“Billy, no!” Andrew yelled, because anyone could see that he did not stand a chance.
But the thirteen-year-old urchin from the wrong side of Portsmouth had the heart of a gentleman, and he would not allow his lady’s honor to be besmirched.
“Let her go!” Billy screamed again. And then—Holy Mother of God they were going to kill him for this —he sank his teeth into the large man’s arm.
The howl of pain that ensued was enough to curdle bones, and whether it was revenge or reaction, Andrew would never know, but the man’s fist came down on Billy’s head like a cudgel.
The boy dropped like a stone.
“Billy!” Poppy cried.
And then, as Andrew watched in horrified awe, Poppy went mad .
“You brute!” she snarled, and she delivered a double blow—first slamming her foot onto her captor’s instep, then jabbing her pointy elbow into his belly.
The foot did nothing, but the elbow stunned him enough to let her go, and Poppy dropped to the ground, cradling Billy’s head as she tried to rouse him.
“He’s a child!” she hissed.
“Ele me mordeu! ” The man who’d been holding her shoved his injured arm in her face.
Poppy looked up from Billy just long enough to snap, “Well, that’s your own bloody fault.”
The other brigands were laughing, which did nothing to soothe his temper, and he let out a stream of curses.
Funny how Andrew could understand that .
“Billy,” Poppy said, smoothing the boy’s hair from his face. “Please wake up. Can you answer me?”
Billy did not move.
“I hope that bite becomes infected,” Poppy said in a malevolent growl. “I hope your arm turns black and falls off. I hope your bollocks turn gree—”
“Poppy!” Andrew barked. He didn’t think any of these men spoke English, but if they did, bollocks was likely the first word they’d learned.
“Do any of you speak English?” he asked. “Inglês? ”
They grunted their no s, and one of the men poked his head back into the tavern and yelled something. A few moments later, one of the men Andrew had first seen in the tavern led Senhor Farias into the alley.
With a knife to his throat.
Chapter 18
“Billy?” Poppy murmured, lightly stroking his cheek. “Billy, please wake up.”
But the boy didn’t stir. He didn’t look ill, or pale, or any of those things Poppy thought would come from such a fierce blow to the head. He looked almost peaceful, as if his sleep was natural, and all he needed was a little nudge and reminder that it was time to open his eyes.
Water , she thought. Maybe some water splashed on his face would help. She knew the word for water. She’d learned it earlier that day.
“Agua ,” she begged, looking from man to man among the bandits. “Agua por the boy.”
But her mangled sentence went unheard. A commotion broke out inside the tavern—shouting, followed by the crash of broken wood and overturned tables. The man who had hit Billy rushed to the open doorway and disappeared inside.
There was more talk between the bandits, their voices quick and sharp and utterly incomprehensible to Poppy’s English ears.
She felt so bloody helpless. Earlier in the day it had all been so charming—the music of the Portuguese language swirling about her ears. It had been a game to wonder what they were saying, a marvel to consider just how huge the world really was.
Now she just felt illiterate. And lost. She might as well be an infant for all that she could tell what was happening around her.
She turned toward Andrew, not that he was likely to understand the fast chatter much better than she could. She’d spent the entire day with him; she had some idea of how much Portuguese he knew.
More than most, but far from fluent.
“Andrew.” She whispered his name, but she didn’t think he heard her. The two largest bandits had him pinned tightly against the wall, and just the sight of it caused Poppy’s throat to constrict. One of them had an elbow pressed hard into Andrew’s belly; the other held his jaw in a viselike grip. Both used the full weight of their bodies to keep him in place.
Andrew . This time she only thought his name. She couldn’t have got his attention, anyway. He was staring at the doorway, his face locked in an expression that was almost devoid of emotion.
Devoid . Another word she thought sounded like its meaning.
Devoid . She despised it.
It was a word that should never be used to describe Captain Andrew James. He was full. He was replete. He was alive .
She thought he might be more alive than anyone she’d ever met.
And . . .
And . . .
She blinked, bringing her vision into focus. Andrew was still looking away from her, but it didn’t seem to matter any longer. She did not need to see his eyes; she knew they held more blue than the ocean. She did not need to hear his voice; she knew it would wash across her with the warmth of the sun.
What he’d said earlier in the day—he was right. She knew him.
Andrew James did not merely exist. He lived .
And he made her want to be the same way.
The realization took her breath away. She’d thought she was quick and adventurous and full of wit, and maybe she was, but when she was with Andrew, she was more . More of all that, and more of everything else, and more of things she’d not even known she might want.
It was not that he’d changed her; all of the seeds were already there.
But with him, she grew.
“Poppy.” Andrew’s voice. Low, and tight with warning. The noises emanating from the tavern had changed. Footsteps. Someone was coming toward them.
“Senhor Farias,” Poppy whispered. The tavernkeeper emerged first, propelled stiffly forward by a man who held his upper body immobile with one beefy arm wrapped tightly around his chest.
And a knife at his throat.
A third man hopped down the steps behind them—the leader of the bunch, Poppy thought. He said a few words in a chilling tone of voice, and then Senhor Farias said, “Do not fight them, Captain! They are many, and they have many weapons.”
“What do they want?” Andrew asked.
“Money. They say they want money. They see you are English, that you are rich.”
Poppy’s eyes darted from man to man, even as her hand kept stroking Billy’s cheek. Why would these men think they were rich? Well-to-do, certainly; it was obvious they were not laborers. But there was no way they could know that she was related to a wealthy viscount, that she had a family who would pay a king’s ransom for her safe return.
Not that her parents could afford such a ransom. But her uncle . . . he would pay.
If he knew she’d been kidnapped.
But he did not know she was in Lisbon. No one did. Not a soul who had ever mattered to her knew where she was. Funny how she’d never quite thought of it that way before.
Funny.
Maybe tragic.
Probably not both.
She looked back down at Billy. He mattered to her now, she realized, and so did Andrew. But if she disappeared into the dark side of Lisbon, so would they, and her family would never know her fate.
“I have some coin in my coat,” Andrew said, his voice slow and deliberately even. He nodded toward his chest. “If they reach into my breast pocket, they will find it.”
Senhor Farias translated, but Poppy did not need to understand Portuguese to know what the gang’s leader thought of Andrew’s suggestion. His reply was sharp, his expression malevolent.
And Senhor Farias blanched with fear.
“He says it is not enough,” the tavernkeeper said. “I ask how he knows it is not enough, and he says he knows who you are. He knows you captain Infinity . You have goods and cargo that don’t fit in a pocket.”
A muscle worked in Andrew’s face, and Poppy could see how hard he was working to remain in control of his temper when he said, “Tell them that if they let us go, they will be amply compensated.”
Senhor Farias’s mouth trembled as the man holding him pressed the knife more firmly to his throat. “I do not know that word, amplycomp —”
“I will pay them,” Andrew said sharply, grunting as he took an elbow to the gut. “If they let us go, I will pay them.”