Chapter Twenty-five

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Daphne marched out of the back door of her brother’s town house. Rafe followed her, but as soon as they entered the alley, she felt the shift in him. She was no longer Lady Daphne Swift to him. She was Thomas Grey, the cabin boy.

Rafe didn’t wait for her to precede him to where his mount was tied to a post near the mews. Instead, his long strides devoured the pebbled ground while she raced to keep up with him, pressing her cap onto her head to keep it from flying off.

Rafe had untied the horse by the time Daphne joined him. He swung up onto the animal, turned to her, and gave her a quick, unfeeling boost up, pulling her up behind him. Daphne quickly wrapped her hands around his hips as Rafe wasted no time sending the horse into a gallop. Daphne clung to him, praying her hat didn’t wing off into the night sky. She clenched her hands around his middle, and desperately tried to ignore the outline of Rafe’s flat muscled stomach beneath his coat and how good he smelled. Oh, fiddle. She was sniffing at his back. Idiot.

She needed to control herself. After all, she was going to be stuck with him in close quarters for up to a sennight. She needed to put a stop to these ludicrous thoughts. Julian had been right. There was no time for anger or pettiness. There was also no time for unwanted lust. They had a mission to accomplish and accomplish it, they would. This wasn’t about her. It was for Donald. And the Crown.

Rafe spoke to the horse and kicked at its flanks as they rode through the streets, headed for the docks at a brisk clip.

The ride was not long and Daphne soon noticed the change in not only the inhabitants of the streets, but also the sights and smells. The docks were full of sailors on leave, whores, mongers, and a general riffraff of folk she would never have been exposed to in her life as Lady Daphne. It smelled like brackish water and alcohol and what Daphne feared was urine. She remembered all of this from the last time she’d been here. Despite the unpleasant smells, a thrill shot through her. Being here again was an adventure. It was entirely different from her staid, laced-up life in Mayfair. Anything could happen here. Anything. Her blood sang through her veins with excitement.

Rafe maneuvered the mount down the narrow wooden planks of the docks. Daphne remembered the drill. They would tie the mount to a post at the dock where Salty, Rafe’s first mate, would see to it. Rafe quickly dismounted and Daphne tried to ignore the warm feel of Rafe’s hands on her sides as he helped her down from the horse. He had only touched her momentarily, the way he would a cabin boy, certainly not in a way that could be described as sensual, but still, the feel of his skin against hers made her suck in her breath.

She shook her head. She must concentrate on the mission. Nothing but the mission.

“There’s the rowboat.” Rafe pointed to a tiny craft barely bobbing above the waterline.

“And the ship?” Daphne turned and looked out into the darkened waters. Several hulking vessels rested hunched in the brackish water.

“There.” Rafe pointed to the farthest one.

Daphne looked at it. There she was. The True Love . Not a particularly fine vessel or a large one with its crew of only seven, but one that made sense for a small-time captain dealing in a few bits and goods here and there and dabbling in smuggling—the role Rafe was playing for the sake of the Russians and the French spies. The lopsided sloop had seen better days, but she remained sturdy and shipshape. Staring out at the vessel, Daphne swallowed the lump in her throat. The last time she’d left that ship, all her dreams had been dashed against the side of the dock. This time she was no longer the na?ve young girl who’d been here before. She was older, more experienced. And had already had her heart broken. It could never hurt more than the first time.

If she were Lady Daphne Swift, Rafe would have carefully helped her into the small vessel. But as Thomas Grey the cabin boy, Rafe could do nothing but allow her to precede him and then hop in after her. She’d perfected getting in and out of the small boat the last time, however. She needed no help.

She braced her right hand on the right side of the tiny boat, her left hand on the left side, and stepped carefully toward the center, being certain not to rock too much. With a self-satisfied smirk on her face, she lifted her head to Rafe. Was that admiration in his eyes?

“Nicely done,” he murmured under his breath. He maneuvered easily into the boat in front of her and grabbed an oar.

Daphne lifted the other oar. “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”

“Good, because I won’t have time,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Now, on my count.”

Rafe poised the right oar above the water, Daphne poised the left one, and together they rowed out to the sloop anchored in the harbor.

Rafe had taken off his coat to row. Daphne tried not to look at his muscles outlined in his shirtsleeves by the light of the moon and stars. Instead, she concentrated on keeping her oar strokes on pace with his.

Her mind wandered to their exchange from a few moments ago. “Good, because I won’t have time,” he’d told her. Never let it be said that Captain Cavendish wasn’t blunt when he needed to be. Fine. But she’d meant what she’d said, too. She didn’t need him to take care of her, nor did she expect him to. They were playing a dangerous game now, one in which lives were at stake. Julian had asked Rafe to take care of her and she knew how Rafe truly felt. He thought of her as a child. Someone whose family had taken care of her her whole life, pampered her, treated her like a princess. Softened every blow. Certainly not a useful creature. Certainly not someone who could be of help to him, the man who never needed help from anyone. She knew what he was thinking. She might have successfully climbed into the rowboat on her own, but he didn’t believe for one second that she didn’t need him.

She clutched her hands tighter around the oar and stroked harder, faster. She’d show him.

By the time they came alongside the sloop, Daphne had already begun to break a sweat and was breathing heavily. Rafe, however, who’d matched her stroke for stroke, appeared completely unaffected. He’d even started whistling. He grabbed the rope that hung from the side of the ship and secured the small boat alongside it. Then, he nodded to Daphne to climb up first. There might not be any handholding or help, but he was allowing her to go first in case she should slip. She knew that.

She took a deep breath and jumped up to catch the bottom of the rickety wooden ladder that hung haphazardly from the side of the ship. It had always been a bit too high for her. But height challenges be damned. She grabbed it on the first try and smiled a bit to herself. She still could do it. She wiggled up the ladder as quickly as possible and vaulted onto the deck, where she landed with her booted feet braced apart. She sucked in a deep draught of sea air. Ah, she remembered that smell. She’d never forget it. Nor would she forget the feeling of being so free on the ship. Wearing breeches was absolutely delightful. It felt so delicious, as if she could do anything. Run. Jump. No inconvenient skirts to trip her. It was liberating. It was intoxicating. It was adventurous. Just like Calliope Cauldwell.

Daphne braced her hands on her hips and stared across the wide wooden deck, taking in the sights and sounds. It took a moment for her sea legs to come back under her. The gentle rhythm of the waving and swaying of the wood had a cadence all its own. There was an art to it, a craft to being able to keep one’s balance on the deck of a ship. She’d mastered it once before. After a few moments, it was as if she’d never left.

Her eyes scanned the deck. The other men were there. The crew. She’d met them all before. They were also spies. She knew them only by their false names and they knew her only as Grey. In addition to Salty, the first mate, there was Grim, the second mate, Holby, the bosun, Greggs and Peterby, the deckhands, and Cook, who was approximately forty years of age with dark, kind eyes and dark curly hair. She didn’t see Salty. Perhaps he was still ashore. Salty was the opposite of his name, surprisingly young and handsome. In fact, with his light hair and blue eyes, he looked a bit like Rafe. Not half so domineering, however.

Daphne liked the entire crew. They might be a small operation but they were a large enough group to man the True Love . In her free time, Daphne liked to let her imagination run wild as to the real identities of the crewmates. Of course, she had no idea what the men did when they weren’t on this ship. A few of them had been chosen for their deep tans and weathered faces. Men who spent their lives at sea must look the part. But they were in service to the Crown. Salty and Grim knew her true identity. The rest did not. For her part, she had no idea if Salty and Grim were in the military and, if so, what their rank was. For all she knew, she was standing next to important officers. But it was truly more fun this way. They all had their secrets.

“Tommy,” called Grim, who was about thirty and handsome with brown eyes and brown hair, a medium build, and a quick smile. He came marching over and clapped Daphne on the back. She grinned at him. “Ah, lad, you look far too clean to be on the True. ” He swiped his thumb down her cheek and Daphne had no doubt that a streak of grit remained.

“Thanks for that, Grim,” she said, still grinning.

Rafe was behind her then and after he’d greeted everyone, he led Daphne down toward the stern, into the companionway, and down a small flight of stairs that led to the captain’s cabin.

“I would have liked to have stayed out there longer and talked to everyone,” Daphne said, as soon as the door to the cabin shut behind them.

“It’s not a good idea. One or two of those men haven’t been officially on leave for months. And you’re looking particularly…”—he cleared his throat—“good in those breeches.”

Daphne gaped at him. Then, she turned toward the wall to hide her little smile. “Don’t tell me you think my honor is at risk with the crew of the True Love .”

“No, not your honor; I’d slice off a man’s hand for touching you. It’s my honor that’s at stake. I’d hate to have to explain to Wellington why one of his most trusted spies is handless.”

Daphne’s eyes rounded. “You wouldn’t truly do that, would you? Slice off their hands?”

Rafe lowered his voice. “On this ship, we are a real crew. I would do that and more.”

Daphne swallowed. This was real. All of it. Adventurous, yes. Fun, perhaps. But quite real. Donald had lost his life dealing with the same men they were soon to deal with. Rafe had come close to death. This was all quite, quite real.

She nodded solemnly. “What’s the plan? Will the smugglers be here tonight?”

“They’ve anchored out tonight. That’s why the True Love is already here. We wanted them to see us when they came in. We’ve yet to spot the men themselves, but tomorrow we’ll go ashore and I’ll look for them.”

Daphne nodded again. She glanced around the sparse room. “What about the sleeping arrangements?” She gulped, barely able to push the words past her dry lips. “Same as before?” She turned to make her way next door to the tiny closet-sized room where Rafe had made her a small but tidy bunk last time.

“No.” The word sliced through the air. “We must sleep in here together. I can’t risk letting you out of my sight. I promised your brother.”

Daphne froze, her hand midway inside her bag. Sleeping in the same room with Rafe? That certainly wouldn’t help matters much. She’d already been thinking about his shoulders and his muscles and… She turned in a circle, her eyes wide. There was only one bed in the captain’s cabin. “But where—”

“Don’t worry.” His irresistibly wicked grin returned. He crossed over to the cupboard, opened it, and pulled out a mash of wooden sticks and a crisscross of fabric. “I’ll take the hammock.”