The Irresistible Rogue (Playful Brides #4)(10)

Her face began to turn red. “What? Why not?”

He knew she was considering stamping her foot but he guessed she didn’t want to appear childish. Good choice.

“We must remain married for the same reason we married in the first place,” he answered. “If we’re caught, you’d be ruined.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she shot back.

“Will you? Truly? Do you want to take that risk? Not to mention if we’re captured and we’re married, standing trial we will be unable to testify against each other.”

“You know as well as I that if we’re captured…” Her voice trailed off but she’d been about to say “we’ll be hanged.” He knew it. They both knew it. And that was much more dangerous than any risk to her reputation.

“We’ll be on English soil the entire time. Going to France is not a risk I’m willing to take with you.”

“Why, because I’m like a sister to you?” She nearly spat the words at him. He’d known those words had rankled when he’d said them to her last year. But it was the only thing he could think to say to make her believe, to make her understand. They could not be together. Ever. It wasn’t possible. And if he’d thought for one blasted moment that charming, smiling, adventurous, off-limits Lady Daphne Swift would have gone and fallen for him, actually believed their pretend marriage was more than pretend, he never would have agreed to take her with him on the first mission. Even if she did try to extort him by threatening to tell her brother that he’d compromised her, the little minx.

There had been something about the way that she’d threatened him so casually, as if it were part of her normal, pampered daily routine. “Take me with you to the docks. I’ll pose as your wife.”

“Never.”

“Never? Not even if I threaten to tell Donald that you … compromised me?” Her smile had been so alluring. And in the end, Rafe had agreed. Not because he couldn’t explain the situation to Donald Swift convincingly. Hell, he’d been convincing people of whatever he wanted to convince them of since he was a lad of thirteen. No. He’d done it because Daphne herself had persuaded him. He’d been intrigued by her bravery, her desire to help the war effort.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” she’d taunted. “Afraid that a lady might show you up? I may wear skirts, but I deserve to do my part for my country the same as any man, regardless of what’s between my legs.”

Those had been the words that had sealed her fate. Damned if she hadn’t been right. Daphne Swift came from a family of patriots. Both of her brothers had done what they could for their country and if the little Society miss wanted to prove her own worth, who was Rafe to keep her from it? He’d known that feeling after all. Wanting to prove your worth. His father had told him often enough that he’d never amount to anything.

“Very well,” he’d told her. “But you won’t be wearing skirts on this particular mission.”

Her eyes had gone wide then, too.

“What do you mean?” Her words had been a rushed whisper.

“You cannot pose as my wife. It would be suspicious and you are far too beautiful. I’d never take you to the docks and put you at risk of rape or worse.”

“If I’m not to be a lady, then what—”

“I’m in need of a cabin boy. And you are just the right size, if not shape.”

He’d tried not to allow his gaze to linger on her breasts. He was already going to hell for half a score of reasons as it was, agreeing to this. “But we can take care of that,” he quickly added.

Daphne had pressed a hand to her breasts. “We can take care—”

“We’ll work out the details later,” he’d said, waving a hand in the air and flipping his tricorn over and placing it back on his head. “I must get back.”

But last time had been quite a bit different. Last time, he’d needed an interpreter, yes, but he’d have been able to talk Donald into going if he’d truly wanted the earl’s help instead of his sister’s. Now, however, he had no choice. This time he was desperate. Daphne was already established as his cabin boy and she spoke Russian. Donald was dead. It was hardly a difficult decision.

“Yes,” Rafe answered simply, dragging his thoughts back to the question she’d just asked him. She hated it when he compared her to a sister. And the fact was, he thought of her as anything but. But he didn’t much care for the thought of having Julian Swift knock every single one of his teeth down his throat.

“I’m not your sister and you’d better have a more convincing argument than that or I still refuse to help you.”

Rafe let out his breath, slapped his gloves against his thigh again, and considered his options. She’d really got her back up this time. “As soon as the mission is over, I’ll grant you your annulment. I’ll go to the Home Office myself and see to it immediately.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “How long will the mission take?”

“A sennight, give or take a day.”

“One week?”

“That’s right. That’s all.” He took a deep breath and played his real trump. He glanced at her and blinked. “I thought you’d want to help, Daphne. Don’t you want to catch the bastards who killed Donald?”