The Other Miss Bridgerton

“How very enterprising.”

The captain glanced at her over his shoulder. “He can call himself a potato if he wishes as long as he keeps cooking for me.”

Poppy being Poppy, she immediately began to wonder what Mr. LaBaker couldn’t call himself and still have a job cooking for him.

Captain , probably. It was difficult to imagine Captain James tolerating that .

“What are you grinning about?” he asked.

Poppy shook her head. It was just the sort of meandering thought there was no point in trying to explain.

He turned his chair so that he could see her without twisting in his seat. Then he sat back with that effortless masculine grace of his, long legs stretched out as a devilish smile played across his lips. “Are you plotting against me?”

“Always,” she confirmed.

This made him grin—truly, and Poppy had to remind herself she did not care if she made him smile.

“I’ve yet to meet with success, though,” she said with a sigh.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She shrugged, watching as he went back to his supper. After three bites of stew, half a roll, and a sip of wine, she asked, “Do your men eat the same meals you do?”

“Of course.” He looked somewhat offended she’d asked. “It’s served more plainly, but I’ll not give them substandard fare.”

“A hungry man cannot work hard?” she murmured. She had heard it said, and she was sure it was true—she herself was worthless when she was hungry—but it did feel a somewhat self-serving statement, as if a man’s food was only worth the labor he might provide to his betters.

The captain’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment it felt as if he were judging her. And perhaps not favorably.

“A hungry man quickly loses his spirit,” he said in a quiet voice.

“I agree,” Poppy swiftly responded. She felt no need to impress this man—if anything, it ought to be the other way around—but it did not sit well to think that he thought badly of her.

Which was nonsense. She shouldn’t care.

But apparently she did, because she added, “I did not mean to say that I think a man’s potential for hard work is the only reason to feed him well.”

“No?” he murmured.

“No,” she said firmly, because his tone had been too mild, and she feared it meant he did not believe her. “I agree with you that a hungry man loses his spirit. But many men don’t care about the spirits of those they consider beneath them.”

His voice was sharp and perfectly enunciated when he said, “I am not one of those men.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t think you were.”

“There are many reasons to feed one’s men well,” he said, “not the least of which is the fact that they are human.”

Poppy nodded, mesmerized by the quiet ferocity of his voice.

“But there is more,” he continued. “A ship is not the same as a mill or a shop or a farm. If we do not work together, if we do not trust one another, we die. It is as simple as that.”

“Is that not the reason why discipline and order are so essential in the navy?”

He gave a sharp nod. “There must be a chain of command, and ultimately there must be one man in charge. Otherwise it will be anarchy.”

“Mutiny.”

“Indeed.” He used the side of his fork to cut a potato, but then he seemed to forget that he’d done so. His eyes narrowed, and the fingers of his free hand drummed along the table.

He did that when he was thinking. Poppy wondered if he realized this. Probably not. People rarely recognized their own mannerisms.

“However,” he said so suddenly that she actually jerked to attention, “this is not the navy, and I cannot invoke king and crown to foster loyalty. If I want men who will work hard, they must know that they are respected, and that they will be rewarded.”

“With good food?” she asked dubiously.

This seemed to amuse him. “I was thinking more about a small share in the profits, but yes, good food helps too. I don’t want to lead a ship of miserable souls. There’s no pleasure in that.”

“For you or the souls,” she quipped.

He tipped his fork at her in salute. “Exactly. Treat men well, and they will treat you well, in return.”

“Is that why you have treated me well?”

“Is that what think?” He leaned forward, a warm, lazy smile on his face. “That I’ve treated you well?”

Poppy forced herself not to react to his expression. He had a way of looking at her as if she were the only human being in the world. It was intense, and thrilling, and she’d had to learn how to steel herself against it, especially since she knew she could not possibly be its sole recipient.

“Have you treated me well?” she echoed. “Aside from the actual fact of the kidnapping, yes, I suppose you have done. I cannot say that I have been mistreated. Bored out of my skull, perhaps, but not mistreated.”

“There’s an irony there,” he remarked. “Here you are on what will probably be the biggest adventure of your life, and you are bored.”

“How kind of you to point that out,” she said dryly, “but as it happens, that exact thought has already entered my mind. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“An hour,” she ground out. “Twice a bloody hour. At least.”

“Miss Bridgerton, I did not know you cursed.”

“It’s a relatively new habit.”

He smiled, all white teeth and mischief. “Formed in the past week?”

“You are so astute, Captain James.”

“If I might be permitted to pay you a compliment . . .”

She inclined her head graciously; it seemed expected.

“Of all my conversational sparring partners, you rank easily in the top five.”

She quirked a brow. “There are four other people in this world who find you as vexing as I do?”

“I know,” he said with a woeful shake of his head. “It’s hard to believe. But”—at this he raised his fork, complete with carrot speared to the end—“the counterpart to that is there are four people in the world who vex me as much as you do.”

She considered that for a moment. “I find that reassuring.”

“Do you?”

“Once I’m back home, never to see you again . . .” She clasped her hands over her heart and sighed dramatically, as if preparing herself for her final soliloquy. “It will warm my heart to know that somewhere in this big, cruel world, some one is irritating you.”

He stared at her for moment, stunned into silence, and then he burst into laughter. “Oh, Miss Bridgerton,” he said, getting the words out when he was able, “you have risen to the number one spot.”

She looked over at him with a tipped-up chin and a clever smile. “I do try to excel in all of my endeavors.”

Captain James lifted his glass. “I do not doubt that for a moment.” He drank, seemingly in her honor, then added, “And I have no doubt that you succeed.”

She thanked him with a regal nod.

He took another long drink, then held the glass in front of him, watching the dark red liquid as he swirled it about. “I will confess,” he said, “that for all of my egalitarian views, I don’t share my wine.”

“You did with me.”

“Yes, well, you are a special case.”

“Aren’t I just,” Poppy grumbled.

“I might even have shared my brandy,” he continued, “if I had any.” At her questioning look he added, “That was what Brown and Green were supposed to get at the cave.”

“And instead you got me.”

Poppy wasn’t positive, but she thought he muttered, “God help us both.”

She snorted. She couldn’t help it.

“Watch your manners,” he said without any bite whatsoever. “I could give you grog.”

“What is grog?” She’d heard Billy talking about it. He seemed to like it.

The captain tore off a piece of his roll and popped it into his mouth. “Mostly just watered-down rum.”