Trapped, he followed Charles farther into the warehouse. His gaze roamed left and right, taking in the space and all the things he hadn’t noticed while his head had been woozy last night.
Rounding the end of a tall cupboard, he stepped into a wide-open area. There were various items of furniture, but he didn’t pay them any heed. His gaze immediately settled on the young woman standing in the middle of the room. On her light gold hair.
And that smile.
Francis swallowed deep. There was nothing else for it but to press on.
“Poppy, may I formally introduce my youngest son, Francis. I know the two of you have spoken, and I am sure he regrets playing that silly game with the barrels and ropes,” said Charles.
She met Francis’s gaze. To his surprise, the smile on her face only grew wider as she stepped forward, her hand extended in greeting. “Francis, what a pleasure to finally meet you properly. We didn’t get much of an opportunity to talk the other day when we met; you were leaving in a bit of a hurry if I recall.”
Poppy nodded at Charles. “And yes, I have enjoyed the game of the barrels immensely. Though I think we can all agree that it’s time we called a halt to it. We all have better things to do. I promise to be a gracious winner.”
And while her tone brooked no argument, there was a definite lightness to it. A certain something which set Francis’s pulse to a fast clip. He took her hand, and they shook.
“Touché, Captain Basden,” he replied.
Her sparkling hazel eyes carried more than a hint of mischief. She was silently challenging him. Daring him to say otherwise.
Francis wasn’t a dull man. He prided himself on being a quick learner. And this Captain Poppy Basden was full of clever lessons. He was more than happy to play along with the ruse she had constructed.
His gaze dropped instinctively to the swell of her breasts. They were bound beneath a burgundy leather vest, which was laced tightly at the front. The white linen of her undershirt did far too good a job of hiding the delights of her flesh from sight.
He missed the way her nightgown had hung off her shoulders something fierce. Her creamy skin. Without thinking, Francis licked his lips.
I wonder what else you could teach me. I would be willing to learn.
“Please, call me Poppy. All my friends do, and I am hoping that, as next-door neighbors we shall become more than just business acquaintances,” she said.
Francis cleared his throat—anything to distract his mind from the direction it was heading. Which, at this very moment, was right to his manhood. It gave a twitch of interest.
Oh, no you don’t. Not after all the rotten things I have done to this woman.
Indulging in sexual fantasies of having a strict, female pirate captain take him firmly in hand would be an act of utter stupidity.
Forcing his lustful thoughts aside, Francis squeezed Poppy’s hand a little too tightly. She squeezed back. His gaze dropped to their joined hands, and he quickly released his grip.
Make small talk.
“Poppy. Is that short for something? Petunia, perhaps? Though you don’t look like a Petunia.”
For heaven’s sake, shut up. What a stupid thing to say. Who knows what a Petunia looks like?
The smile on her face dimmed, along with Francis’s hopes of getting out of the place without his father finding out just how much of a cad his son had been.
“No, just Poppy. My mother apparently chose it. And since she died giving birth to me, my father was loath to give me any other name. It might sound a little girlish, but I can assure you that my men only use it with the utmost of respect.”
Francis could have hugged his father when Charles cleared his throat. “Poppy is not only an excellent seafarer, but she can also bake.”
A dazed Francis turned to his father. “Pardon?”
Charles held up a flat golden piece of toast. “Pain perdu. Freshly baked and absolutely delicious.”
Francis’s buxom nemesis hurried away. He tracked her steps to where she stopped in front of the fireplace and bent to pick up something from a flat tray. She quickly returned to his side and offered him a piece which looked very much the same as the one his father was happily chewing on.
Poppy had made Charles’s favorite food. The dish that so many times had brought Francis’s father to the edge of tears. Francis and his siblings had spent many hours listening to their dear papa regale them with tales of his home as he sat and nibbled on his cinnamon toast.
She could have baked anything else in the world, but she had to choose this simple dish. Charles would be forever under her spell.
