“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.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Today I’m going to teach you how to shoot, Daphne,” Rafe announced the next morning after Daphne had finished her breakfast and was making the bunk. There wasn’t much to do while they awaited the Russians’ inspection of their cargo. They had to remain on the ship in case the Russians paid a visit, and Rafe was convinced they were being watched as well. They had to appear completely at ease, playing the role of a crew anchored in harbor.
Daphne whirled around to face Rafe. “I don’t particularly care to learn how to shoot. I intended to spend the afternoon practicing my knife throwing.”
“There will be time for that later. I’ve been considering it and I think it’s important for you to learn how to shoot as well.”
Daphne wrinkled her nose. She’d never much cared for pistols. Her father and Donald had gone shooting often. She followed them on occasion to watch and she remembered it being loud and smoky. Not a particularly pleasant way to spend the day if you asked her. But if Rafe thought it was important that she learn, she wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity for a lesson. Not to mention, spending a bit more time in his company was not an unpleasant thought.
Daphne followed Rafe up to the deck to the far side of the ship where no other ships were moored off the starboard side. There was nothing ahead of them but open water, a perfectly safe place for shooting practice. He had set up a makeshift target using an old piece of flotsam he’d apparently dredged out of the water or retrieved from the hold. There was a crude bull’s-eye painted on it.
She glanced at the bull’s-eye and then back at Rafe. “You did this, for me?” She pointed at herself.
His characteristic grin appeared on his face. “How else do you expect to learn to shoot?”
Daphne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide.
Just as he had the day before, Rafe showed her how to stand, how to angle her hand, and how to hold the pistol. They stood together on the bow of the ship and shot off into the water, using the horizon as their guide. Rafe had two pistols and was obliged to stop and reload them each time they were used.
Twenty minutes later, Rafe declared, “You’re much better at throwing knives than shooting pistols.”
“I told you. I don’t like pistols,” Daphne said, squinting. “They’re far too loud and a bit unpredictable.”
“I must say, with two older brothers, I’d have thought they’d have taught you before now. I must speak to Swifdon about it when we return.”
Daphne laughed and shook her head. “Julian did try to teach me when I was much younger, but I quickly tired of it. He and Donald used to have a bit of brandy and challenge each other to shooting matches.”
“That hardly sounds safe.”
“It wasn’t. They were young lads when they did it. If Father had known, he would have beaten the tar out of both of them. Father taught Donald to shoot like a gentleman.”
“He didn’t teach Julian?” Rafe asked, his brow furrowed.
Daphne looked down at the deck and shook her head.
Rafe stepped closer to her and lowered his voice so the members of the crew who were on deck couldn’t hear. “I understand. My father never taught me anything useful.” Rafe cleared his throat. “At any rate, only a fool would drink and use pistols.”
Daphne would have loved to hear more about Rafe’s father. He never talked about his family. But he’d already changed the subject.
“I agree,” she said with a laugh. “I shall endeavor not to drink spirits when I’m practicing my shot.”
“Or when you’re practicing your knife throwing, either,” he added with a wink that made Daphne’s belly flip.
“Good plan,” she said. “I have to be honest. Until the other night when you told me you didn’t drink while working, I thought you couldn’t control your drinking.”
Rafe looked up from reloading one of the pistols. “I know that, Daphne.”
She pushed the tip of one of her boots along the wood-planked deck. “Why didn’t you tell me it’s not true?”
He raised both brows. “And ruin your bad opinion of me?”
She met his eyes. “Be serious.”
Rafe rammed the shot into the muzzle of the gun. “My father drank, to excess. He became angry and unreasonable when he drank. I vowed years ago that I would never follow suit.”
Daphne watched his profile solemnly. “I can’t imagine you ever being angry or unreasonable.”
Rafe shrugged. “My mother always said I didn’t take after my father, in temperament at least. Good thing, that. But still. I refuse to allow alcohol to control me.”
“Are you like your father at all?”
“No, I’m not, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m not like my father in any way that I can help. Mother always said I have his eyes. Other than that, I made my life a study of being the opposite of him.”
“How so?”
“He left us, when I was twelve. I haven’t seen him since.”
Daphne gasped. “That’s awful.”
“The man wasn’t responsible a day in his life. He was discharged from the army. He stole things, begged, got tossed in gaol a time or two. I was always ashamed of him.”
Daphne took an unconscious step toward him. “But you’re nothing like that, Rafe.”
He slid the hammer back on the pistol and handed it to her carefully. “On purpose. I vowed to live a life I could be proud of. A life in service to my country and fellow man.” He lowered his voice again. “I joined the army as soon as I could. I didn’t have parents to buy me a commission like Claringdon or Swifdon. I had to work my way up.”
She whispered, too. “And you became an officer? A spy?”
“
Yes. After many years. My superior officers saw the potential in me. I was always good at talking myself out of any situation. I was stealthy, fast, blended in, got away quickly. Perfect spy material.”
Daphne swallowed. “And brave, Rafe. You’re uncommonly brave.”
“I don’t think of myself that way. I only think of doing my duty.”
“Did you always want to be a spy?”
“Yes. I think so. I didn’t know the word for it but I knew I had the ability to be in the military and do special work.”
“You are quite good at it, Rafe.”
Rafe ran a hand over his face. “Tell that to Donald.”
Daphne shook her head. “No. Certainly not. Donald’s death wasn’t your fault. You must know that.”
He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. He moved closer to her again and kept his voice low. “Enough about me. What about you? What did you always want to be when you were a little girl?”
Daphne aimed the pistol at the bull’s-eye. The air seemed to suspend in her lungs. No one had asked her such a question before. It was popularly assumed that all young women of the ton wanted to marry well and produce offspring. No one ever asked them what they wanted to do. She took the shot and, like all the others, it winged off into the ocean, coming nowhere near the bull’s-eye. “I should have known when I practiced archery with Jane at Julian’s wedding party that I was no good at shooting things.”
Rafe took the pistol from her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m not certain I know how to answer it.”
“Have I confused you?” Rafe laughed.
“A bit,” she admitted sheepishly. “I’ve just never been … No one’s ever asked me such a question.”
Rafe concentrated on reloading the pistol again. He shook powder into the muzzle. “That’s a shame.”
Daphne lifted her chin. “It is a shame, isn’t it?”
He looked up at her and nodded.
She lifted her chin. “I do have an answer, though.”
He met her eyes. “What is it?”
“You must promise not to laugh.”
“I would never laugh at you.”
The Irresistible Rogue Page 16
