Chapter Thirty-two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Daphne spent the entire next day throwing knives. She’d decided her pistol-shooting future was dim, her knot-foiling ability was bleak, but her knife-throwing talent could be cultivated if given enough practice. Her arm ached, her legs turned to jam, and she felt as if she might fall to her knees, but she remained on the deck, hurling the knife at the wooden box over and over and over again as the morning turned to afternoon and the afternoon faded into evening.

Instead of using the group of knives that Rafe had provided her with to practice, she’d decided on one knife in particular. Her favorite one. It had a smaller blade than handle and she threw it, retrieved it, and threw it again. Over and over again. She’d reached the point where she never missed. Not even when she was tired. But she didn’t allow herself to take a break and she didn’t allow herself to stop. Her father’s words from her childhood echoed in her ears. If you want to be perfect at something you must practice perfectly. Father had kept Donald out in the field jumping his horse again and again and again. If the horse tired, they got another mount, but Donald was never allowed to stop, never allowed to quit. Father had never treated her like that. He’d never treated Julian like that, either, since he was not the heir. Father had specifically never asked that of her because she was female, of course, but Daphne had watched and listened and learned. She knew the way to excel at something was to never give up. It was why she’d been successful at learning Russian. And Daphne intended to excel at knife throwing. She wiped the sweat from her brow and resettled the cap on her head. Then she retrieved the knife and threw it again.

Rafe had surprised her yesterday when he’d told her about his childhood. What sort of a father left his wife and twelve-year-old son? It made her angry on his behalf. Outwardly, Rafe appeared to be unaffected by it, but she’d heard a note of pain in his voice, seen a flash of anger in his eyes. Apparently she’d surprised Rafe, too, when she’d told him that she’d always longed to be a pirate. She’d never admitted that to anyone before. Not Donald, or Cass, and especially not her mother. Not even Julian. Mama would probably have an apoplectic fit if she knew her well-bred little Society miss of a daughter had dreams of sailing the high seas and swashbuckling. But somehow Daphne had known she could tell Rafe, probably because nothing could shock him. The man seemed unshockable. Which made it quite freeing to talk to him actually.

It was true that she wanted to become proficient at throwing the knife. But if she were being honest, she stayed out on the deck all day for another reason, also. To avoid Rafe. He was too handsome, too witty, and he smelled too good. In short, he was too tempting. Last night’s lesson had taught her more than how to look for a way to get out of a knot. It had also taught her that her attraction to Rafe was quite real and quite dangerous. When she chose a man with her head (as she had with her list) instead of with her nose and her eyes (that both highly favored Rafe) she would be much better off. Yes, perhaps Fitzwell hadn’t been the best choice after all, but still, the list was certain to find her a better match than a rogue like Rafe.

The sun went down and Daphne continued to throw the knife. She didn’t quit until Cook came up to the deck and insisted she have something to eat. Cook pulled over a stool for her and handed her a bowl of stew. She nearly fell onto the stool and just lifting the spoon to take a bite was nearly too much for her weary arm. It felt as if it was on fire. She waited a bit before finishing the bowl using her left hand to lift the spoon, which proved a bit awkward and slow going.

The next thing she knew, she’d fallen asleep on the deck. She awoke to see the moon hanging high in the black velvet sky. She was curled into a ball near a length of rope. A bit of a tarp had been pulled over her and the stool and her stew bowl and spoon were gone. Cook must have cleaned up and left her here to sleep. That was nice of him. Nice of him, indeed.

Daphne pushed the tarp away and sat up and stretched. She was exhausted, actually. She rubbed her throwing arm. It felt much better than it had when she’d been trying to eat earlier, but no doubt it would be sore come morning. She decided to sneak into the captain’s cabin. Perhaps Rafe was already asleep in the hammock.

She made her way through the companionway, and down the steps to the cabin as quietly as possible. She tiptoed to the door. She turned the handle slowly and softly pushed open the door without making a sound. She stuck her head inside.

Luck was not on her side tonight. Rafe was sitting at the desk writing a letter by the light of an oil lamp. His cravat was untied and his boots were off but otherwise he was fully clothed, thank heavens. Or perhaps not…

He looked up and smiled at her lazily and her stomach did a little flip when she looked at the cleft in his chin.

No longer concerned with noise, she pushed the door wider and walked inside, doing her best to ignore how good he smelled, like candlewax and wood shavings. Or maybe that was the cabin. Either way, it reminded her of him. She shook her head and trotted over to the washstand in the corner.

“How’s your knife-throwing skill coming?” Rafe asked.

“Improving greatly, thank you.” She pulled a bit of linen from the nearby cabinet and washed her face. Then she cleaned her teeth using toothpowder that she also retrieved from the cabinet. Once she was finished with her ablutions, she sat on the edge of the bunk and shucked first one boot, then the next.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so,” she answered, rubbing her sore feet through her stockings. Breeches might be freeing, but slippers were ever so much more accommodating than boots. How did gentlemen stand them? “What are you writing?” she ventured.

“Some long overdue correspondence,” he answered. “How’s your arm?”

She squeezed her throwing arm and winced. “Sore.”

He dabbed his quill back into the ink pot. “I don’t doubt it.”

She set her boots on the wooden plank floor next to the bunk and climbed wearily under the covers. She stretched and sighed. “Is this what men do all day on ships? It seems quite boring.”

“When the ships are at sea there is quite a bit more work to be done,” he answered with a laugh.

She propped her arms underneath her head and stared up at the ceiling. “What do you normally do at night? Like now.”

“Sleep.”

“And?” she ventured.

“Write letters. I could teach you how to use your wrists to get out of a knot.”

She held up her hands. “No. No. No. Not tonight.” She didn’t think she could take that again. Another lesson being tied up. She’d go mad with lust possibly.

“Very well. Sometimes there is drinking and card games,” Rafe offered.

“We already played cards,” Daphne said on another sigh.

“Well, then.” He snickered. “Care for a drink?”

She sat up, bracing her palms behind her. “I thought you said you didn’t drink while you’re on duty.”

He sanded his letter and began to fold it. “Everything in moderation. Besides, the workday is done.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “You think I’m going to say no, don’t you?”

He covered the ink pot and put the quill back in the drawer, where he placed the folded letter as well. “I’m convinced of it.”

She arched a brow. “So it would shock you if I said yes?”

He turned in his seat to face her and braced his palms on both knees. “Entirely.”

“Then, yes, I’ll have a drink.” She stuck her nose in the air and gave him a triumphant smile.

Rafe inclined his head toward her. “As you wish.” He pushed back the chair, stood, and opened a small cabinet above the desk. “Brandy?”

“Brandy!” She lurched up.

He flashed his infamous grin and Daphne’s belly did another unceremonious flip. “You said you longed for adventure, didn’t you? And you are a cabin boy, not a lady, at present.”

The man had a good point. “Fine, then. Brandy it is.”

He pulled two glasses from the shelf and splashed the amber liquid into both of them.

“Mr. Grey,” he said, moving toward the bunk, handing her a glass, and bowing.

Daphne took the glass from Rafe’s hand and stared at the thing as if she were holding a five-day-old fish. Her nose was still turned up and she sniffed at the contents as if they might make her retch at any moment.

“Never had brandy before?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.

She turned the glass slowly in her hand, still studying the liquid. “Can’t say I have.”

“First time for everything.” He lifted his glass in salute.

She raised hers in the air and smiled at him sweetly. “To adventure!”

“To adventure,” he echoed, his glass still hoisted high.

Daphne tentatively put the snifter to her lips and tipped it slowly. She took a tiny taste, barely enough to wet the tip of her tongue. She scrunched her face into a grimace.

“Come now, that was hardly a sip, let alone a drink,” Rafe said.

She shook her head violently. “How can you stand this vile brew?”

“This isn’t tavern ale. It’s delicious, actually, once you acquire a taste for it.”

She made a gagging noise. “I don’t wish to acquire a taste for it.”

“You’ve barely given it a try. Surely you should hold your opinion until you’ve at least had enough of it to give a good, solid review.”

“Ugh.” She glared at the glass.

He tsked at her. “Not very adventurous of you, Grey.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. Then she glared at the glass again. The best way to do things one wanted to have done with was to do them quickly. She remembered a trick from childhood when her governess had forced her to drink quinine when she was ill. Perhaps it would work with brandy, too. There was only one way to find out.

She pinched her nose, hoisted the glass to her lips, and took a large, quick swallow.

Fire shot down her throat. She released her nose and gasped and gagged, pressing her hand against her chest and desperately trying to draw air into her burning lungs. “Good God, it’s going to kill me,” she choked.

Rafe quickly poured her a bit of water from the pitcher near the washbasin and handed it to her. She tossed it into the back of her throat and coughed even more. “It’s awful, absolutely vile, entirely—”

“It’s only water.” He laughed.

“I was talking about the brandy, not the water. I—”

Daphne stopped, and blinked. Already, a delicious warmth was creeping through her veins and her head began to buzz with a pleasant sensation. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall behind her. “Perhaps I might take one more tiny little sip.”

She tentatively touched the glass to her lips again and tipped it back. The liquid seeped into her throat more slowly this time. It burned again but this time she cared less. The delightful warmth in her limbs was spreading further.

Rafe pulled the glass from her quickly numbing fingers. “Oh no, you don’t. You cannot get drunk as a wheelbarrow. I need you with me tomorrow when we go ashore to meet the Russians, not to mention I’ve no idea how to formulate that concoction your brother makes to cure such things.”

Daphne lay back on the bunk and let the delicious warmth spread through her limbs. “I don’t think I mind brandy after all.”

Rafe laughed. “Don’t you?”

“No, it’s quite… warming and… pleasant, actually.”

Rafe downed the rest of the contents of his own glass and placed the bottle back inside the cabinet. “That’s quite enough for both of us.”

Daphne braced both hands under her head. “I never drank a drop of alcohol before I met you, you know. You’re a horrible influence on me.”

His face was skeptical. “Oh, really? What about Mrs. Pennyhammer and the thimble full of wine?”

She giggled. “That hardly counts. I certainly hadn’t been inebriated before I met you and now I’ve been so twice in one week. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Captain.”

Rafe’s voice held a note of amusement. “I believe you are currently experiencing what is commonly referred to as a fuzzy head.”

“Fuzzy head?” She lifted one hand and pressed it against her forehead.

“Yes. Not entirely drunken but not quite sober, either.”

She patted herself atop her head. “I like my fuzzy head. Quite a lot. And I quite like brandy as well.” She stretched and splayed her legs and arms across the bed like an X.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied with another throaty laugh.

Daphne snapped her fingers. “Let’s play a game.”

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. “Cards?”

“No. No. Let’s play that game we played the other night but without the cards. I cannot concentrate on maths with my fuzzy head.”

“What game?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

She waved a hand in the air. “You know. The question game.”

“Pardon?”

She turned to face him. “I’ll ask you a question and you must tell the truth and then you ask me a question and I must tell the truth.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s not precisely how it went.”

“Don’t be so stuffy. I’ll even allow you to go first.”

“Stuffy?” His voice was full of effrontery. “Me?”

“Yes, now go on. Ask me something, anything. I promise to answer truthfully.”

“Very well.” He paused for a few moments. “Why did you pick Lord Fitzwell? From your list?”

Daphne blinked dumbly. Her head was fuzzy indeed. “Why would you ask something like that?”

Rafe’s grin was downright devilish. “That’s not an answer, and you promised to answer truthfully.”

She sighed and stretched again. Better not to look at him. Yes. Much better. Er, safer. “So I did. Let’s see…” She tapped a finger along the tip of her nose. “I picked him because he met all my requirements.”

“Your requirements?”

“Yes. On my list.”

“And what requirements were those?” Rafe leaned against one of the posts and crossed his stockinged feet at the ankles.

“You know, titled, rich, handsome, loyal .”

“So, it’s safe to say, I’m not on your list. I only have two of those four requirements.”

She shrugged one shoulder, steadfastly ignoring his claim and vowing not to guess which two he thought he had. “It’s the type of list a lady must make when looking for a suitable husband.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes on her. “But you don’t even know Lord Fitzwell.”

“I knew him as well as most ladies know their future husbands. I knew his family. I saw him from time to time at various events about town. We even went riding in the park once or twice.” She punctuated her sentence with a firm nod.

“Once?” Rafe’s voice dripped with skepticism.

“Or twice. With the promise to do it again sometime.”

“How exciting.” This time Rafe’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“I knew enough about him. I knew he doesn’t drink much. He doesn’t gamble to excess. And he would never be found with a blond in his bed.”

“He sounds like a dead bore.” Rafe unbuttoned his shirt.

Daphne swallowed. Why was he unbuttoning his shirt? Had he done that the other nights? Slept shirtless and she hadn’t noticed? How had she failed to notice that? “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’d expect someone like you to say,” she replied.

“Someone like me?” He pulled his shirt over his head.

Daphne nearly gulped audibly. “Yes,” she managed to answer him, but her eyes were devouring his muscled chest. Good God. How had she missed this little nightly ritual? Or was she only imagining it due to her fuzzy head? “Do you have your shirt off?” she asked, clearing her throat.

He chuckled. “Yes. My apologies if I am offending your ladylike sensibilities. But I need a fresh one.”

“I shouldn’t be looking.”

His gaze met hers. Sparks leaped between them. “Then why are you?”

Her face heated. Her cheeks boiled. She turned away toward the wall.

“Please do explain,” Rafe continued.

“Explain what?” Daphne’s voice was muffled against the wooden wall.

“Who ‘someone like me’ is? What did you mean by that?”

She wiggled under the sheets and forced herself to turn back to face him. He was standing directly next to the bed. Daphne’s head swam. Her eyes locked to his bare chest. Fuzzy brain, indeed. She took a deep breath. “I only meant that you’re everything he’s not. You drink. You gamble. You—”

“Kiss you?” He captured her wrist, brought it to his lips and kissed it. Daphne couldn’t stop her shudder.

She snatched her hand away. “Don’t.”

“Why?” he said, looking down at her, his voice growing louder, laced with a bit of anger. “Afraid you might actually feel something? You’re right. I’m everything he’s not and I’m also much more. Do you think your Lord Fitzwell has an adventurous bone in his body? By God, the most excitement the man has had is an unexpected nosebleed. Do you think your Lord Fitzwell has fought for his country? Watched men die for his country? He hasn’t. The most he’s done is read about it in the papers and shake his head. You say I don’t know you, Daphne, but I do. I know you pretend to want to plan everything, and maybe you do, but deep down you’re adventurous, just like I am. Drawing rooms are too stuffy for you. A man like Fitzwell would bore you to tears in the space of six months. But if you want to waste your beauty and intelligence and talents on him or someone like him, by all means, don’t let me stop you.”

Tears shimmered in Daphne’s eyes. She sat up and braced herself against the wall again. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Don’t let me stop you.’”

“No, before that. The part about my beauty and intelligence?” Her heart hammered in her chest. She could barely breathe.

He braced both of his hands on the wooden plank that hung from the ceiling above the bunk and stared down at her still. “You heard me. You deserve better than Fitzwell. But you’re so damned stubborn and certain of yourself, you can’t even see it. You need to take your bloody list and rip it into a thousand pieces just to see what’s standing right in front of you. The thing that never made it onto the list.”

“You?” she whispered.

“Me.” Rafe let go of the plank and his mouth swooped down to capture hers.