The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(76)

Footsteps. She gripped the top rail of the chair. She had no idea how she’d know whether to attack or not. If she heard Andrew’s voice? If she didn’t hear his voice?

She was just going to have to wait until the door opened. See who walked in.

The noises drew closer.

She picked up the chair. Held it over her head.

A key turned in the lock.

She held her breath.

The door swung open.

And Andrew stumbled in.

Poppy caught herself mid-swing, halting the downward motion of the chair just before it crashed onto his head.

“Aaaaaa!”

He yelled.

She yelled.

They both yelled, and then so did someone in the hallway, presumably to tell them to shut the hell up.

“Get that away from my head,” Andrew shouted, bringing his hands up in defense.

“They untied you!” Poppy exclaimed. He’d been pushed into the room with enough force to land him on the floor, and she’d not immediately noticed that he’d been freed.

“The chair,” he ground out.

“Oh, sorry.” The bottom of one of the legs was but an inch from his eye. She hastily set it down behind her. “Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened? Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Let me just get up.”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry.” She helped him to his feet. “Wh—” She bit her tongue. She’d been about to ask him what happened again.

“They brought in someone who speaks English,” he said once he’d dusted himself off.

“And?”

“And he pretended to be my friend. Said he was appalled at our treatment, insisted my hands be untied.”

Poppy wondered why his tone was so close to a sneer. “That’s . . . good? Isn’t it?”

“Probably not. It’s a well-known tactic when taking prisoners. One person acts kindly. Tries to gain your trust.”

“Oh.” Poppy considered this. “Still, it’s better that than everyone treating you badly, isn’t it?”

His head cocked to the side in a considering manner. “I suppose. Most other methods of interrogation involve a great deal of blood, so yes, this is preferable.”

She pressed her lips together but did not chide him for such a flip comment. “Did they tell you what they want? I mean, I know they want money, but did they tell you how much?”

“More than I can easily amass.”

Poppy’s lips parted. She didn’t know why, but it had not occurred to her that they might not be able to meet a ransom demand. “I have money,” she said haltingly.

“In Portugal?” His answer was sarcastic, almost derisive.

“Of course not. But if we told them—”

“Don’t be na?ve.”

She felt her teeth press together. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I know.” He raked his hand through his hair. “I know.”

Poppy watched him carefully. His second “I know” had been louder than the first, more emphatic.

Angry, even.

She waited a moment, then asked, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I was trying to.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t asking what happened. I was asking if you’re going to tell me. Because if you’re not, if you’re going to leave parts out because you think it’s for my own good, I’d like to know.”

He stared at her as if she’d started speaking German. Or Chinese. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“You keep secrets,” she said simply.

“I’ve known you a week. Of course I keep secrets.”

“I’m not scolding you for it. I just want to know.”

“For God’s sake, Poppy.”

“For God’s sake, Captain,” she returned, letting her voice turn singsong.

He gave her a look of supreme annoyance. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”

“What else can I do? You won’t tell me anything.”

“I was trying to,” he ground out. “You won’t stop harping about my keeping secrets.”

“I have never harped in my life. And I never said you shouldn’t keep secrets! I just want to know if you are .”

She waited for his retort, because surely he had one—that’s what they did . But instead he just made a sound—something strange and unfamiliar and ripped from the very heart of him. It was a growl but it wasn’t, and while Poppy watched with fascinated trepidation, he turned roughly away.

He planted his hands against the wall above his head, almost groaning as he pressed forward. There was something wild in him, something Poppy should have found frightening.

She should.

But she didn’t.

Her hand tingled. As if she should touch him. As if she might die if she didn’t.

Her whole body felt strange. Needy. And though she might be an innocent, she knew this was desire. Inappropriate and ill-timed, but still there, unraveling within her like a needy beast.

She took a step back. It was self-preservation.

It didn’t help.

What did it mean that she felt this way now, when he was at his most uncivilized?

Back on the ship she’d felt hints of awareness. She’d wondered for hours what would have happened if she’d swayed closer when they’d kissed on deck. She’d dreamed about his skin, the wicked little patch of it that was revealed when he left off his cravat.