Rafe had slept fitfully. He’d drifted to sleep with the sound of the waves slapping along the side of the ship and the moonlight streaming through the widow. He hadn’t been on a ship in months. Normally, the sea was like home to him. But the vision of Daphne’s tight little arse scurrying up the ladder to the deck in front of him would not remove itself from his mind. It was as if it was burned there. Indefinitely. Last time they’d been together on this ship, he’d thought her pretty, certainly. But there was something about her now, her attitude, her poise, her bravery. The memory of their scorching hot kiss in Swifdon’s library. It had been a complete surprise to him. Not to mention that alluring little smudge of dirt on her cheek. He’d had to stop himself twice from reaching out and wiping it off.
Rafe scrubbed his hands viciously across his face as if he could scrub away the memory lurking in his mind. This type of thinking would merely serve to drive him mad. It didn’t matter how alluring she was or that her engagement to Lord Fitzwell hadn’t happened. Daphne Swift was off limits for a dozen other reasons and Rafe would do well to remember it.
By the time he returned to the cabin an hour later, Daphne was up and the chamber pot was securely tucked underneath the bunk once more.
“Care for some breakfast?” he asked, handing her a small plate with a biscuit and some jam.
“Jam?” She arched a brow.
“We’re close to shore. You may even get tea with milk if you ask Cook nicely.”
She made an adorable little squealing noise in the back of her throat.
She sat at the small desk that was attached to the corner of the room and took delicate bites of her biscuit. “When will we go ashore and meet the smugglers?”
Rafe grinned at her. “First of all, you need to remember to prune your vocabulary of words like ‘smugglers’ and ‘spies.’ No one around here uses those words except the authorities.”
She nodded. “Understood.”
“And second we’ll leave in due time. You seem eager.”
“I am.” She glanced out the window where a seagull looped overhead. “I’ve hated these men for months, years really.”
Rafe crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against one of the wooden posts that held up his hammock. “Remember what your brother said. You must not allow your hatred for them to get the best of you.”
She set her jaw and picked up her biscuit. “I understand.”
“And the men we’re meeting today aren’t the men who killed Donald.”
The biscuit dropped to the plate. “But you told me—”
Rafe lifted a hand, palm first. “Hear me out. They are the men who work for the men who killed Donald. To get to the others, we must first get through these men.”
“I see.” Daphne calmly picked up her biscuit again. “Will you explain it to me?”
Rafe nodded. That was something else he liked about Daphne. She could be reasoned with. That’s why he’d known he could take her on this mission and not have to worry about whether she was angry with him. He liked how she’d calmly asked for an explanation. She deserved one.
He sat on the bunk. “Of course this is highly confidential information,” he began.
Daphne nodded. “You have my word that I won’t tell anyone.”
He nodded back. “The men who killed Donald are a group of spies in France. The men here are a small group of Russians who have been working for the French. Frankly, these particular men will work for anyone who gives them enough coin. They have no loyalties. Though Russia has no great love for France, these men were playing both sides of the war. Making money and connections wherever it was convenient for them. Simply put, they led the French to us in exchange for coin and now we intend to get them to lead us to the French in exchange for goods that they want.”
Daphne finished swallowing the bit of biscuit that she’d taken. “No loyalty. Those bastards.”
“Yes, but it’s not uncommon. Once Napoleon had been sent to Elba many of the French attempted to get back into the good graces of the English. Of course when the emperor returned, they were only too happy to pretend they had never left his employ. These Russians are the same. There are always men who can be bought … for a price.”
“Go on,” Daphne said, taking another bite.
“After Adam Hunt was captured in France, his brother, Collin, returned to find him. But Donald and I had already set out on the same mission. It’s true that we were asked to find Adam if we were able, but our real mission was to find these men who were traitors to both England and France.”
Daphne nodded. Adam and Collin Hunt were Derek, the Duke of Claringdon’s, younger brothers. “Julian always believed Adam’s disappearance in France had been the reason for Donald’s mission.”
“So it was, but I also needed the use of his knowledge of Russian to find the men who had Adam. I’d spent months here at the docks trying to infiltrate the group of men in France. The leaders never came here. They only had their Russian lackeys working for them. They believed Russians would be less suspicious than Frenchmen.”
“The smugglers we’re going to meet are the Russians? The ones we met last time I was with you here?”
“Yes. Exactly. They work for the men in France.”
“But how do you intend to find the men in France if they never come here?”
“That’s just it. If we can trade for the letters they’ve sent, we can trace their last known whereabouts in France.”
“Why can’t you follow them when they go to France to meet their French allies?”
“Donald’s death put an end to their meetings with the Frenchmen. They know they’re being watched. At least they suspect it. They limit their interactions now to closely guarded letters. The Russians believe we’re trading secrets to the English government for money and goods. They don’t know we work for the government. If we can make these men trust us enough to give us the letters, we can go to France and find the men they work for.”
Daphne’s voice trembled. “The men who tortured you and … killed Donald?”
“Yes.” Rafe clenched his jaw. “I never forget a face. Or a voice. I’ll know them immediately. In the meantime, I need you to interpret if their allies say anything important in Russian.”
“I’m ready, Captain,” she said solemnly. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Dancing Pig tavern was a seedy place indeed. It was populated by an unruly misfit group of drinkers, gamblers, ladies of questionable repute, and not a few patrons who were wholly incapacitated at far too early an hour in the day. A few of them had passed out under broken tables and stools and were being licked by dogs who’d wandered in from the streets in search of their leftovers and meat-stained clothing.
Daphne fought the urge to daintily step over the refuse and old food that was strewn across the filthy floors. Instead, true to her role as a cabin boy, she pretended she didn’t even notice it. She let her boots slide through the muck, maintaining a blank face as she and Rafe made their way to a table on the far end of the place away from the windows. Apparently smugglers (or whatever they were called) disliked windows.
“Sit behind me. Pretend you’re not listening. Concentrate on your drink. And don’t say a word,” Rafe ordered under his breath, calling to the barmaid to bring over two mugs of ale.
“I remember,” Daphne whispered back.
The barmaid soon arrived. She whistled when she saw Rafe. “My, aren’t ye a good-lookin’ one, eh?” Daphne was just about to roll her eyes when she realized the barmaid was talking about her. “Ye’r a pretty boy, ain’t ya?” The woman batted her eyelashes at Daphne.
Heat rushed to Daphne’s cheeks. She ducked her head and pulled her cap down over her forehead. Rafe’s laughter followed. “You’ll have to excuse my friend,” he said. “He’s not particularly, ahem, experienced.”
Daphne’s face grew even hotter and she tugged her cap down farther.
The barmaid giggled. “Oy, but I’d like ta teach
’im a thing o’ two.” She must have turned toward Rafe. “Ye ain’t too bad-looking yerself, guv. Interested in a quick tumble?”
Daphne pressed her lips together and counted ten. Granted, the blond she’d found in Rafe’s bed had been a sight better looking and more refined than this tavern barmaid but it still brought back the memory to poke at her. It would be just like Rafe to take the barmaid up on it. If they weren’t just about to meet the smugglers, no doubt he would. He hadn’t allowed his work to stop him last time.
“No, but thank you for the offer, kind lady,” Rafe said. “My friend here will be certain to let you know if he changes his mind.”
Rafe laughed and Daphne slunk lower in her chair. The barmaid sashayed off and Daphne pulled her mug of ale from the table in front of her. She peered down into the dark liquid.
Ale was revolting. This Daphne already knew from the last time she’d falsely ordered one, which had also been the last time they were in a dockside tavern. She’d tentatively tasted it and promptly wished to spit it out. It wasn’t as if spit wasn’t commonplace in such an establishment. But even pretending to be a cabin boy, she couldn’t bring herself to spit on the floor. Instead, she’d just ever-so-carefully lifted the mug to her lips again and deposited the contents back inside. Later, she’d pretended to accidentally knock the mug to the dirt floor and shrugged when Rafe gave her a why-the-hell-did-you-do-that glare.
This time she didn’t even bother with a sip. She still wasn’t entirely over her bout with alcohol from two nights ago. She had no intention of downing more of the hideous stuff. She shuddered. Then she concentrated on assuming her role as a bored cabin boy hanging around a tavern waiting for his captain to finish his business. She’d spent a fair amount of time before their last mission studying the actions of young boys. She’d even asked Donald for suggestions. Donald, of course, had been quite a different sort of boy than a cabin boy would be, but one thing she learned was that boys loved to lean on the two back legs of their chairs whenever possible. She’d practiced quite a bit and nearly perfected the art at home, though Mama had walked in on her once in the breakfast room and gave her a look as if she’d taken leave of her senses, then warned her that she could break her neck doing such a thing. Daphne had smiled bashfully and thanked her mother for the warning.
But now, here in the tavern, she kicked away a small pile of leftover bones, and set about balancing on the back two legs of her chair with great aplomb. By the time the two men they were meeting arrived, she’d managed to perfect her balance and hold her mug in the air without spilling.
When the Russians entered the tavern, Rafe darted a look her way and then toward the doors. Daphne continued to balance on her chair but her gaze briefly touched on the two swarthy-looking men and then she looked away. She barely nodded back at him to indicate that she’d seen them.
It didn’t take the men long to locate Rafe and they came marching over soon after. Rafe inclined his head toward the two chairs next to him. The men grabbed the rickety wooden chairs, turned them around, and straddled them. Daphne made a mental note. She’d do the same if she ever pretended to be a swarthy smuggler. Men seemed to like to have their legs spread quite a bit. Fascinating really. Even Rafe, who sat facing forward, had his legs spread open at the knees, boots firmly planted on the dirty floor in front of him.
“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly as soon as the two had taken their seats.
“Captain,” one of the men said gruffly in a thick Russian accent.
Rafe nodded at them both.
“Who’s that?” The second man, who seemed barely taller than Daphne, jabbed a fat finger in her direction. He, too, spoke with a heavy Russian accent.
“You remember my cabin boy, Grey?”
The taller man grunted his apparent approval. But Shorty kept staring at her with beady eyes.
“Grey, say good morning to Anton and Viktor,” Rafe prodded.
“Mornin’,” Daphne mumbled. She pulled at the visor of her cap in greeting and went back to pretending to drink her ale. She remembered them. The taller one was Anton and beady eyes was Viktor. She wouldn’t forget.
The two men barely nodded at her in return greeting and then Rafe leaned forward. Anton and Viktor followed suit. They talked in hushed tones that Daphne struggled to hear. Rafe had warned her that it would be difficult. They were discussing their trade and it would be odd for Rafe to speak of such things in a loud voice. That’s why she’d positioned herself closer to the Russians’ seats than Rafe’s. Still, she’d hoped they would be louder. She held her breath to hear better while trying to appear as if she was not leaning toward them. Spying was downright difficult.
Thankfully, she was able to pick up some of the conversation.
“I can have everything to you tonight,” Rafe finished. “I just need to return to my ship and make the preparations, hire a wherry.”
“After we get it, we’ll need a few days to examine it, for quality,” Anton grunted.
“Of course,” Rafe replied. “How long do you need?”
The two spoke in hushed tones but Daphne made out “Friday.”
“Agreed,” Rafe answered. “But if I wait till Friday, I expect to get the full price immediately. I won’t countenance any last-minute shortages or delays.”
Daphne knew the “price” was the letters Rafe wanted, but they obviously weren’t speaking about it in those terms.
Viktor kept glaring at her with those dark beady eyes of his. She tried to look as if she were whistling a tune to herself. She could only hope he believed it.
“Do we have an agreement?” Rafe finally asked.
The men turned toward each other and began speaking quietly in their native tongue. Daphne caught her breath. This was it. The reason she had come. She continued her balancing act, staring straight ahead of her, desperately hoping the look on her face indicated she was nothing more than a bored cabin boy waiting for her captain to finish his business. But her senses were on high alert. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and her ears prickled. Sweat trailed down between her bound breasts.
She continued to hold her breath, listening intently, fighting against the urge to squeeze her eyes closed she was listening so attentively. And she heard every word.
A few minutes later the men stopped talking and Anton turned to Rafe. “Agreed. Have your men send everything to us. We’ll see you back here on Friday.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rafe waited until they were well on their way back to the True Love in the rowboat before asking Daphne. “What did they say?”
“Taller, I mean … Anton, said the price would depend on the quality of the goods.”
Rafe laughed. “Taller?”
“Yes, that’s my nickname for him. Viktor is Beady Eyes.”
“Good names.”
“He also said Gabriel wouldn’t like it. Who is Gabriel?” Daphne asked.
Rafe’s voice grew tight and angry. “He’s the leader of the Frenchmen who captured us. He also speaks Russian and often spoke it in our presence. That’s why I needed Donald there with me.”
Daphne nodded. “Gabriel’s the man who tortured you?”
“Yes,” Rafe said through obviously clenched teeth. Then his voice relaxed. “At any rate, the quality of the goods won’t be a problem. They’re coming directly from the English government.”
“What exactly are you giving them?” Daphne asked.
“The usual things. Spices, tea, fabrics, pottery. Anything they can sell for more in France. Which right now is nearly anything. What else did they say?”
“Viktor said he didn’t trust you and Anton explained that they’d keep an eye on you all week.”
“I like that,” Rafe said with another laugh. “They’re about to get our goods. We should keep an eye on them all week. And speaking of being untrustworthy…”
Daphne pulled her oar in time with Rafe’s. “Why does it take a week to check them out? What are they checking for?”
“They’re making certain the goods aren’t stolen from anyone who’s going to trace them. They want to ensure the government’s not involved. That we’re not spies.”
Daphne snorted. “But we are spies.”
“Yes, but the War Office knows how to make the goods untraceable. They’ll never know. Did they say anything else?”
“Viktor said he didn’t remember me. He was suspicious. Anton said he did. He said I was a, ahem, pretty boy.”
Rafe growled under his breath. “Was that all he said?”
“For the most part.”
Rafe’s voice turned lighter. “Well, that’s two admirers in one day, Grey. Not bad for a lad of sixteen, I’d say. Not bad at all.”
Rafe’s laughter was drowned out by the rowboat clunking against the side of the ship. Daphne didn’t wait to hear more of it. Scowling, she jumped up, grabbed the ladder, and climbed as fast as she could. “I’ll see you in the cabin.”
* * *
The rest of the day stretched out interminably. Daphne had straightened up every possible thing that needed straightening. Which, in a very tidy captain’s quarters, wasn’t much. Rafe had taught her how to pull the bedsheets so tight she could bounce a coin on them. Wearing gloves, she scoured the wooden floor on her hands and knees with water and lye. Rafe hadn’t come into the cabin since they’d returned to the ship. No doubt he’d been making arrangements to get the goods to the smugglers.
“I didn’t think a lady would know how to clean a floor.”
Daphne jumped. Rafe had entered the cabin silently like a wraith. Unsettling that. Spies were exceedingly quiet when they wanted to be.
“Shows how much ye know, Cap’n,” she drawled in the voice that she’d been practicing so that she’d sound more like a cabin boy and less like an aristocratic lady should she be required to speak in front of Anton and Viktor.
The Irresistible Rogue Page 14
