The Other Miss Bridgerton

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.

But Poppy did not seem to have heard the thickness in his voice. “It was so strange,” she went on. “It happened so fast. I could not breathe. And yet, I think I was breathing. But I didn’t know that I was. I know—I’m not making any sense.”

“Such things rarely do.” He cleared his throat. “I have seen it before. What happened to you. One of my men cannot take more than a step into the cave.”

“The cave?” she echoed, blinking with surprise. “I had no trouble with the cave.”

He shrugged, since his tied-up hands precluded him from making any of his usual gesticulations. “I would imagine it’s different for everyone. For all I know, he can sit happily for days with a bag over his head.”

Poppy’s lips parted as she considered that. “I suppose you’re right. It’s silly to expect logic in something so entirely illogical.”

He nodded slowly and sat down on the bed. He was exhausted. Now that the immediate danger was gone—all the knives and guns (and the people holding the knives and guns) were on the other side of a door—it was as if the energy had just drained from his body.

Or poured. Draining sounded slow. This had been instant. One moment he was poised and ready to fight, and the next he had nothing.

For a moment Poppy looked as if she might sit beside him, but then she turned and awkwardly hugged her arms to her body. “It was very helpful,” she said haltingly. “When you spoke to me. It calmed me down. Thank you.”

“Do not thank me,” he said roughly. He did not want her gratitude. He could not bear it.

If they got out of this room alive, if he was the one to make that happen, then she could say thank you. But until then, he was just the man who might get her killed.

“Do you know where we are?” she finally asked.

“No.”

“I—” She swallowed, then looked toward the blocked window. “How long do you think we were in the cart? An hour? We are probably rather far out of town by now.”

“Or they retraced their path six times and we’re right around the corner from the tavern.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you really think so?”

“No,” he admitted, “not right around the corner. But we might be much closer than the length of our journey would indicate.”

Poppy went to the window and pressed her ear to the glass.

“Can you hear anything?”

She gave a nod—a tiny one, meant to shush him as much as it did to signal agreement. “I can’t make much out,” she said, “but it’s not silent. Wherever we are, it’s not isolated.”

Andrew made his way to her side and leaned his ear against the window. Facing each other, they listened. She was right. It wasn’t quiet outside. There was . . . life. Things were happening.

It was just about the least specific descriptor he could have imagined—things were happening —and yet it said so much.

“I think we’re still in the city,” he said slowly. “Or at least not very far out.”

Poppy made a murmuring sound of agreement and pressed herself more firmly against the glass. “Some of those voices are female,” she said.

Andrew raised a brow. “Somehow I don’t think our captors have a secret female division of their gang.”

“Which means they must have brought us to a very ordinary part of town. Or near the town.”

“That is very good news. The less remote we are, the better.”

“The greater the chance someone will be able to find us?”

“The greater the chance we might escape.” At her questioning look, he added, “It’s much easier to hide in a city.”

She nodded, then pushed herself off the window and took a few steps toward the center of the room. “I think I will sit down.”

“That’s a good idea.”

She moved toward the bed, then stopped and turned around. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“I don’t suppose you have a knife hidden in your dress,” he muttered.

“Nor a gun,” she said, her eyes telling him that she remembered him saying almost the same thing on the day she’d arrived on the Infinity . “Nor a purse of gold. Alas.”

“Alas,” he agreed.

Damn it.

Two hours later

There was nothing to do but stare at the door.

Someone had come for Andrew a few minutes earlier. He’d been half pushed, half pulled out the door, and she’d not seen him since. Poppy had not heard anything either, which she thought was a good sign. Gunshots were by definition loud, and if they tried to injure him in some other way—surely that would make noise.

Wouldn’t it?

She’d searched the room for something she might use as a weapon, but the only movable objects of heft were the chairs.

“Needs must,” she muttered, and she pulled one close to the door. If she had to, she could heave it into the air and bring it down upon someone’s head. It might even knock someone unconscious.

Hopefully not Andrew.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, waiting and listening. Ten minutes? Twenty? Certainly not thirty. She’d never been good at estimating the passage of time.

And then finally—

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.”