“It was quick thinking on your part,” replied Orlov. He rose to meet Prescott and swung the boy into his arms.
“What happened, Mr. Oliver? Miss Annabelle is crying and her brother is saying a number of bad words.”
“A small accident. But unlike a stalwart Scottish lassie, the London lady is easily overset.”
“I didn’t turn into a watering pot,” piped up Emma to her brother. “Not even when Mr. Oliver tumbled on top of me.”
“Aye. I daresay you have proved that you are tough enough to fall off a horse. If you show equal resolve in finishing your daily lessons, we shall have a first riding lesson this afternoon.”
“Hooray!”
As the children began a delighted discussion of what tricks they wished to learn, Orlov added a low aside to the London party. “I trust you gentlemen will see to everything here. Whether you choose to finish your game—”
“La, how can you even suggest such a thing!” Lady Sylvia leaned a bit more heavily on Jervis. “I can’t bear the idea of touching those horrid weapons again.”
For once, Jervis did not take umbrage at Orlov’s addressing him as an equal. “Calm yourself, Sylvia. We shall call the contest a draw, and take our picnic down to the loch.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said the comte. “The sound of the waters and a sip of the excellent Moselle wine we have packed in the hampers will do wonders in soothing everyone’s nerves.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Pour yourself another whisky, Mr. Oliver. And one for Miss Sloane.”
It was late, but the dowager had insisted that they join her for a glass of spirits in the private study adjoining her bedchamber.
“I think I have had enough,” said Shannon, though the mellow warmth did feel good inside her.
“Bollocks,” said Lady Octavia. “Trust me, gel, after a nasty shock, strong Scottish malt is the best medicine. One more shot won’t hurt.”
She flinched slightly at the word.
“An unfortunate turn of phrase, milady, considering what transpired earlier today. But I heartily second the sentiment,” murmured Orlov. “Za Zdorovie.”
The dowager replied in Gallic before tossing back a sip of the spirits. “What the devil really happened this morning?”
Shannon stared into the dregs of her glass. The whisky’s heat began to burn in her throat. “I wish I could say.” A glance at Orlov elicited no immediate comment. It wasn’t like him to be at a loss for words, but then, he had been strangely quiet since the incident. “From where I was, I could not tell just how much control De Villiers had of the arrow. It’s possible he aimed at Emma and Mr. Oliver on purpose, but I can’t say for sure.” She sighed. “As for the alternative, I confess that Miss Annabelle seems the most unlikely of the group to be a threat.”
Orlov finally roused himself from his reveries and spoke up. “Don’t be so sure the chit is harmless.” He made a face. “I took her aside for a bit of flirtation, and was lucky to escape with my virtue intact. After thrusting her tongue inside my mouth, she all but forced my hand up her skirts.” He was making a joke of it, but the deep lines cutting out from his eyes belied the bantering tone. “I had better put a lock on my door, lest the grasping little minx make another attempt to strip away my innocence.”
Something was bothering him, but she decided to match his sardonic nonchalance for the moment. Orlov did not seem to react well to sympathy. He turned snappish, as if unused to any kindness. Shannon bit back a sigh. She supposed the same could be said for her.
“I imagine it’s been ages since you had any such tender feeling to lose, Mr. Oliver,” she said dryly.
“Alexandr,” he reminded her over the dowager’s throaty chuckle. “I thought we had agreed to dispense with formalities.”
“It appears you have quite enough intimacies on your hands, sir. Let us stay at arm’s length, so to speak.”
His dark mood seemed to lighten somewhat as they traded quips. “Ah, and here I though we were bosom beaus.”
Lady Octavia’s snort of laughter ended in a wink of amber and cut glass as her gaze moved from Shannon to Orlov. “Your real name is Alexandr?” she asked as she sipped her Highland malt.
“It is.”
“A fine, sturdy name. It suits you.” The dowager’s eyes swung back to Shannon. “And yours?”
She hesitated before answering. “Shannon.”
“Irish, eh? I thought there was a spark of Celt in you.”
Her shoulders lifted in a brusque shrug. “Haven’t the foggiest idea what—or who—I really am. Shannon is merely a…”
“A nom de guerre,” said Orlov softly.
“That is as good an explanation as any,” she said curtly.
Behind her spectacles, Lady Octavia’s eyes blinked. “You don’t know your real name?”
She shook her head.
“Or your background?”
“My background was a muddy alleyway in the stews of St. Giles. Let us leave it at that.” It was her turn to withdraw into herself.
Rising, she stalked to the window and surveyed the gardens. The room suddenly seemed too close, too confining. “Time to make the nightly patrol. I’ll take the first turn.”
Orlov excused himself as well. But once back in his rooms he was far too tense to sleep. His wounded shoulder ached, and the fresh bruises on his back were uncomfortable reminders of how close they had come to disaster. If not for Shannon’s quick thinking…
He shook off the thought. She was doing her duty. As he must do his. Regardless of the dangers. But it was growing harder and harder to remain detached. His admiration of her professional skills was deepening to something he could not quite define. Orlov moved to the window and stared out at the mist-shrouded trees. Perhaps it was just as well that words remained elusive. He dared not dwell on what they might spell.
An end to the illusion of seeing the world through a prism of cynicism? In the past he had prided himself on his cold-blooded view of human nature. Every man for himself. Barbed humor, casual lust—those were all the feelings he needed to survive. Until Shannon stormed into his life, sparking a different need.
A fire-gold flame. One that was fast threatening to melt the ice of his indifference.
Orlov pressed his palms to the chilled glass, hoping to temper the strange heat coursing through him. He had thought himself impervious to foolish sentiment. The notion of romance was only a dribble of ink on a piece of paper—it existed only in the pages of a book.
And yet it was growing harder and harder to deny that the attraction was more than skin deep. A sound slipped from his lips, something between a laugh and a groan. Not that her glorious body, her explosive grace, weren’t enough to set any man’s flesh afire. But even more than the sinuous stretch of her limbs, he loved seeing her angry, aroused. Passion, principle. Somehow Shannon had rekindled his own desire to care. He found himself wanting to…
To be friends. He made a wry face. He wasn’t sure she would welcome such an overture, even if he knew how to try it.
He stood a moment longer, staring at his own hazy reflection in the fogged panes, before setting out to take his turn at patrolling the grounds.
The next day dawned gray and windy, but by the afternoon break from classes, the clouds had cleared and the sun had warmed the chill from the air. Leaving her folded dress and shawl in the shelter of a rock outcropping, Shannon quickly worked through a series of yoga stretches. The small glade in the pines provided a private retreat, well hidden from the castle, and the daily exercises helped clear her mind, sharpen her focus.
After yesterday’s near-miss, her nerves were on edge.
Breathing deeply, she pushed up from the cobra position and shook out her muscles. Barefoot and clad only in her breeches and shirt, she reveled in the unrestricted movement of her limbs. Skirts were such a cursed encumbrance, she thought as she cut a sapling as a practice sword for her fencing maneuvers. If only females were permitted the same freedom as a man—
“They never venture off the beaten path.” She raised her cudgel and snapped a quick swoosh through the air. There was a tautness about him that sent a frisson through her fingertips. Any doubts about his dedication to the children had been dispelled by seeing Emma in his arms yesterday. But even so, he was still… dangerous. “Which begs the question—what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be watching the children?”
“Lady Octavia is entertaining them in her tower rooms with stories of Viking plunder and pillage,” replied Orlov. “The stairway is locked from the inside, so it’s safe enough for the moment.” He, too, broke off a slender length of yew and peeled away its foliage. She watched it cut a sinuous swath through the air. “Like you, I felt the need to work up a sweat. So far, we have had naught but an exercise in futility.”
“You are in a strange mood today.”
“Am I?” Orlov tested the snap of his stick. Then suddenly it whipped up, crossing hers with a soft snick. “Perhaps dueling with shadows is dulling my edge. Care to flex some real muscle?”
As the breeze rustled through the pines, Shannon could hear the echo of her fencing master’s grizzled grunt. Discretion is often the better part of valor, lionni. But she wasn’t very good at resisting a challenge.
“En garde.” Her make-believe blade broke away and cut a hard slice at his ribs. Orlov spun back in the nick of time. “That was quick.” Countering with a quartatta, he crossed to a traverse. “But not quick enough, golub.”
“I wouldn’t crow just yet.” Shannon feinted a riverso, then switched to a terza stance.
Orlov evaded the attack with maddening ease, then grinned as his botta dritta sailed past her cheek. “You appear to have been trained by a master.”
“Il Lupino is one of the best blades in all of Europe.” A hop lunge closed half the distance between them. “So you see, I am experienced in fighting a wolf.”
“Allegretto Da Rimini?” His brows waggled. “I grant you he is good, but the wily old rascal is growing a bit long in the tooth. I daresay I am a step faster—”
She whirled aside at the last second. His point grazed only the buckskin of her breeches. “Tit for tat.” Her slash glanced off his forearm.
He parried the next cut as well, then suddenly grabbed her wrist. A flick sent her stick flying through the air.
“Unfair! I—” Her protest was cut off by the press of his mouth. His tongue slid over her lower lip, a soft, sensuous caress that sent a shudder through her steeled spine. He pulled her closer and deepened the embrace. In contrast to the lightning tempo of their swordthrusts, this clash of wills seemed to go on for an eternity.
Twisting, she finally freed herself from his kiss. “That’s fighting dirty.”
“What do you expect, given our profession?”
“Next time, I shall be on guard against any trick.”
“Or any thrust?” He smiled, a sinful, sensual curling of his mouth.
Her cheeks, already flushed from the physical exertion, took on a deeper burn. Damn the man. And her own wicked body for yielding a sign of weakness.
She knew she ought to slap him…
As if anticipating her thoughts, he tightened his fingers around her wrist. “In chess, I would call this a checkmate, golub.”
“But we are playing a different game.” Shannon twisted out of his grasp and in a whirl of spins and steps threw him over her shoulder.
Orlov fell heavily among the pine needles. “Why, you little spitfire.” He rolled quickly to a crouch and balanced on his toes. “So the Academy training also includes some of the esoteric Eastern disciplines?” His eyes gleamed, sharp as knifepoints. “How very clever of Lord Lynsley to ensure that his women know how to use their bodies as weapons.”
“Against an opponent of superior size and strength, it is key to know how to turn those advantages into weaknesses.” She stood firm, though her limbs were tingling from the way his gaze raked over her from head to toe. “Such skills give us a mental edge as well. Most men are overconfident when facing a female in hand-to-hand combat.”
“An elemental mistake,” he agreed, springing lightly to his feet.
Shannon shifted along with him, keeping her shoulders square to his moves. There was something strangely erotic about the sinuous dance. Though they were not even close to touching, she was acutely aware of his body.
“Did I mention that my travels took me to Bombay for a short time?” He slid in and out of the shadows. “Where I met a fascinating fellow who knew how to make cobras dance to the tune of his flute.”
“Ah, so that is where you learned to charm the scales off a snake?” she countered.
Orlov laughed. “Among other things.” His attack was quicker than a serpent’s strike. Uncoiling in a blur of motion, he shot forward, lunging in low and hard with a flick of his foot that caught her hard on the knee.
Though she managed to dodge the full impact, the blow knocked her back.
He was on her in a flash.
She countered with a jab to the jaw, which snapped his head back. He grunted in pain, but kept hold of her wrist, turning sharply with a deft jerk that pinned it against her back. “You have only to cry surrender,” he murmured, his breath hot and tickling against her neck. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you like before.”
“The hell I will.” Twisting, she angled a glancing knee to his groin. Which drew a gratifying woof. His grip loosened for an instant and she pulled away.
“A low blow,” he grimaced.
“It was you who said all is fair.”
His eyes took on a wicked gleam. “So I did.”
Shannon watched warily as he backed up a step and suddenly dropped to a crouch. An instant later he straightened again and flexed his shoulders.
Damn. Was he trying to distract her with the rippling of muscle beneath the light linen? She forced her eyes away and edged back, toward the outcropping of rock where she had left her garments.
Time to end the game before things got out of hand.
Orlov seemed of a different mind. His hand flashed out, and suddenly her eyes were filled with dust. Momentarily blinded, she froze, then felt his arms encircle her waist and lift her from the ground.
“Bloody hell.” She struggled, but had no leverage. Still swearing, she tried a chop to his throat but drew only a muffled grunt.
“You should have remembered your Sun-Tzu—If they are strong, avoid them.”
Her flailing fists caught his wounded shoulder, throwing him off balance. Still wrestling, they fell to the ground. Orlov angled to take the full impact, and Shannon landed atop him. She felt the hard heave of his chest, and caught a grimace of pain.
“I am sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered. Her breathing was as ragged as his. “Are you injured?”
He rolled, and she suddenly found herself pinned between the soft earth and his hard, unyielding body. “A basic mistake,” he murmured. “Show no mercy.”
“In a real fight …” Her words died in her throat as he straddled her thighs and pinned her arms so that she lay spread-eagled on the bed of pine straw.
“In a real fight,” he repeated, “the merlin would find her wings clipped and her talons useless against the ravening wolf.”
“W—what would you suggest?”
“You will have to suffer the consequences of your slip.” His lips were now just inches from hers. “I’m sure your instructors did not let you off lightly.”
“No. I was usually made to run around the perimeter of the school grounds.”
“Ah, corporal punishment.” A wicked light glittered in his gaze. “The same is true in Russia.” His fingers were toying with the fastenings of her shirt. “In St. Petersburg, cadets are sometimes made to stand naked in the snow to teach them
a lesson.”
“It is mild and sunny,” said Shannon as the linen slowly slipped from her shoulder. So why was a shiver skating down her spine?
“Then I will have to think of some other physical test of—” He stopped short on seeing the tattoo above her left breast. Black as midnight, the hawk in flight was the badge of the Academy’s full-fledged Merlins. “What have we here?”
“Our troops cannot wear their rank as gold braid and scarlet regimentals.”
“How unique. As is everything about you, golub.” Orlov paused a fraction, his stubbled cheek leaving a trail of prickling heat as he took a closer peek. “It gives you the look of… a pirate. Scottie would be duly impressed.”
His breath tickled against her flesh.
“It’s not something I’ll be showing to him anytime soon.” In reply, she could only manage a faint whisper.
“Far too provocative for a young boy,” agreed Orlov. “It might encourage improper thoughts.” Slowly but surely, his mouth feathered across the tracing of ink. “Immoral thoughts.”
Shannon found herself helpless to resist. Should she beg for mercy? Orlov claimed to have no heart, but perhaps she might appeal to some lingering shred of decency.
However, when she opened her mouth, it was only to surrender to the moment. Fire and ice. It was chilling how easily Orlov could melt her resolve.
She moaned. His tongue was like a lick of flame, burning an indelible imprint on her flesh. Her shirt was now a tangle of limp linen around her waist, and as his nipping kisses slid down to the rosy peak of her breast, she tried to muster a last fight. Duty versus desire.
“Th—this is likely not a good idea.”
“Likely not,” he answered, his voice somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “But rational thought rarely triumphs over our more primitive passions.”
Passion. Shannon tugged his shirt open and threaded her fingers through the finespun curls. In the slanting afternoon light, he looked like an icon. A work of art. Golden highlights gleamed in his hair, and the blue of his eyes and the bronze of his skin were luminous, lustrous as precious pigments. Angled cheekbones, a lean face, all shaped by a master’s hand…
Seduced by a Spy Page 19
