“How did your friend come to be working with a snake like Il Serpente?” he muttered as the man gave a last little flourish of his bejeweled hand and galloped off.
“Marco?” Shannon watched the riders for a moment longer before turning his way. “He is one of the instructors at the Academy.”
Orlov grimaced.“ I shudder to ask what he teaches.”
“He’s very skilled with a sword,” she answered with straight face. “And spurs.”
Orlov knew he was meant to laugh, but somehow sound stuck in his throat. Given the Italian’s lust for lovely women, it seemed likely that he had given Shannon a private tutorial in anatomy, She had, after all, mentioned that her classes included the art of seduction.
“If he keeps on acting like an insufferable prick, he will be fishing his cods out of the North Sea.”
“That would be a pity—his gioielle di famiglia are quite a treasure.”
The carriage gave a sudden lurch. Swearing, he loosened his grip on the reins. “You mean to say you have seen him naked?”
“Of course.” A pause. “In art class. Marco sometimes served as a model for our drawing lessons.” Shannon shot him a quizzical glance. “Is something wrong? Your usual sense of humor seems to have deserted you.”
He didn’t answer, fearing his attempt at a sardonic drawl would come out as a sulky snarl.
She waited a moment before going on. “You must know that his braggadocio is greatly exaggerated. At heart, Marco is a good friend, unwavering in his courage and loyalty.”
“Then no doubt the two of you will enjoy the chance to spend so much time in each other’s company.”
Shannon looked about to speak again, then fixed her gaze straight ahead and maintained a stony silence.
Damn. In contrast to the Italian’s bright color, he felt cloaked in unrelenting black. It seemed his Russian penchant for melancholy brooding had returned. With a vengeance. Strange, but over the last few weeks Shannon had made him forget his many faults, his many failures. And where in the past, he had often felt aimless, she had helped him rediscover a sense of purpose.
Now, he was about to be back on his own.
His mood was even darker after another hour of contemplating the coming days. “I am damn sick of sea voyages,” muttered Orlov to himself as the horses rounded the last turn into Tain. Adding an oath in Russian, he stared out at the small harbor tucked in the lee of a spit of stone.
A lone ship was riding at anchor, and he watched with sinking spirits as a longboat was lowered and began the short row to shore. With its rakish masts and narrow hull, the naval vessel was clearly designed for speed. Flying on wings of canvas, it would carry him that much faster to port—and to his parting with Shannon.
“Next time I see Yussapov, I may carve his grin into gills.” It was a cruel cut of fate that he must share her with the others during the voyage. What chance was there for any privacy in the crowded confines of a ship? That he would likely be too seasick to take advantage of their last bit of time together only rubbed salt into the wound.
His ill-humor was not shared by the others. The children raced to the longboat, eager to be aboard a real fighting ship. Even the dowager did not look displeased to be leaving Scottish soil.
“Look, look, Mr. Oliver!” Prescott was beside himself with delight on spotting the line of bright yellow gunports below the main deck. “A real broadside. Isn’t that smashing!”
“Smashing.” His voice had a rather hollow echo.
“Try not to look as though you have just swallowed a mouthful of seaweed,” murmured Shannon as they climbed aboard the frigate.
“A whole platterful of the slimy stuff would be more palatable than the prospect of another ocean voyage.”
“Come, it will only be for a day or two.”
What little resolve he still possessed ebbed out with the tide. She sounded excited to be heading homeward.
A strange constriction took hold of his heart. And his tongue. Without a word, he turned and went below deck.
Shannon leaned on the ship’s railing and watched the coastline dip beneath the wind-tossed waves. The deck began to pitch beneath her feet, the up-and-down motion matching the crosscurrents of her own thoughts.
She felt a certain elation at having triumphed over a difficult, dangerous enemy. Yet, there was a deeper, darker side to victory. A lowness of spirit she could not quite put into words. She had come to care for the McAllisters. And for Orlov. Likely she would never see them again.
“You look blue-deviled.” Sofia took up position by her shoulder. “Any reason?”
“I…” As she tugged her cloak a little tighter, her fingers brushed over the silver chain beneath her blouse. “I ought to return this to you,” she said, unclasping the charm. “I’ve no more need of lucky talismans. My mission is done.”
Sofia made no move to take the tiny merlin. “You keep it.”
“But—”
“It seems to suit you. Besides, I’ve chosen something else to take its place.” Her friend parted the collar of her dress to reveal an oval of burnished gold.
“You’ve decided to wear your childhood locket?” asked Shannon. Sofia was the only one of the three who had any memento linked to her past.
“It’s as good a talisman as any, I suppose.” Sofia shrugged. “I’ve had it so long, the tiny portrait inside feels like a friend, though I’ve no idea who it is. Perhaps the lady, whoever she is, will serve as a guardian angel.” Her friend refastened her cloak. “So you hold on to the set of wings.”
“Thanks, Fifi.” The silver charm felt cool and comforting as Shannon slipped it back in place around her neck. She hadn’t realized how much a part of her it had become. She would have felt a little lost without it. Turning away from the sting of the salt spray, Shannon wiped her cheek.
“You did well.” Sofia smiled. “But I knew you would.”
“Did you?” Shannon sighed. “Despite all my troubles with rules and regulations?”
“You have caused your share of fireworks, that is for sure. But you have always known in your heart what is the right thing to do.” A curl came to the corners of her friend’s mouth. “So always follow your heart. It won’t lead you astray.”
“You have always been the wisest of us three. And the steadiest.”
“Oh, I have my ups and downs. But someone had to take charge of keeping you and Siena out of trouble.”
“You are the best of friends.”
They shared a moment of companionable silence, watching the setting sun paint the horizon with soft shades of pink and purple, before Shannon stepped away from the rail. “Will you excuse me. I—I had better go check that the dowager and children are comfortably settled below.”
But once down in the narrow passageway, she found her steps veering to the starboard side of the ship. A knock on the cabin door drew no answer.
Setting her shoulder to the planking, she nudged it open. The lamplight was barely more than a flicker, and in the yawing shadows all that was visible was two boots protruding from the tiny berth.
“Alexandr?”
“Go away.”
She entered anyway and balanced herself on the edge of the bunk board. “Just like old times, with you snapping and snarling at me.”
“If you want more convivial company, go seek that damn Italian snake. I’m sure he would be delighted to keep you amused.”
“Surely you are not jealous over Marco?” The rhythmic thud of the waves against the hull seemed to echo the sound of her own heartbeat. Her hand found his beneath the thin wool blanket. “Don’t be.”
He slowly sat up, and in the smoky half light his face looked oddly vulnerable. Shadows smudged the hollows of his cheeks and his eyes were flat, colorless circles of gray.
“I’m sorry the sea makes you feel so wretched.” Shannon slid her hand up over his wrist. His muscles were tense under her touch and she began a gentle caressing, up and down the length of his arm.
He gave a w
ordless groan.
“At least there is no bullet to remove, no torn flesh to stitch up.” Her kneading moved to the knot in his shoulder. The fastenings of his shirt were open, the linen loosened to expose the curve of his neck, the ridge of his collarbones. Tracing the shape of the scar, she felt the heat of the puckered flesh tingle through her fingertips.
“The damage this time around is to my heart.” He gave a sarcastic laugh, sounding almost like his old self. “Maybe it’s been struck by an arrow.” He pressed her palm to his chest. “Do you think it might prove fatal if left to fester?”
“Ah, a glimmer of the Orlov I am used to.” Shannon smiled, a little uncertainly. “Whatever was ailing you, it seems you are well on the road to recovery.”
The shipboard sounds of creaking timbers and pounding seas hung heavy in the air, uninterrupted by any words from Orlov.
“I shall miss your sense of humor,” she continued.
He pulled back from her touch and withdrew as far as his berth would allow. The distance was only a matter of inches but it felt like an ocean between them. “And not much else,” he growled.
His expression was shrouded in shadow but the self-mockery in his voice cut through the damp chill with piercing clarity. Her heart ached for his pain, and yet the hurt held a twinge of hope. Was he sorry to see her go?
He swore softly in Russian, then didn’t speak again.
One of them must dare to reach out across the chasm, before its depth grew unfathomable. Shannon felt a flutter of fear in her chest. Where was the daredevil hellion of old? She drew in a breath, then let it out in a rush.
“I shall miss the light in your eye, and the tiny scar at the corner of your mouth that gives your smile a rakish bend. I shall miss you singing Russian lullabies to Emma and the gentleness in your hands when you help Lady Octavia to stand.”
His boot scraped against the planking but she wasn’t about to stop. “I shall miss your laugh and your snarl and…” Her words were muffled for a moment. “And yes, you incorrigible rogue, I shall miss your kisses.” She framed his face with her hands and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I shall miss you.”
“Shannon…” He hesitated. “I—I am said to have a glib tongue, but at the moment I feel bereft of clever comments or scathing wit. I have so very little experience in speaking from the heart.”
She wasn’t sure whether the echoing in her ears was the pounding of the waves against the hull or the thud of her pulse.
“I can only say that when I left ship that morning in Southampton, I thought I would never see you again. And it hurt like hell—far more than blades or bullets.” His mouth crooked as he leaned into the light. “Is that love? The poets seem to think that suffering is involved. So I must be deeply, madly in love.”
“Alex—” she began.
“Let me finish, golub, before my nerve fails me.” Scraped and scarred, his hands tenderly traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. “Fate brought us back together. But Fate can be fickle—I don’t want to trust in chance.”
“If you are suggesting that Lynsley and Yussapov can be convinced to coordinate an occasional time off from duty, I think we may be able to negotiate a deal.”
“Lynsley and Yussapov can go to the devil. I am speaking of a permanent alliance, Shannon.”
“You mean—”
A rap on the door cut off her question.
“Hmmph.” Without standing on ceremony, Lady Octavia entered the cabin, her walking stick steadying her against the roll of the ship. “You looked a bit green around the gills earlier, Alexandr. I thought I had better check and see how you were getting on.” A bottle of spirits materialized from the folds of her shawl. “The captain was kind enough to offer this from his stores. It may not calm a queasy stomach, but it may help dull the pain.” She squinted through her spectacles. “Though perhaps you would have preferred a bit of privacy to port. Am I interrupting something serious?”
Orlov’s mouth crooked in a faint smile. “Just my feeble attempt to convince Shannon to marry me.”
“Well, it’s certainly taken you long enough to get around to it.” She tapped at her chin. “But come to think of it, the timing is not bad. No need to go through all the folderol of posting the banns or procuring a special license. The ship’s captain can perform the wedding ceremony on the morrow. Emma will adore being the flower girl, and Scottie will bear the ring…”
“I—I don’t have a ring,” blurted out Shannon.
“I don’t have a ‘yes,’” murmured Orlov.
Lady Octavia ignored the second statement. Her frail fingers slipped inside her bodice and extracted a thin filigree chain. A simple gold band, burnished with age, hung from its links. “This served me well, gel. I would be happy for you to use it until you have a chance to choose one of your own liking.”
“But I couldn’t possibly…” Shannon stammered in confusion, overwhelmed by the dowager’s kindness. “I’m not even family.”
“Hmmph. Perhaps not by blood, but by heart, you will always be family to me, Shannon.” Lady Octavia’s wrinkled countenance glowed in the lamplight. “Though perhaps you would rather not consider yourself related to an old dragon and two little Highland heathens.”
Family. A few moments ago she had been on her own, and now she was surrounded by love. She blinked a tear from her lashes as Orlov chuckled.
“We certainly make for an unconventional clan,” he said. “I doubt that Debrett’s would approve.”
“Debrett and all his distinguished dolts can go to the devil,” replied the dowager. “Once the castle is rebuilt, I trust you two will visit Scotland often, as often as your work allows.”
“You may count on it.”
Lady Octavia thumped the deck. “Excellent. Let me go confer with the captain and see if he is willing to arrange things.”
Orlov chuckled. “He will not dare disobey.”
“Naughty man.” Stifling a snort, the dowager waggled her stick. “One last bit of wisdom, gel. A reformed rake makes the most interesting husband. He will never be boring—in bed or out.”
As their laughter died away, Orlov found himself once again turning tentative. “Shannon, all joking aside, I would have a rather large void in my heart were you to leave me. You make me feel whole. I can’t promise to be a perfect husband. You know my faults all too well. But I shall try.”
“Are you sure?” Her lips quivered. “I love you, Alex, More than I can say. But I also love the wind in my hair and the feel of steel in my palm. I don’t wish to retire to the domestic duties of a conventional wife.” She made a face. “I don’t think I’d be very good at darning or dusting or… whatever it is that proper females do all day.”
“You wish the partnership to be professional as well as personal?” Orlov felt his eyes spark with unholy amusement. “God help any enemy who dares stand in our way.”
“Be serious.” Shannon turned very solemn. “I am hardly the ideal sort of bride for a man of noble birth. I have a hellfire temper, and am more comfortable in buckskins than a ball gown.”
“You do look lovely in leather,” he murmured. “And even lovelier in nothing at all.”
He watched her cheeks turn a glowing shade of pink despite the coolness of the cabin. How he loved her face, her fire.
“However, my memory may need a bit of refreshing.”
“Alexandr! That tickles.” Shannon’s squeal dissolved in a throaty laugh. “Do stop. The children might enter at any moment.”
“Don’t worry—I intend to nail the door shut.” He resumed removing her garters. “And if the little devils dare filch any gunpowder from the gunnery mate, I shall make them walk the plank.” Her stockings slithered to the floorboards. “Now please say yes.”
“Yes.”
He drew her closer, only to pull back as another sharp smack rattled the door.
“Bloody Hell,” he swore as Shannon hurriedly straightened her skirts and rushed to open it. A red-faced midshipman held out a let
ter. “The captain’s compliments, ma’am. A courier ketch just pulled alongside to deliver this. The order was that you were to have it without delay.”
Shannon stared down at wafer of black wax, crested with a merlin in flight. “Thank you.” She held her breath and waited until the latch clicked shut before cracking open the sea-damp parchment.
He watched as her gaze skimmed over the contents. “Trouble?”
She passed it over without comment.
Lord Lynsley wrote in a neat copperplate script:
A matter of the utmost urgency has arisen. You are hereby requested to change ships at Middlesbrough and continue on to Hamburg. Events in Prussia require immediate attention. As time is of the essence Yussapov and I have agreed to pool our resources once again. I hope you will not mind, but Mr. Orlov seems the natural choice as a partner, given the talents that are needed. I trust the new orders are not too objectionable. If so, you may ask Sofia to take your place, though I would rather use her talents in a different mission. The choice is yours.
It was signed with a looping “L.”
There was a postscript, written in a different hand.
Tvaritch, I hope you found that working with a partner is not so onerous. You are, after all, not getting any younger. A little fire may warm the ice from your Russian bones. By the by, this next mission should not take the pair of you long to complete. After all you have been through, Lynsley and I agree you both deserve a short leave of your duties. I hear that the spa at Baden-Baden makes a fine place for an interlude of uninterrupted relaxation. No wonder it is such a popular spot for a wedding trip. Put the champagne on my bill.
Orlov could not contain a bark of laughter. “I’ll drink to that.” The crumpled paper fell to the floor.
“Now, where did I put those nails?”
About the Author
ANDREA PICKENS started creating books at the age of five, or so her mother tells her. And she has the proof—a neatly penciled story, the pages lavishly illustrated with full-color crayon drawings of horses and bound with staples—to back up her claim. Andrea has since moved on from Westerns to writing about Regency England, a time and place that have captured her imagination ever since she opened the covers of Pride and Prejudice.
Seduced by a Spy Page 29
