Then, moved by his pensive expression, she ventured a question. “Are the Russian steppes as vast as the ocean?”
“Yes,” he replied. “There is the same sense of freedom, of a limitless horizon, despite the trees.” He glanced upward. “And the sky—it is the same. A stretch of infinite possibilities.”
Shannon looked thoughtfully at the constellations. “I should like to learn the art of navigating by the stars.”
His brow winged up, mirroring the sliver of crescent moon. “Do you ever feel lost?”
She wasn’t quite sure how to reply. The truth would expose a weakness, make her vulnerable. She could hear her fencing master’s exhortations ringing in her ears—Non, non, non, Falconi! Never drop your guard—a skilled opponent will seize an opening, mental or physical, and drive his blade home.
Orlov seemed unaware of her hesitation. Before she could speak, he ran a hand through his hair and gave voice to his own answer. “Orion and Ursus Major look so sure of their position in the firmament. While I often fear I have drifted to some dark corner, far beyond the reach of any light.”
Such melancholy musings took her completely by surprise. She knew that the man had cavalier courage and a rapier wit. But this abstract brooding was a whole new facet of his character. A man who was capable of self-doubt? He suddenly seemed more… human.
The illusion lasted no longer than the scudding glimmer of starlight on the waves. His mouth quirked, and as he turned to light up one of the captain’s cheroots, he gave a curt laugh. “But then, I awake in the arms of some sumptuous ladybird and find I am exactly where I belong.”
The cynicism sounded a bit forced. Rather than react with a barbed retort, she slanted another look at the heavens. “According to Greek mythology, Orion was a hunter pursued by the goddess Diana. When she accidentally killed him, she begged the gods to immortalize him in the night sky. If you follow the line of his belt, it leads to the North Star.”
“Is that supposed to have some special significance for me?” he asked coolly. “An arctic star for an arctic soul?”
Shannon matched his nonchalance. “Only that there are times when we all can use a guiding light.”
He seemed lost in thought for several moments. “What of you, Shannon? You seem to march along with steadfast steps, undaunted by any obstacle in your path. It’s hard to imagine anything coming between you and your chosen destination.”
Did she appear so certain of herself? Feeling that the conversation was drifting into uncharted waters, she didn’t answer. There were too many dangers on which to run aground.
To her relief, the Russian seemed content to steer clear of further questions. Leaning back, he exhaled a series of perfect smoke rings.
“Clouds are blowing in fast from the west,” she said at last. “No doubt we are in for some rough sailing. We had better go below.”
The smoke dissolved in the gusting wind. He drew in one more mouthful of the pungent tobacco smoke, then tossed the butt overboard. “Shelter in a storm? By all means, lead the way.”
The deck was already heaving wildly as Orlov stumbled into their cabin. How he hated ocean voyages! On land he could cling to the illusion of having some control over his destiny.
Shannon caught him as his knees buckled. “In your weakened condition, you ought not be on your feet, sir.”
Her cheek grazed his, igniting his simmering frustrations. Turning, he captured her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss. “Is that an offer to warm my sheets, golub?” The touch of her lips sent heat spiraling through his limbs. He deepened his embrace, holding her tightly, like she was his only lifeline.
It was as if he had broken loose of his moorings and would be lost at sea without her.
“Damn you!” Outrage flooded her voice as she fought to break away.
Beneath his hands he felt the ripple of lithe muscle. Her shoulders were smooth, sleek, and the sudden twist caused his hold to slip… but there was nothing unyielding about her breasts. Soft and sweetly rounded, they fit perfectly into the curve of his palm.
“Damn you.” But the force was gone from her voice. When he looked into her eyes, he saw something other than anger. In the wildly swinging arc of the binnacled lamp, her eyes were a swirling seafoam green. A hue of unfathomable intensity. A man could drown in their depths.
He kissed her again, mindless of the rising fury of the storm. Everything was spinning. The hull shuddered, the beams groaned. Or was it his own rasping sound as he thrust his tongue deeper, reveling in the velvety softness of her mouth? Orlov closed his eyes for an instant, willing the moment to last for an eternity.
“Valkyrie.” She tasted of salt and a sweetness beyond words.
Was it merely the gusting gale or were her hands threading through his hair, drawing his body into hers? Her legs slid apart on the bucking floorboards and he lurched forward, pinning her up against the bulwark. Desperately aware of her heat against his hardness, he slid his hands down to her hips and found the fastenings of her breeches.
“No.”
The sea witch spell was broken by the whisper of her breath. Orlov reluctantly loosened his hold, allowing a sliver of space to come between their faces. “Very well,” he rasped. “I shall not force my attentions on you again.” Summoning a ghost of a grin, he added, “Not until you ask.”
“Ask you to ravish me?” She hesitated, her expression lost for a fleeting moment in the rocking shadows. “Hell will freeze over before that happens.”
“Cold comfort, indeed.”
Her hands unclenched from his collar, but did not fall away. “You are quite fond of using your biting wit as a weapon,” she said slowly.
“Most of the time, humor is infinitely preferable to the alternative.” Orlov looked away, afraid she might see the uncertainty in his gaze. He suddenly felt vulnerable, and hated himself for it. His voice hardened. “One day you will learn that it is one of the keys to survival in the grim world we both inhabit. Even more so than bullets and blades.”
“And you wield it very well. It’s only now that I see how skillfully you use it for defense as well as offense.”
He forced a sardonic curl to his mouth. “Do not presume to know the full range of my arsenal, Shannon. Or how I may choose to employ it.”
“Warfare is the Tao of deception,” she murmured. “I am trained to parry whatever weapon you wield.”
“I, too, can quote from Sun-Tzu—first make yourself invincible. Are you invincible, golub?”
“Are you?” she countered, refusing to be distracted.
At that moment a monstrous wave slammed into the hull, knocking them up against the shuddering timbers. His jaw tightened as his face fell into shadow. “The devil take it, is there not another stash of brandy somewhere in here?”
This time it was he who tried to break away, but Shannon kept hold of his coat. “It’s not drink or drugs that you need.”
“Spare me the lecture on morality,” he snarled. “I don’t need advice, I need oblivion.”
“Yet yesterday you claimed to be in harmony with your own inner demons.”
“As you see, I lied.” He shrugged. “It’s an unfortunate habit of mine.”
Her fingers threaded lightly through his tangled hair, brushing it back from his brow. “You need not be embarrassed. We all have moments when we feel… alone.”
“Trust me, golub. There is nothing I would like better than to be alone at this moment. I am by nature a lone wolf, and aside from the occasional wench to warm my sheets, I vastly prefer my own company to that of anyone else. So, unless you have changed your mind about offering up your maidenhood, let us seek our own beds.” Orlov saw her cheeks flame in anger as he pulled free of her touch. He much preferred the look of ire to one of sympathy.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she said caustically. “Obviously, Shakespeare never met the likes of you.” With a toss of her curls, she turned away. “To my mind, the final lines in this farce cannot come quickly enough.”
“Land ho!” The
cry echoed through the cabin as the ship broke through the fog and tacked for the harbor of Southampton. The storm had broken during the early morning hours and the seas had subsided to a gentle swell. Footsteps thumped over the deck and shouts rang out from aloft, punctuated by the snap of wet canvas as the crew trimmed the sails.
“So, what are you going to do with me?” Orlov’s brow quirked in question as he watched Shannon begin to stow her belongings in her bag.
A good question.
She looked away. Damn the man. Duty demanded a dispassionate assessment of the circumstances. The Russian had escaped once from Lynsley’s pursuit. Now that she had him as her prisoner, there was no question that the rogue should be handed over to her superiors.
Or was conscience a higher authority?
Sensing her dilemma, he shrugged. “Don’t torture yourself, golub. Perhaps the marquess will be in a merciful mood and not hang me out for the crows at Newgate.”
“Damn you.” This time she muttered the oath aloud. “No doubt I should be strung up from the yardarm for dereliction of duty, but…” She sighed. “I shall turn my back for one moment once we are on the docks. One moment—is that clear? When I look back, you had better be gone.”
“I owe you a rather large debt of gratitude, Shannon.” As he bowed, his sweeping salute slipped inside his boot. “Allow me to hand over a parting memento before I go.” He tossed her silver dagger atop her sea bag. “I trust it is none the worse for wear.”
“If you truly wish to repay me, you will do your best to make sure we never meet again.”
Chapter Seven
Tugging the brim of his hat down low, Orlov slipped in among the throng of sweating stevedores and sailors. His nondescript clothing, scrounged from the ship’s supplies, blended in well with the crowd. In a moment, he would be lost from sight.
Squinting in the sunlight, he stopped at the end of the wharf and filled his lungs with the briny smell of pine tar, oakum, and salt spray. After days in the dark, what he needed was a breath of fresh air to clear the noxious memories of his recent confinement.
Freedom. He should feel a rush of elation. Yet oddly enough, his mood felt strangely flat as he forced himself forward. His steps scuffed against the cobbles and he had to resist the urge to turn and scan the crowd for a mud-brown cloak.
He had never been alone that long with a woman before, thought Orlov wryly. A night—two at most—then he always moved on. Deep discussion was not exactly part of the experience. Yet he had enjoyed the conversations with Shannon. Indeed, she was even more intriguing now that he had seen a glimpse of what lay beneath the lithe muscle and fierce grace of her splendid body.
An attraction that was not merely sexual but cerebral?
He grunted. His mind must still be fuzzed from the lingering effects of the opium. What he needed was a drink to wash the dregs away.
Edging past the docks, Orlov crossed the street, watching that no one was mirroring his movements. After he had walked a way up the hill, he chose one of the coaching inns at random. Over a pint of lager, he would decide how to proceed. Heading to London seemed the logical choice. It would be easy enough to arrange a quick conference with the Russian chargé d’affaires. Only the Almighty knew where Yussapov might be right now.
He was about to enter the Golden Dolphin when a man jostled his shoulder. Biting back a wince, he was about to make a rude comment when the fellow paused and looked up to the skies. “By the bones of St. Sergius, there looks to be a wind blowing in from the North.”
Orlov went still. “You don’t say? By my reckoning, I would guess it to be coming from the east.”
“I daresay you are correct.” The man stuffed his hands in his pockets and, without further comment, continued on his way.
Orlov gave a longing look at the taproom but followed his new acquaintance into a nearby side street.
“A coach is waiting for you at the Pink Mermaid, off Groton Lane. You had best hurry. My orders said the matter is urgent.”
“How the devil—” Orlov knew better than to go on.
The other man confirmed his ignorance with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m just the messenger, guv.”
He ought to be grateful that Yussapov had tracked him down, rather than its being the other way around. And yet, Orlov could not help finishing his question… How the devil had the prince gotten wind of the fiasco in Ireland? He must have his own flock of sharp-eyed hawks circling the globe. That, or a damnable crystal ball.
His own powers of divination were at a low ebb. Nothing was making any sense—not his foul mood, his sudden summons, or his inexplicable sense of regret. Tired, hungry, he was tempted to make his superior cool his heels while he enjoyed a leisurely meal and a much-needed bath. As for sleeping in a real bed…
Damn. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed the comforts of clean sheets and plumped pillows.
Though his steps slowed for a stride, he shrugged off the idea of mutiny. His lovely Merlin had not shirked her duty to report to Lord Lynsley right away, no matter that she might very well end up in hot water on account of her actions.
He, too, could marshal a sense of discipline when it served his purpose.
And come to think of it, he was looking forward to the rendezvous with Yussapov. The prince’s sartorial splendor would suffer no material harm, but his ears would be royally blistered by the time the meeting was over. Once again the lack of communication between English and Russian Intelligence could have proven disastrous.
Shannon flung herself against the squabs of the waiting carriage, trying to keep her gaze from stealing to the windowpanes. She did not ever wish to see that dratted man again. Alexandr Orlov was nothing but trouble. A harbinger of perils.
Her jaw set. He was perilous to her peace of mind, that was for sure.
She looked away from the swearing stevedores, the barrels of beef and rum jumbled in among the cordage and spars. Every man for himself, she repeated to herself. Orlov was on his own. But even in the midst of a foreign naval port, she was sure that the Russian would have no trouble keeping his head above water.
Her concern ought to be with surviving the coming meeting with Lord Lynsley. Though the primary failure was not her fault, she was a good deal less certain of how he would judge her ancillary actions. She could, of course, omit the information pertaining to her erstwhile companion. However, even if by some prayer the ship captain did not see fit to make mention of the extra passenger, she could not in good conscience keep any of the facts from the marquess.
Conscience. Bloody hell. Such sentiment was a cursed inconvenience for a hardbitten warrior. Perhaps Lynsley had been right to question her mental toughness.
Such disquieting musings kept her occupied through the interminable hours of bouncing across the countryside. The driver, a whipcord figure with a face as leathery as the reins, broke the journey only long enough to change the horses and order a hurried mug of hot tea. Still, it was long past dusk before the coach turned up a gated drive and finally ground to a halt.
“We are here,” he called, climbing down from his perch.
Between the surging seas and rutted roads, Shannon’s legs were a bit wobbly. “Thank you,” she murmured, hoping that no one had witnessed his having to steady a maidenly stumble.
“You are to go inside. First room on the right.”
A glance around as she passed under the entrance portico showed that the manor house was a stately stone structure surrounded by expansive gardens. No lights shone from the windows and aside from the crickets and the lone hoot of an owl, there wasn’t a sound to disturb the country silence.
An odd venue for a battlefield report, mused Shannon. But Lord Lynsley was often unpredictable, a trait that no doubt contributed to his formidable success in the art of war.
Too fatigued to puzzle overlong on the marquess’s motives, she shifted her gear bag and knocked softly on the paneled door.
“Come in.” The female voice was warm and welcoming
.
Her brow furrowed. She took hold of the latch, yet instinctively her other hand slid to the pistol inside her cloak.
“You must be exhausted from your travels!” A small, plump woman with a frizzle of gray hair sticking out from under her mobcap hurried across the entrance hall. “Come, warm yourself by the fire while I order some refreshments. Then I am sure you will welcome a hot bath and a soft mattress.” She clucked like a motherly hen as she rang a small silver bell. “Shipboard travel can be so dreadfully uncomfortable. I do hope you are not prone to seasickness—such tossing and turning always left me feeling that I didn’t know up from down.”
Shannon felt a bit dizzy herself. “I…”
“You are no doubt wondering where His Lordship is.”
She nodded mutely as she set her bag down on the Turkish carpet and flexed her stiff fingers.
“He asked me to see to your comforts.” The woman paused to give a flurry of orders to the maid who appeared in doorway. “By the by,” she continued, turning back to Shannon. “I am Mrs. Hallaway, housekeeper of Greenfield Hill. Tea is on the way, but perhaps you would prefer something stronger after your journey?”
“Tea is fine.” Rubbing at the crick in her neck, Shannon took a moment to let the housekeeper’s words sink in. A steaming bath? Starched sheets? A small moan nearly slipped from her lips. But duty dismissed such decadent thoughts, at least for the present. “Surely Lord Lynsley wishes a full report before I retire?”
“Your meeting has been put off until morning.”
“Why?” she wondered aloud. Unlike a greengrocer or milliner, the marquess was not wont to keep regular hours.
“Oh, as to that, I wouldn’t know.” The housekeeper’s cheery voice dropped a notch. “He and the other gentleman have been locked in the library for hours. Cook has already set the supper back twice.” Another cluck. “I fear the roast will be burnt to a crisp.”
The other gentleman? As Shannon began to wolf down the cold collation that was brought in a few moments later, she tried to imagine who he might be. Had word already reached Whitehall of her abject failure?
Seduced by a Spy Page 7
