The Other Miss Bridgerton

She might look up.

They might kiss.

It would be daring. Scandalous. How funny to think that if she were back in London, she could be ruined by a single kiss. It seemed so trivial now, compared with, oh, being kidnapped by pirates.

And yet as she stared into the captain’s eyes, it didn’t seem trivial at all.

She lurched back, aghast at the direction of her thoughts, but his hands were still there, large and warm on her hips, holding her, if not in place, then at least steady.

Safe.

“The water,” he said in a rough voice. “It’s choppy tonight.”

It wasn’t, but she appreciated the lie.

“I’m steady now,” she said, setting her hand on the table to reassure him. Or maybe herself.

He released her arms and took a polite step back. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I am not usually so clumsy.”

Another lie. Another kindness. He hadn’t been clumsy. To the contrary; she had been the one to stumble. She should have repaid his generosity with her own by saying so, but all she could manage was “I’m done with the tooth powder.”

It took him a moment longer than she would have expected to respond, and when he did, it was with a distracted “Of course.” He took a step, and this time she made sure to wait a half second so that she could see his direction and step out of his way.

“Thank you,” he added.

It was all very awkward. Which, Poppy thought, was how it ought to be. “I’ll just get into bed now,” she said.

He was busy with his teeth, but he turned his back to give her privacy. Why, she wasn’t sure, as they both knew she would be sleeping in her clothes. Still, it was a considerate gesture, and yet another indication of his status as a gentleman.

“I’m in,” she called out.

He finished with his teeth and turned back around. “I’ll have the lanterns off shortly.”

“Thank you.” She pulled the covers up to her chin so that she could loosen the sash of her dress without him seeing. She was going to burn this frock when she got back home. She might have an identical one made up, because she did rather like the fabric, but this one . . .

To the fire pit.

She rolled onto her side and faced the wall, affording him the same privacy he’d given her. She could hear his every move, though, setting up his sleeping area, pulling off his boots.

“Oh, the pillow!” she suddenly remembered. She grabbed it from beneath her head and lobbed it over her shoulder. “Here you are!”

She heard a soft thunk, and then a soft grunt.

“Impeccable aim,” he murmured.

“Did I hit you?”

“Square on.”

Poppy smiled. “Face?”

“You should be so lucky.”

“I couldn’t see,” she demurred.

“Shoulder,” he told her, snuffing the last of the lanterns. “Now be quiet and go to sleep.”

Amazingly, she did.

Chapter 9

The problem, Andrew realized as he turned the ship the following morning just enough to keep the sails flush with wind, was that Poppy Bridgerton wasn’t awful.

If she’d been awful, he could have shut the cabin door and forgotten about her.

If she’d been awful, he might have even taken some vaguely undignified pleasure in her predicament.

But she wasn’t awful. She was a bloody miserable nuisance—or rather, her presence was—but she wasn’t awful.

And that made all of this so much more complicated.

The girl’s safety was surely worth the price of her boredom, but somehow that didn’t make him feel any better about having sequestered her in the cabin, with nothing but a few books and an ocean view to keep her company.

Andrew had been up and about for several hours already; he rarely slept past sunrise. Billy would have brought her breakfast by now, so that was something. The boy wasn’t the most sparkling of conversationalists, but now that he’d got over his terror of their female guest, surely he could provide a few moments of diversion.

At least she wouldn’t have to eat a cold breakfast. Miss Bridgerton wouldn’t make that mistake again.

She wasn’t the kind to ever make the same mistake twice.

Still, he should check on her. It was only polite. She was his guest.

In a way.

Regardless, he was certainly responsible for her. And that included her mental well-being along with the physical. Besides, he’d thought of something that might alleviate the monotony. He didn’t know why it had not occurred to him earlier—probably because he’d still been so aghast at their unexpected predicament.

He had a wooden puzzle, modeled after the dissected maps that had become all the rage in London. But his was considerably more intricate. It had taken him several hours to put together when he’d given it a go. It wasn’t much, but it would help her fill her time.

She’d love it. He knew this with a certainty he couldn’t explain, except that he’d loved it, and he and Miss Bridgerton seemed to have the same sort of analytical, problem-solving mind. He rather suspected they’d have been jolly good friends if she hadn’t put national secrets at risk when she trespassed in his cave.

Or if he hadn’t kidnapped her. That too.

“Jenkins, take the wheel,” he called out, ignoring the speculative look on his second’s face. Andrew had given over far more of his wheel time than usual. But there was no law saying that a captain had to spend a prescribed amount of time in—

“Oh for the love of God,” he muttered. He didn’t need to explain himself to anyone, much less himself.

Jenkins, thankfully, assumed command without comment, and Andrew took the steps two at a time down to the main deck, and then triple-pace down to his cabin.

He gave a sharp rap before inserting his key into the lock, letting himself in before Miss Bridgerton had a chance to call out a greeting.

She was seated at the table, her chestnut hair pinned somewhat haphazardly on her head. The scant remains of her breakfast—three berries and a bit of toast—sat on the tray in front of her.

“You don’t like strawberries?” he asked, plucking the largest of the three off her plate.

She glanced up from the book she was reading. “They make me ill.”

“Interesting.” He took a bite. “My sister-in-law is the same. I’ve not seen it, but Edward—that’s my brother—says it’s a sight to behold.”

She marked her place in the book—a slim guide to Lisbon, he noted; rather practical of her even if he had no plans to let her so much as touch a toe to Portuguese soil—then set it down. “I imagine it’s a sight one wishes not to behold.”

“Indeed.” He shuddered. “I believe the word gruesome was used, and my brother is not given to hyperbole.”

“Unlike you?”

He laid a hand over his heart. “I exaggerate only when absolutely necessary.”

“Your brother sounds delightful.”

“He’s married,” Andrew immediately retorted.

“This makes him less delightful?” She seemed to find this terribly amusing, which should have irritated him, but instead he felt . . . awkward?

Green?

It had been a long time since his glib tongue had failed him so.

Thankfully, however, Miss Bridgerton did not seem to require a response. Instead she pushed her plate in his direction. “Have the rest if you wish.”

Andrew accepted her offering and ate one whole, leaving only the green leafy cap in his fingers. Setting it down on her plate, he rested his hip against the side of the table and asked, “Are you gruesome?”

She let out a surprised laugh. “Right this minute?”

He tipped his head, a small salute to her riposte.

“No,” she said, a touch of humor making her voice delightfully warm. “I get rather itchy, though, and somewhat short of breath. Two things I’d rather avoid, frankly, while confined in a cabin.”

“I’ll tell the cook,” Andrew said, finishing off the last berry. “He can give you something else.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Alarmingly civil, aren’t we?”