The Irresistible Rogue (Playful Brides #4)(57)

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.”