The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(77)

It wasn’t just his neckpiece. He rolled up his sleeves too, and she was mesmerized by his arms—the play of muscles beneath his skin. Most of the men she knew didn’t work. They rode, they fenced, they walked the perimeter of their property, but they didn’t work . It made her wonder at the strength of him, what those arms could do that hers could not.

And she was always aware of his heat. There was a cushion of air around his body that was always a few degrees warmer than the rest. It made her want to move closer, and then closer still, to see if it grew hot when she was just a whisper away.

She knew such thoughts were scandalous. Wicked, even. But all of that—No, none of that had brought her to such a quivering point as this.

She watched as he took a long breath, his body taut, as if he were protesting some invisible restraint. His hands had become claws, only the fingertips pressing into the wall above his head.

“Captain James?” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if he heard her. He was close enough—the room was far too small for even the softest murmur to go unnoticed. But whatever was going on in his head—it was loud. It was loud, and it was primal, and it had left him on the edge of something very fierce.

“Capt—”

He took a step back. Closed his eyes as he took a breath. And then, with composure that was far too even and restrained, he turned to her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

Poppy didn’t know what to say.

“Where were we?”

She had no idea.

“Right,” he continued, as if she weren’t goggling at him like a speechless loon. “I might have convinced them to let you bring the ransom note to the Infinity .”

Her mouth fell open. Why hadn’t he said that first ?

He raked his hand through his hair and strode to the other side of the room. It was only a few steps, but he seemed rather like a caged cat. “It was the best I could do,” he said.

“But—” Poppy fought for words. All she came up with was: “Me?”

“It would be a show of good faith.”

“I was not aware that they had good faith.”

“And proof of life,” he added in a more brittle tone.

“Proof of— Oh,” she said, suddenly understanding the term. “That’s a terrible phrase.”

He rolled his eyes at her na?veté. “The man I talked with has to consult someone else. We won’t have their answer until tomorrow morning.”

Poppy looked toward the window. Earlier, there had been a narrow sliver of light between the wooden shutters.

“Night has fallen,” Andrew confirmed.

“One would think such men would prefer to work under the cover of darkness.”

Again, he rolled his eyes. And again, there was no levity in it, nothing to say that they were in this together. “I have little insight into the workings of their minds,” he said.

Poppy held her tongue for a few seconds, but that was all she could manage. “Why are you being so mean?”

A look of impatient incomprehension swept over his face. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m just saying that you could be a little kinder.”

“Wh—” He shook his head, apparently unable to complete the word.

“You have done nothing but growl and snap since you got back.”

He gaped as if he could not believe the cheek of her. “We are being held captive by God-knows-who and you’re complaining that I’m not being kind ?”

“No, of course not. Well, yes, I am. Every time I try to make a suggestion—”

“You have no experience in such things,” he cut in. “Why should I listen to you?”

“Because I’m not stupid, and the worst that could come of listening to me is that you’ll disagree with what I have to say.”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. “Poppy,” he said, the word as much of a growl as it was a sigh. “I cannot—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. She thought back to what he’d just said. “Do you mean to say that you do have some experience in such things?”

“Some,” he admitted.

“What does that mean?”

“It means this is not the first time I have had to deal with unsavory characters,” he retorted.

“Is it the first time you’ve been kidnapped?”

“Yes.”

“The first time you’ve been tied up?”

He hesitated.

She gasped. “Captain Ja— ”

“In this manner,” he said quickly. And with great volume and emphasis, as if he needed to cut off her query about as much as he needed, for example, air.

Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t ask that question.”

It was possibly the first time she had seen him truly blush, which should have been enough to make her want to force him to answer. But given the circumstances, she decided to let it pass. For the most part.

She gave him a shrewd look. “Can I ask you that question later?”

“Please don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

There was a noise people sometimes made—it was halfway between a laugh and a cry but it just ended up sounding like irony.