She swallowed and glanced out at the horizon. “I always wanted to be a pirate.”
Rafe’s eyebrow quirked. “A pirate?”
“Yes. A pirate. I read about a lady pirate once. Well, she was more of a privateer, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to actually break the law. But adventures on the high seas, sun, and wind and rain, and … freedom. It always sounded so wonderful to me.”
Rafe shook his head. His brow furrowed. “You surprise me, Grey.”
“Do I?” She rubbed the bottom of her boot along the deck. “You expected me to say something about embroidery or charities?”
“Perhaps.”
“That is mighty boring, Cap’n,” she said in her best Thomas Grey voice, doffing her cap.
“Agreed,” he answered. “For I, too, always longed for adventure.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Tonight’s lesson involves being tied up,” Rafe announced that evening after they’d said good night to the rest of the crew following dinner and retired to the captain’s cabin. He drew a long piece of rope out of the cabinet above the desk.
Daphne swallowed hard. “Pardon me?”
“I thought you wanted to learn how to be a spy,” Rafe replied.
“Oh yes. Yes, I do.” She brushed her hands across her thighs. “And … spies are often … tied up?”
“Upon occasion,” Rafe replied with his infamous wicked grin. “I was tied up in France more often than not.”
Daphne swallowed again and ducked her head. Of course. This was serious and if Rafe had something to teach her about being tied up, she was ready to learn it.
“Of course, sometimes allowing your captors to think you’re tied up is part of your strategy.”
“Did you do that?” she asked tentatively. “In France?”
“Nearly every day. I kept my hands behind my back and the rope around them, but often, I was only seconds away from being free.”
The breath caught in her throat. “What should I do?”
He motioned to the bed with his chin. “Get on the bunk, Grey. I’m going to tie you up.”
A thrill that was a mixture of fear and anticipation shot through her. “Y … yes, Captain.”
She climbed up onto the bunk and sat watching him carefully.
“Lie on your stomach.”
She did as she was told.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered.
She rested both hands, palms up, over her buttocks. Did Rafe swear under his breath?
“This may hurt a bit. I’ll try to be gentle. Of course if the French were doing it, it would hurt like hell. They aren’t careful. On purpose.”
“I understand,” she murmured into the pillow.
He wrapped the length of rope around her wrists. It scraped at the tender skin there but otherwise there was no pain.
“This is the type of knot that’s not easy to get out of,” Rafe said.
“And you’re going to show me how to get out of it?” she breathed.
“Yes,” came his sure voice. “But you’ve already failed your first lesson.”
She turned her head sharply to the side on the pillow. “What? How?”
“The first lesson of being tied up is to ensure your wrists are at an angle when they’re being tied. An astute captor will notice this but you should always try in case you’re dealing with an amateur.”
“What does the angle have to do with it?”
“If your wrists aren’t pressed together, you’ll have a better chance of tugging one free.”
Daphne pressed her cheek against the pillow. “Ah. Are you going to untie me so I can try again?”
He’d leaned over her and she felt more than saw his smile near her cheek. “Not a chance. I’m an astute captor.”
“Are you?” she whispered into the pillow. Was it getting hot in the cabin all of a sudden?
“That’s right.”
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the lesson. “What should I do next?”
“What is your instinct, Grey? Being a competent spy is often about instinct.”
“My instinct is to try to pull my wrists free from the rope.”
“The exact wrong thing to do,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Daphne frowned. “Why?”
“Because all you’ll do is chafe them and then they’ll be bloody and sore, which will make it more difficult to escape.”
“What should I do then?” she whispered, wishing she couldn’t smell his musky scent.
“That’s the trick. If you are not in imminent danger … In other words if you think your captors mean to hold you and not immediately kill you, you should remain still and wait for them to leave you alone. They usually will at some time or another.”
“And once I’m alone?”
“Look around your environment.” He pushed his arms under her and flipped her over so that she was sitting in an instant. She tried to ignore the fact that he had touched the side of her breast just a little. “Look for something that could cut the ties,” he said.
Daphne hesitated. “In here?”
“Yes.”
She carefully moved to the edge of the bunk and stood on shaking legs. “How am I supposed to get anything with my hands tied?”
He nodded. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Use your imagination.”
She glanced around the small room. The washbasin, the hammock, the door handle. Nothing that would cut a rope. Her gaze fell on the small writing desk. She tried to recall its contents. An ink pot. Some paper. There was a letter opener in there! She hurried over to the desk and stared at it, then she turned and carefully pulled open the drawer using only the touch of her fingers to guide her way. It was more difficult than she’d even guessed it would be. Being the opposite of tall didn’t help, either. She kicked out the chair and climbed up on it to sit on the top of the desk then turned again to rummage in the contents of the open drawer. It took several moments but she finally felt the handle of the letter opener and she grasped it upside down in her palm. A sheen of sweat was on her forehead and her tongue was tightly clenched between her teeth as she attempted to saw at the rope.
“This could take all night,” she breathed.
Rafe stood, folded his arms across his chest and stalked toward her. “It could indeed. Time is always of the essence. You must work as quickly as possible. And remember, your captor may come back at any time. What would you do if I walked through that door and stopped you right now?” He pulled her off the desk and into his arms, kicking the chair out of the way.
She gasped as she collided with his broad chest. “I’d—I’d—”
His breath touched her cheek. “You’d better hide the letter opener as quickly as possible, whether that means pushing it up the back of your shirt or sliding it back into the drawer as quietly as possible.”
“What letter opener?” she asked, blinking innocently.
Rafe glanced over her shoulder and looked down into her empty hands. “Your shirt?” he asked with rakish grin.
“My breeches,” she whispered.
His mouth was only mere inches from hers and the feel of his hard body pressed to hers was making her feel hot and wet in places she didn’t want to think about at the moment. His hand moved to her back and pushed down to her backside to the outline of the letter opener that she’d slid into the back of her breeches. He tucked his fingers into the top of her breeches, his knuckles brushing against her heated skin there. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. He slowly slid the device out of her breeches and held it up in front of her. “Well done, Grey.”
His face changed then. Became blank. He spun her around and quickly untied her hands. “That’s enough for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to use the angle of your wrists to get out of a knot if you must.”
Minutes later he was swinging peacefully in his hammock, while Daphne rubbed at her slightly sore wrists and replayed that moment when he’d pulled her forcefully against
his chest again and again in her traitorous mind. Sleep was not going to come easily tonight.
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.”
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.
The Irresistible Rogue Page 17
