Chapter Twenty-nine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Daphne slept fitfully again. This time she dreamt of a blond woman in Rafe’s bed. She hadn’t imagined it back then. She’d seen it with her own two eyes. They’d been staying at an inn near the docks. They’d left the ship the final night thinking it was unsafe to be there. They’d got two rooms but they’d been adjoining so Rafe could keep an eye on Daphne and keep her safe. He barricaded her door to the corridor with a large armoire and helped her move it the next morning when she’d told him she wanted to go downstairs in search of some tea. Rafe had asked if she’d like him to fetch it for her, but she’d insisted on doing it herself.

When she’d come back upstairs, she’d brought him a cup, too. She’d pushed open the door to his room and there she was. The blond. Lying in his bed. Naked but for a sheet pulled up under her arms. Lavish and gorgeous and hair spilling around her shoulders. Heart pounding, Daphne had immediately dropped both teacups and turned and fled. She ran back down the stairs, and encountered Rafe coming up. Apparently, he’d gone downstairs to check on her.

Daphne woke in a cold sweat. She’d had that dream before, relived that moment time and time again. But it always had the same ending. The rest of it was a lot of denials and confusion. The blond was soon gone but it was too late. Daphne had been mortally wounded. Her and Rafe’s marriage hadn’t been consummated, that was true, but the least he could do was not flaunt his doxies under her nose until the mission was over and their annulment secured. Was that too much to ask? Apparently. And yes, there’d been a small, stupid part of her that had hoped, wished even, that their marriage would be real after all. That Rafe might actually fall in love with her. That small, stupid part of her died the moment she saw the blond. Actually it had begun to die the moment he’d said he thought of her as a sister and refused to kiss her two days earlier. Clearly, he had no sisterly feelings toward the blond.

But the worst part, the very worst, was that after he’d spent the better part of an hour denying that he even knew who the blond was, he proceeded to ruin all of his carefully worded denials. “I don’t know why you’re so angry, Daphne. It’s not as if we could ever be together. What does it matter who I have in my bed?”

That had been that. The mission had ended soon after. That afternoon Rafe had got the names of the men he was searching for in France and he took Daphne back to Mayfair that same day. Mother had been beside herself with worry. Apparently, she’d been writing to her daughter at Aunt Willie’s with no response and had even written to Julian in the war, telling him she feared Daphne had run off. Daphne had hugged her mother fiercely, telling her how sorry she was to have caused her such worry. But that night, back in her own bed with unbound breasts, and large fluffy, soft down pillows, she’d cried herself to sleep. “What does it matter who I have in my bed?” he’d said to her. And with that, she’d known all of it had been nothing more than work to him. Any tenderness or emotions she’d thought had developed between them had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. She was angry with him, yes. But she was mostly angry with herself for being so gullible. How could an army captain remain married to the daughter of an earl? Why, it was unheard of. Of course Rafe had agreed to the marriage because Donald had insisted. There was no other reason.

Daphne had waited a year to let her heart mend a bit, before she’d decided to stop moping and write a list. Get on with it. Find a proper husband. One who was suitable, from the right kind of family, one who didn’t have a penchant for keeping blonds in his bed. She’d thought Lord Fitzwell fit the bill. She’d been mistaken there, too.

She glanced over to where Rafe swung peacefully in the hammock, fast asleep. She pressed her head against her pillow. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was completing this mission and keeping Rafe at arm’s length for the duration. She owed it to Donald. Rafe needed her for her language skills and keen hearing. She’d decided that she needed him for something else. And she’d ask him for it, in the morning.

***

“I want you to teach me how to throw a knife,” Daphne announced the next morning after breakfast. The rest of the crew had been up with the sun scurrying around the decks as usual. Whether the men knew much about ships or not, they certainly made an impressive show of it for the sake of their mission. Daphne often watched them in awe. Stringing sails, scrubbing decks, picking oakum. They made it all look extremely convincing.

Rafe looked twice at Daphne. “A what?”

“A knife. I saw you throw one once, last spring. When that boy had stolen your purse and ran away. You pinned his shirt to the wall from thirty paces. I want you to teach me how to do that.”

Rafe rubbed his hand across his chin. “It takes a great deal of practice, you know. You shouldn’t expect to be that good at it right off.”

Daphne swallowed a bite of her biscuit. She did indeed have tea and milk to go with it this morning, courtesy of Cook. “I’m certain. It’s like reading. You can’t expect to read the Iliad while you’re still in leading strings but you get better. I want to learn the fundamentals of throwing a knife. I’ll get better at it on my own.”

“You’ve read the Iliad ?”

“Of course,” she replied.

Rafe whistled. “Fancy that, Grey.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Will you teach me to throw a knife or not?”

Rafe cupped his chin in his hand and considered her. “It might be useful for you to know how to do it. You may as well learn how to defend yourself.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“Of course I hope you never have an occasion to throw one at me .”

She smirked at him. “What if I promise not to if you teach me?”

“I have your word?” he asked with a grin.

“Of course.” She smiled at him sweetly and took another bite of her biscuit.

Rafe inclined his head toward her. “Very well. Meet me on deck at three bells. I’ll teach you how to throw a knife.”

***

At half past one, Daphne stood on the deck, her cap hiding her hair, a smile on her face. She was looking forward to this. Quite a lot, actually.

“I’ve gathered every knife I had and borrowed some from the crew,” Rafe announced, laying a blanket on the deck and opening it. It was filled with an assortment of knives. He’d also brought a large wooden box.

“What’s that for?” Daphne asked.

“This is our target,” Rafe said, dragging the box over toward the deck rails. “If you miss, there will be enough room for the knife to fly before sailing off the side of the ship into the water.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Daphne replied, pulling down her cap over her forehead farther.

“First, you must choose your knife,” Rafe said. “And if you must use whatever knife is at your disposal, then the method of throwing it will vary.”

Daphne nodded.

Rafe gestured toward the collection of knives splayed out in an arc at their feet. “See this one? Its handle is larger than its blade.”

Daphne nodded again.

“And this one?” He pointed at a second knife. “Its blade is bigger.”

“Which is the best one to throw?” Daphne asked.

“It depends.” He hefted the one with the smaller blade in his hand and held it out to her, handle first. “A more balanced blade is usually best for beginners. But you’ll have to see which one you feel most comfortable with.”

He stood and moved behind her with his legs braced apart, the breeze slightly mussing his hair. “Stand this way.” He demonstrated, widening his stance. Daphne mimicked him.

“You want the weight to be thrown first. So with this handle-heavy knife, you’d hold it by the blade to throw.”

She carefully turned it in her hand so that she clutched the blade.

“Now, which is your dominant hand?” he asked.

“My right.”

“Then grip the blade with your right hand.” He placed his hand over hers. Hers seemed so small compared to his. “Hold it firmly, but delicately.”

“What does that mean?” Daphne asked with a half-smile.

“If you hold it too tightly, it’ll hamper the throw. But if you don’t have a firm enough grip on it, it may fly out of your hand before you’re ready and could hurt someone. Including you.”

“I see,” Daphne said with another nod. “Now what?”

“Take the knife like so.” He moved his hand over hers to show her. “Put the blunt edge of the blade along your thumb like this.” He moved her thumb into position along her palm. “Put your thumb along this side of the blade and your fingers on the other side.”

Daphne furrowed her brow, and stuck out her tongue, concentrating.

“You look positively fetching that way,” he said with a laugh. Daphne quickly popped her tongue back into her mouth and swallowed the smile that was in danger of spreading across her lips.

“Pinch the blade without pressing against the point or the sharp part,” he continued.

Daphne did exactly as she was told, trying to ignore both his closeness and his familiar scent.

“Excellent,” Rafe said.

“Now what?” Daphne asked, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth.

“Now you must adjust your angle. It will determine how quickly the knife will flip. The angle, of course, depends on how far you are from your target.”

“I see,” she said, moving her hand at an angle.

“It’s in the wrist,” he added. “If your target is close, you must bend your wrist back as far as you can, which will allow it to flip more quickly.”

“And if the target is far away?”

“Don’t bend your wrist at all. It will keep the knife from turning too much,” Rafe said.

“Very well.”

“Next, you pick your target. I’ve already counted and it’s ten paces to the target. See there?” Rafe pointed toward the wooden box.

Daphne nodded again. “Yes.”

“Now, throw!”

Daphne pulled back her arm and let go. The knife flew through the air and glanced off the side of the box. “Sacrebleu!” she exclaimed, but she felt her cheeks heating. “Sorry. I’ve obviously spent too much time with a certain twelve-year-old who adores French.”

Rafe whistled. “Actually not bad for a first throw. Most people hit entirely too wide of the mark. At least you connected with it.”

Daphne smiled at the praise and Rafe glanced away.

“Speaking of Delilah,” Rafe continued. “I can just imagine how easily she’d take to this particular sport.”

“No doubt she’d excel at it. As for me, I’m rubbish at archery but this seems like much more fun.” Daphne laughed.

Rafe bent over to pick up the next knife and Daphne caught a glimpse of his perfect backside. The man really should be awarded a medal for that particular feature. It was positively riveting. When he straightened again, he handed her a new knife and Daphne shook her head to clear it of her indecent thoughts.

After a bit of maneuvering she threw the second knife. This time the blade struck. Rafe whistled again. “You have a natural talent for this, Grey.”

She bowed. “Thank you, Captain.” She glanced up at him. The sun was in his hair, his shirt hugged his muscled chest, his breeches hugged his backside. She glanced away. His nearness had made her want to kiss him, she realized. He smelled so good and looked so handsome and— No. This was completely useless thinking. No more kisses between them. Ever. The one had been quite nice but there were still a score of reasons why kissing him was a bad, bad idea. Not the least of which was the mysterious blond, the sister comment, and the fact that they were set to get an annulment as soon as they finished this mission. The mission for which she must learn how to adequately throw a knife. She needed to concentrate on that, not how good the man looked in his breeches. And he did, indeed, look very, very good.

Rafe came up behind her again, jolting Daphne from her thoughts. “This blade is far larger than the others. Allow me to show you,” he said.

His nearness caused gooseflesh to pop along the back of her neck. She swallowed. His large, warm hand covered hers. Why was her hand so cold? She’d never before realized how small her hands were. They were tiny compared to his. “Y… yes,” she breathed.

His chin hovered just above her right shoulder. “Hold this one by the handle,” he instructed.

He smelled like wood and ocean breezes. She closed her eyes. Oh, fiddle. She couldn’t concentrate on his instruction. She was reliving their kiss over and over again in her mind. There was no help for it. She wanted to kiss him again.

“… like this,” he was saying, and Daphne bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself to pay attention. Rafe moved to the side to allow her room to throw. It was much easier to think when he wasn’t so near. She pulled back her wrist and let the blade fly. It struck the box straight on and quivered in the wood. She expelled her breath.

“Well done,” he said, grinning at her. She tried not to notice the alluring cleft in his chin. “I’ll leave you to practice. I must see to a few things.”

He was leaving? Why did the thought make her want to whimper?

“I’ll ask Cook to bring you up a cup of tea,” he added.

Tea. Spilled tea. Blond. Last night’s nightmare came rushing back full force to squeeze Daphne’s middle until she could barely breathe.

“Thank you for the lesson, Captain,” she said in the most businesslike voice she could muster.

He tipped his hat to her but she refused to look at him. He turned on his heel.

He was leaving. Good.

***

Rafe made his way down to his cabin and shut the door firmly behind him. Good God, he’d nearly embarrassed himself out there on the deck, getting hard when Daphne had sidled her little backside up to him while he’d been teaching her to throw a knife of all things. Only she could give him an erection while he was teaching her how to use a deadly weapon.

He crossed over to the washbasin, dunked both hands into the cool water and splashed his face. He was tempted to upend the entire basin over his head. But Daphne would probably ask why there was water all over the floor when she returned.

It was a good thing, teaching her how to be a spy. Showing her the hand signals and teaching her how to throw a knife. She should be skilled, trained. She’d have a fighting chance to defend herself if the worst happened and they were found out. A memory flashed before his eyes. A painful memory of the day Donald Swift had been shot. He was useless to them, they decided. Nothing more than an aristocrat who knew no real secrets. Rafe suspected they’d kept Donald alive as long as they had only to make Rafe more compliant. They’d been right. Rafe would have done anything to save the earl. But in the end, they’d taken him out to the tree line behind their tents and shot him in the head. Rafe clenched his fist. The crack of that pistol would ring in his ears forever. The guilt would stay with him longer than that. He shook his head. Yes, Daphne should learn all she could in their short time together on the ship.

***

That night Rafe couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable in his hammock at all. Daphne had remained on deck all day throwing the knives. She’d come back down late at night with a fetching amount of sun on her cheeks (no doubt that would be difficult to explain away next week when she was back in her Mayfair drawing rooms). She’d yawned and stretched and thanked him for teaching her how to throw the knives, reporting that she’d got so good at it by the end of the day that the crew had been placing bets on her throws. Rafe lurched in the hammock, nearly throwing himself onto the wooden floor. He cursed under his breath. Daphne was fast asleep, adorable little sighs coming from her throat like a relaxed kitten, while he was wholly unable to sleep because all he could do was remember her tight little backside pressed against him during their knife-throwing lesson.

He’d already decided upon tomorrow’s lesson and there was nothing at all alluring about it.