panicked the second time, so he forced himself to open his eyes. Poppy was standing over him, her brow knit with worry.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly.

She reached down to help him to his feet. “I can try to untie you.”

He shook his head. Whoever had bound his wrists had done so with knots worthy of the most seasoned of sailors.

There was irony there.

Sod it.

“They should have retied them in front of your body,” Poppy said, once he was back upright.

“Or ,” he said in a brittle voice, “they should have not kidnapped us.”

“Well . . . yes.” She laughed nervously.

“How are you?” he asked. It should have been the first thing he’d asked. It should have been the first thing he’d thought , not some rot about feeling sorry for himself and wanting to keep his eyes closed.

“I . . .” It seemed to take her some time to choose her answer. “I am all right,” she finally decided. “I’m not sure what happened to me when they put that sack over my head. I have never experienced anything like it. When we were in the cart, I spent half the time trying to remember to breathe and the other half trying to remember how to breathe.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for. His list of transgressions was grotesquely long.