“What does that mean?” Daphne asked.
“It means watch your back.”
Twenty minutes later, Daphne felt as if she had a good understanding of a dozen different signals. She’d done them all more than once and practiced to remember each clearly. “Thank you,” she said softly to Rafe. “For teaching me.”
“Thank you for coming with me,” he replied. He shook his head and the casual devil-may-care Rafe was back. “Shall we play one more hand?” he offered, shuffling the cards again.
“Why not?”
Rafe dealt and Daphne won for a second time. She inhaled deeply and met his gaze. She knew exactly what she would ask him. “Why do you drink so much, Rafe?”
Rafe blinked as if surprised by the question. “I haven’t had a drink since we came on this ship. I didn’t touch my ale yesterday. Nor the drink your brother offered me the night we left his house.”
Daphne searched his face. “That didn’t answer my question. I’ve seen you go to the clubs with Derek. Always with a brandy glass in your hand when you visit Julian. I know you’ve been drinking too much for too long.”
“I’m not certain I know the answer to your question,” he admitted with a shaky laugh.
“I do,” Daphne said solemnly.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. “I wish you’d tell me, then.”
“You’re trying to forget about Donald’s death.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Daphne slept fitfully again. This time she dreamt of a blond woman in Rafe’s bed. She hadn’t imagined it back then. She’d seen it with her own two eyes. They’d been staying at an inn near the docks. They’d left the ship the final night thinking it was unsafe to be there. They’d got two rooms but they’d been adjoining so Rafe could keep an eye on Daphne and keep her safe. He barricaded her door to the corridor with a large armoire and helped her move it the next morning when she’d told him she wanted to go downstairs in search of some tea. Rafe had asked if she’d like him to fetch it for her, but she’d insisted on doing it herself.
When she’d come back upstairs, she’d brought him a cup, too. She’d pushed open the door to his room and there she was. The blond. Lying in his bed. Naked but for a sheet pulled up under her arms. Lavish and gorgeous and hair spilling around her shoulders. Heart pounding, Daphne had immediately dropped both teacups and turned and fled. She ran back down the stairs, and encountered Rafe coming up. Apparently, he’d gone downstairs to check on her.
Daphne woke in a cold sweat. She’d had that dream before, relived that moment time and time again. But it always had the same ending. The rest of it was a lot of denials and confusion. The blond was soon gone but it was too late. Daphne had been mortally wounded. Her and Rafe’s marriage hadn’t been consummated, that was true, but the least he could do was not flaunt his doxies under her nose until the mission was over and their annulment secured. Was that too much to ask? Apparently. And yes, there’d been a small, stupid part of her that had hoped, wished even, that their marriage would be real after all. That Rafe might actually fall in love with her. That small, stupid part of her died the moment she saw the blond. Actually it had begun to die the moment he’d said he thought of her as a sister and refused to kiss her two days earlier. Clearly, he had nosisterlyfeelings toward the blond.
But the worst part, the very worst, was that after he’d spent the better part of an hour denying that he even knew who the blond was, he proceeded to ruin all of his carefully worded denials. “I don’t know why you’re so angry, Daphne. It’s not as if we could ever be together. What does it matter who I have in my bed?”
That had been that. The mission had ended soon after. That afternoon Rafe had got the names of the men he was searching for in France and he took Daphne back to Mayfair that same day. Mother had been beside herself with worry. Apparently, she’d been writing to her daughter at Aunt Willie’s with no response and had even written to Julian in the war, telling him she feared Daphne had run off. Daphne had hugged her mother fiercely, telling her how sorry she was to have caused her such worry. But that night, back in her own bed with unbound breasts, and large fluffy, soft down pillows, she’d cried herself to sleep. “What does it matter who I have in my bed?” he’d said to her. And with that, she’d known all of it had been nothing more than work to him. Any tenderness or emotions she’d thought had developed between them had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. She was angry with him, yes. But she was mostly angry with herself for being so gullible. How could an army captain remain married to the daughter of an earl? Why, it was unheard of. Of course Rafe had agreed to the marriage because Donald had insisted. There was no other reason.
Daphne had waited a year to let her heart mend a bit, before she’d decided to stop moping and write a list. Get on with it. Find a proper husband. One who was suitable, from the right kind of family, one who didn’t have a penchant for keeping blonds in his bed. She’d thought Lord Fitzwell fit the bill. She’d been mistaken there, too.
She glanced over to where Rafe swung peacefully in the hammock, fast asleep. She pressed her head against her pillow. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was completing this mission and keeping Rafe at arm’s length for the duration. She owed it to Donald. Rafe needed her for her language skills and keen hearing. She’d decided that she needed him for something else. And she’d ask him for it, in the morning.
***
“I want you to teach me how to throw a knife,” Daphne announced the next morning after breakfast. The rest of the crew had been up with the sun scurrying around the decks as usual. Whether the men knew much about ships or not, they certainly made an impressive show of it for the sake of their mission. Daphne often watched them in awe. Stringing sails, scrubbing decks, picking oakum. They made it all look extremely convincing.
Rafe looked twice at Daphne. “A what?”
“A knife. I saw you throw one once, last spring. When that boy had stolen your purse and ran away. You pinned his shirt to the wall from thirty paces. I want you to teach me how to do that.”
Rafe rubbed his hand across his chin. “It takes a great deal of practice, you know. You shouldn’t expect to be that good at it right off.”
Daphne swallowed a bite of her biscuit. She did indeed have tea and milk to go with it this morning, courtesy of Cook. “I’m certain. It’s like reading. You can’t expect to read theIliadwhile you’re still in leading strings but you get better. I want to learn the fundamentals of throwing a knife. I’ll get better at it on my own.”
“You’ve read theIliad?”
“Of course,” she replied.
Rafe whistled. “Fancy that, Grey.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Will you teach me to throw a knife or not?”
