“Aye, I bear the wounds of what we do,” he said. “But like you, I do not fight for the mere thrill of the kill.”
“What do you fight for?”
Already embarrassed by how much he had revealed, Orlov was not quite ready to bare his soul. Physical scars were obvious enough. His spiritual state was something he kept guarded even from his own gaze. “I have my reasons, golub. But they are private, personal.”
“Honor?” she asked, her voice tentative.
“I am a man, not a saint.” He had never regretted his actions before, yet at that moment he found himself wishing he were not quite so flawed. She made him wish to be better than he was.
Her half smile was luminous in the lamplight. “I—I believe you are more noble than you care to admit.”
Orlov hid his longing with a sardonic shrug. “What you see is flesh and blood, not a suit of shining armor.”
Was it disappointment he saw reflected in her eyes? He blinked and forced his gaze away.
The surging seas rocked him forward. Orlov tightened his grip to keep her from being tossed against the narrow berth. The squall seemed to be gathering momentum. Overhead, the timbers groaned and canvas snapped. The wind howled through the tarred hemp and taut rigging.
With his own gruff growl, he kissed her again, reveling in the feeling of peace that came over him in spite of the raging storm all around. Angling his body to shield her from the shifting trunks, Orlov coaxed her legs apart. She gasped as his thigh slid between hers, lifting her stockinged feet from the floorboards. There was something exquisitely intimate, erotic, about having her mounted on his person. A wild force of nature. A bold handmaiden of Neptune, resplendent in her bellicose beauty. All she needed was a trident…
“Damn.” Her whispered oath pricked at his conscience.
Loosening his hold, Orlov reluctantly freed her lips.
“The sea seems to have a tempestuous effect on your senses. And mine.” With trembling fingers, Shannon stroked the damp hair back from his brow. She looked shaken.
But no more than he felt himself. She was right—a potent force was at play with his reason and resolve. But it was more complex than a simple chemical reaction of salt and water.
Awkward, unsure, she slid down from her perch, looking more like a lost waif than a hardened warrior. The shadows smudged the green of her eyes to a shade of bruised confusion, making her appear smaller, more vulnerable.
“W—we must be on guard that such moments of madness do not follow us to the moors.”
“So you mean to play the role of proper governess to the hilt?”
“It is not a question of choice.” Tugging her shirt back in place, Shannon turned and groped beneath the chart table for her reticule. “One little slip could easily betray us.” Like her words, the crackle of papers as she unfolded the documents was a sharp reminder that it was duty and not desire that had paired them together.
Yet he sensed her resistance was not simply a question of strategy and tactics. Mirroring the surrounding seas, her eyes revealed a turbulent swirl of crosscurrents in their depths.
He looked away, unable to fathom her reaction. Or his own. “Then let us begin with your map.” Perhaps she was right—it was best to use business to smooth the waters. “I imagine Lynsley has had his contact draw in all the possible routes of escape.”
“Of course. He believes in being prepared for every exigency.”
As he eyed the precise pen lines and shadings, Orlov wished that his own path through unknown territory was so clearly delineated.
Chapter Ten
Like a merlin, a long-ago laird of the McAllister clan had chosen a remote spot in the Highland hills for his aerie. Angling her gaze, Shannon took measure of the surroundings as their hired coach lurched through the last, steep turn of the climb and came to a halt.
Perched high on the moors, the ancestral home—which looked more like an ancient Viking fortress than a lordly manor house—overlooked sloping stands of pine and rocky meadowland, thick with gorse and wild grasses. Far below, she spotted the glimmer of a river cutting through a narrow gorge. In another moment, however, the view was obscured by a heavy shroud of mist. Fast-moving clouds had been gathering force over the past hour and a storm now seemed imminent.
“Isolation can be a defensive strength,” murmured Orlov as he stepped down from his seat and stretched his legs. “And a—”
“And a weakness,” she finished.
He nodded. “In this case, yes.”
Shannon took a last look around, though there was little to see, save for rock. Both the courtyard cobblestones and the castle walls were hewn from the same unrelenting shade of gray granite. But after a few yards, even those solid shapes quickly dissolved in a mizzle of swirling fog and spattering raindrops. A closer inspection of the grounds would have to wait until later.
Shielding her face from the gusting wind, she followed Orlov to the front door. It took him several tries with the ancient iron knocker to summon any sign of life.
The massive slab of blackened oak finally swung open a crack. “Ye have come a long way for naught,” said a raspy voice from within. “The turn for Braeantra is some miles back.”
“We are not lost,” replied Orlov. He took a small oilskin packet from his coat and passed it over. “Kindly give this to the lady of the house.”
There was a slight pause and a shuffle of feet. “Auch, ye best come in out of the wet while ye wait.”
Shannon shook out her cloak. The entrance hall was rather gloomy, an impression accentuated by the slate tiles and dark wood paneling. A large hunt tapestry on the far wall did nothing to lighten the mood—it depicted a wounded stag being dragged down by a pack of hounds. The only other decorative touch was a large oil painting hung above a heavy pine sideboard.
“The old laird did not appear to look kindly on creature comforts,” observed Orlov as he regarded the stern-faced gentleman staring down from the canvas. “Perhaps it was the haggis that spoiled his appetite for having any fun in life.”
“Sssshhh,” she warned. “Not everyone considers personal amusement the primary purpose of life. The Scots are a serious people, and many of them feel they have a moral responsibility to put duty before pleasure.”
“Duty to what? Making everyone around them miserable?”
Shannon did not have time to frame a reply, for the butler reappeared from the shadows and beckoned for them to enter a small sitting room across from the main staircase.
“Hmmph. How strange.” Light winked off the gold-rimmed lenses as an elderly lady looked up from the letter she was reading. According to Lynsley’s dossiers, Lady Octavia McAllister, widow of Laird John McAllister of Skibo, was nearly seventy and something of a recluse. She was also said to have been quite a beauty in her day, and Shannon could see why. Despite the silvery hair and encroaching wrinkles, her fine-boned features and expressive mouth still possessed a captivating vitality.
“My son Angus appears to have been in a dreadful hurry to make these arrangements.” Lady Octavia’s lips suddenly pursed. “I wonder why?”
“The agency did not say, milady.” With his scuffed boots and frayed coat, Orlov looked the very picture of an impecunious scholar. A tincture of walnut leaves had dulled the gleam of his fair hair, which was tied back in an old-fashioned queue, and his slouch softened the lines of his muscular frame, adding to the appearance of bookish reserve.
“They did mention that Mr. McAllister was engaged to lecture at an important scientific conference,” he went on. “So perhaps a last-minute change of scheduling required him to act quickly.”
“Hmmph.” The dowager’s eyes narrowed, and despite the thickness of her spectacles, Shannon had the impression that age had not dimmed her vision. “A very reasonable reply, Mr.…”
“Oliver,” supplied Orlov.
“And yet, when it comes to the children, he is always very meticulous about making his choices.”
“Our presence only confirms his
due diligence.” Orlov’s smile could have charmed the stone basilisks standing guard atop the carved fireplace. “The Woolsey Agency is the best in the business, and with all due modesty, milady, allow me to say that Miss Sloane and I have impeccable credentials. If you would care to examine our references, I am sure you will find everything in order.”
The pinch of the dowager’s mouth softened. “No doubt, young man. Angus has likely gone over your qualifications with a fine-tooth comb, so if he caught no snarls, I daresay I shall be satisfied.”
Shannon decided it was time for her to speak up for herself. “Thank you, milady. Mr. Oliver and I look forward to earning your approval.”
“Don’t thank me, gel. You have yet to meet the little hellions.” Though it was said with a slight twinkle in her eye, Lady Octavia’s expression clouded for an instant. “But first things first. Here I am doddering on like an old fool when you are likely tired and hungry from the rigors of the trip. I shall arrange for tea to be set out in the drawing room while you get settled in your quarters.”
With a thump of her stout walking stick, the dowager recalled the butler, who looked as ancient as the Celtic symbols carved in the stone lintel. “Rawley, show Mr. Oliver to the first-floor guest room in the east wing. Miss Sloane, you come with me.”
Orlov inclined a graceful bow and offered his arm.
“Don’t imagine you can buy my good graces with glittering manners, young man.” She did, however, accept the attention. “I have seen enough rascals in my day to know Spanish coin from true gold.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” murmured Orlov. “I cannot imagine anyone would dare try to pull the wool over your eyes, milady.” Leaning a touch lower, he added, “Which are, if I may say so, a most striking shade of aquamarine.”
She laughed and whacked her stick lightly to his shin. “Doing it too brown, Mr. Oliver. Now off with you.” She paused in the hallway and pointed him to the stairs. “Before your outrageous flirtations land you in the briars.”
He winked.
“Has he tried to lift your skirts, gel?” asked Lady Octavia as Orlov walked away.
Taken aback by the unexpected question, Shannon felt her face flame. “I—I, that is, Mr. Oliver understands that our relationship is to be a purely professional one, milady.”
“You aren’t a Methodist, are you?” The walking stick poked gingerly at the valise by Shannon’s feet, as if expecting fire and brimstone to flare up from its depth.
“Er… no.”
“Good. Presbyterians are dour enough.”
Staring down at the toes of her half boots, Shannon maintained a tactful silence.
“So, you aren’t warming Mr. Oliver’s sheets?”
Her head jerked up. “No.”
Lady Octavia removed her spectacles and carefully polished the lenses on her sleeve. “Perhaps you ought to get a pair of glasses, gel. If I were your age I should seriously consider tossing propriety to the wind. He is a very attractive man.” Settling the frame back on the bridge of her nose, she gave an owlish squint. “Do I shock you, Miss Sloane?”
Shannon was careful to control the curl of her mouth. “Very little shocks me, Lady Octavia.”
“Then there is some hope for you yet.” The dowager turned for the center hallway. Despite her gnarled limbs, her movements were surprisingly spry. “Well, don’t just stand there—come along.”
An awkward silence, punctuated by the rap of the brass-tipped hawthorn wood, hung over their steps as they recrossed the entrance hall and passed into the east wing. The rooms there reflected the rustic grandeur of the Highlands. Stag antlers crowned carved stone fireplaces that were large enough to roast an ox. In the carved bookcases, stuffed birds sat cheek by jowl with leatherbound tomes on falconry and fishing, while underfoot a scattering of thick sheepskin rugs kept the damp chill at bay. And in keeping with the fierce traditions of the old clans, an impressive array of weaponry, from medieval to modern, decorated nearly every square inch of the walls.
Shannon slowed as they came to an armorial display bristling with old crossbows and quarrels. Fascinated by the razored edges and powerful gears, she felt her eyes widen.
Her reaction drew a small snort from Lady Octavia. “You aren’t one of those milk and water misses who swoons at the mere thought of violence, are you?”
“No, milady. As I told you, my sensibilities are not quite so delicate,” replied Shannon dryly. She thought she detected a glimmer of approval.
“But as a well-trained governess, you are no doubt a firm believer in rules?”
The Inquisition? There were certainly enough lethal-looking implements hanging around to create a combative mood. What was it the elderly lady wanted to know?
Aware that a misstep could set her on the wrong path with the dowager, Shannon determined to feel her way slowly. “Rules provide a necessary framework, but I am not so rigid as to refuse a bit of bending.”
“Hmmph.” The frail shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Sloane. My granddaughter is a lively child, exceptionally inquisitive, delightfully energetic. I would hate to see anyone try to stamp the spirit and spunk out of her.” The dowager set a fist on her hip and tipped up her chin to meet Shannon’s gaze. “The young ladies of London may be considered perfect patterncards of propriety, but if you ask me, they’ve had all the life and color leached out of them. Diamonds, they call them. Ha! To me they look like overpolished bits of brittle glass. Can’t tell one from another.”
Shannon bit back a smile. “I am all for encouraging a girl to have a bit of color and individuality.”
The dowager sighed as she eyed the drab hue and severe cut of Shannon’s dress. Her face did not express much hope on that score.
“Not all employers have quite such an enlightened view of how a female should appear,” said Shannon softly. “Especially a governess. I hope to prove to you that I am not so much of a dry stick as you fear. I assure you, I have your granddaughter’s best interests at heart.”
“I have been rude, and overbearing, haven’t I?” Lady Octavia leaned a bit heavily on her stick, then suddenly lifted it with a small flourish. “However, what good is getting old if you can’t be just a little bit naughty.”
To Shannon, the gleam in the dowager’s eye was more one of relief than contrition.
“Come along, gel, just a few more twists and turns in this moldering maze.” Tap, tap. “Perhaps you will fit in here after all.”
“Sugar, Mr. Oliver?” Lady Octavia peered over the ornate silver tea set that the housekeeper had just set on the table.
“Yes, milady.” Orlov dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Quite a bit of it, I’m afraid. A bad vice, but there you have it.”
“Your secret is safe with me, young man.” The dowager passed him a cup, along with a platter of buttery shortbread still warm from the oven. “Though if that is your worst sin, you have led a far too virtuous—and boring—life.”
He smiled.
“However…” She regarded him through the tendrils of steam rising up from the teapot. “Somehow I would guess you haven’t a boring bone in your body.”
Orlov heard Shannon choke back a gurgle. “I hope my person will stand up to such scrutiny. I should be gravely sorry to disappoint you.”
Lady Octavia looked ready to continue the bantering exchange when her housekeeper approached and murmured something in her ear.
“Ah.” Folding her napkin, the dowager rose with the help of her stick. “If you two will excuse me, Mrs. Mac-Argyle and I need to go over the new arrangements of the household.”
The two of them withdrew to the far end of the drawing room, leaving Orlov free to compare initial impressions of the situation with Shannon. Without preamble, he angled his chair a bit closer to hers and muttered, “The house is like a damn sieve. With all the windows and quirky alcoves, there are far too many ways in and out.”
She nodded. “And the staff is quite small. A cook, a housekeeper, a b
utler, a nursemaid, and a footman—and none of them looks to be much under the age of eighty. A girl comes up occasionally from the village to help with the charwork, along with two locals who tend to the gardens, but that is it.”
“I managed a quick walk around the grounds. As we guessed from the carriage, the surrounding moors could not offer a more perfect cover for someone looking to creep up to the house unseen.” He let out a sharp sigh. “Short of keeping the children and Lady Octavia confined to a small section of the house, it is going to be well nigh impossible for us to mount an adequate guard. The place is too big, too rambling.”
“The dowager does not strike me as someone who would take kindly to having her freedom curtailed.” Shannon made a wry face. “Besides, Lynsley was very clear about not wanting to alarm her with any hint of our true identities, or the danger lurking close to home.”
“Alarm her? Hah!” It was no laughing matter, but Orlov couldn’t help a harried chuckle. “Why, the old battle-ax would probably grab an ancient blunderbuss from the display of weapons and demand to man the ramparts in defense of her castle.”
The image stirred a smile from her. “I fear you are right. She appears to possess more spirit than most ladies a quarter of her age. She already has hinted that she finds me a stick-in-the-mud.” Shannon smoothed at her skirts, which were, he noted, a hideous shade of brown.
No wonder the dowager had experienced a sinking feeling on meeting the new governess. He muttered something in Russian, which thankfully Shannon did not ask him to translate. “We shall have to request that our quarters be moved to the nursery wing.”
“That might present a problem.” She bit at her lip, a rather endearing mannerism that she had when she was mulling over a particularly thorny problem. “Propriety, you know. Though Lady Octavia does seem to have a distinct aversion for the dictates of Society.”
Out of habit, he started to rub at his jaw, then caught himself. “Perhaps that can be turned to our advantage.” As a sharp rapping signaled the dowager’s return, he turned away from Shannon. “Leave the lady to me.”
Seduced by a Spy Page 10
