The Irresistible Rogue (Playful Brides #4)(56)

“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.