The Other Miss Bridgerton

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 naïve.”

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.

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 naïveté. “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?”