“I’ll ask Cook to bring you up a cup of tea,” he added.
Tea. Spilled tea. Blond. Last night’s nightmare came rushing back full force to squeeze Daphne’s middle until she could barely breathe.
“Thank you for the lesson, Captain,” she said in the most businesslike voice she could muster.
He tipped his hat to her but she refused to look at him. He turned on his heel.
He was leaving. Good.
***
Rafe made his way down to his cabin and shut the door firmly behind him. Good God, he’d nearly embarrassed himself out there on the deck, getting hard when Daphne had sidled her little backside up to him while he’d been teaching her to throw a knife of all things. Only she could give him an erection while he was teaching her how to use a deadly weapon.
He crossed over to the washbasin, dunked both hands into the cool water and splashed his face. He was tempted to upend the entire basin over his head. But Daphne would probably ask why there was water all over the floor when she returned.
It was a good thing, teaching her how to be a spy. Showing her the hand signals and teaching her how to throw a knife. She should be skilled, trained. She’d have a fighting chance to defend herself if the worst happened and they were found out. A memory flashed before his eyes. A painful memory of the day Donald Swift had been shot. He was useless to them, they decided. Nothing more than an aristocrat who knew no real secrets. Rafe suspected they’d kept Donald alive as long as they had only to make Rafe more compliant. They’d been right. Rafe would have done anything to save the earl. But in the end, they’d taken him out to the tree line behind their tents and shot him in the head. Rafe clenched his fist. The crack of that pistol would ring in his ears forever. The guilt would stay with him longer than that. He shook his head. Yes, Daphne should learn all she could in their short time together on the ship.
***
That night Rafe couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable in his hammock at all. Daphne had remained on deck all day throwing the knives. She’d come back down late at night with a fetching amount of sun on her cheeks (no doubtthatwould be difficult to explain away next week when she was back in her Mayfair drawing rooms). She’d yawned and stretched and thanked him for teaching her how to throw the knives, reporting that she’d got so good at it by the end of the day that the crew had been placing bets on her throws. Rafe lurched in the hammock, nearly throwing himself onto the wooden floor. He cursed under his breath. Daphne was fast asleep, adorable little sighs coming from her throat like a relaxed kitten, while he was wholly unable to sleep because all he could do was remember her tight little backside pressed against him during their knife-throwing lesson.
He’d already decided upon tomorrow’s lesson and there was nothing at all alluring about it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Today I’m going to teach you how to shoot, Daphne,” Rafe announced the next morning after Daphne had finished her breakfast and was making the bunk. There wasn’t much to do while they awaited the Russians’ inspection of their cargo. They had to remain on the ship in case the Russians paid a visit, and Rafe was convinced they were being watched as well. They had to appear completely at ease, playing the role of a crew anchored in harbor.
Daphne whirled around to face Rafe. “I don’t particularly care to learn how to shoot. I intended to spend the afternoon practicing my knife throwing.”
“There will be time for that later. I’ve been considering it and I think it’s important for you to learn how to shoot as well.”
Daphne wrinkled her nose. She’d never much cared for pistols. Her father and Donald had gone shooting often. She followed them on occasion to watch and she remembered it being loud and smoky. Not a particularly pleasant way to spend the day if you asked her. But if Rafe thought it was important that she learn, she wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity for a lesson. Not to mention, spending a bit more time in his company was not an unpleasant thought.
Daphne followed Rafe up to the deck to the far side of the ship where no other ships were moored off the starboard side. There was nothing ahead of them but open water, a perfectly safe place for shooting practice. He had set up a makeshift target using an old piece of flotsam he’d apparently dredged out of the water or retrieved from the hold. There was a crude bull’s-eye painted on it.
She glanced at the bull’s-eye and then back at Rafe. “You did this, for me?” She pointed at herself.
His characteristic grin appeared on his face. “How else do you expect to learn to shoot?”
Daphne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide.
Just as he had the day before, Rafe showed her how to stand, how to angle her hand, and how to hold the pistol. They stood together on the bow of the ship and shot off into the water, using the horizon as their guide. Rafe had two pistols and was obliged to stop and reload them each time they were used.
Twenty minutes later, Rafe declared, “You’re much better at throwing knives than shooting pistols.”
“I told you. I don’t like pistols,” Daphne said, squinting. “They’re far too loud and a bit unpredictable.”
“I must say, with two older brothers, I’d have thought they’d have taught you before now. I must speak to Swifdon about it when we return.”
Daphne laughed and shook her head. “Julian did try to teach me when I was much younger, but I quickly tired of it. He and Donald used to have a bit of brandy and challenge each other to shooting matches.”
“That hardly sounds safe.”
“It wasn’t. They were young lads when they did it. If Father had known, he would have beaten the tar out of both of them. Father taught Donald to shoot like a gentleman.”
“He didn’t teach Julian?” Rafe asked, his brow furrowed.
Daphne looked down at the deck and shook her head.
