Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea

by Seduced by Spy (mobi)

  “You English have a saying, I believe,” offered the prince. “One that refers to killing two birds with one stone.”

  “Or, in this case, killing one bird with two stones,” said Orlov dryly. “A strategy designed to be doubly effective.”

  Shannon ignored his quip. “When do you wish for us to leave?”

  “We have a cutter ready to sail from Margate,” replied Lynsley.

  Orlov gave an inward wince. Not another damn ship.

  “A few more briefings on the particulars, an interlude to assemble the necessary equipment, a surgeon to examine Mr. Orlov’s wound…”

  “I am touched by your concern for my well-being, my lord.” He exaggerated a bow to the marquess.

  “We will aim to have the ship sail on tomorrow morning’s tide.”

  “Yes, sir.” Shannon snapped off a salute.

  “Alexandr?” asked the prince.

  His lovely counterpart was not the only one who had been maneuvered into a corner. Masculine pride—and perhaps some other, even more primitive emotion—prevented him from ducking the challenge and slinking away with his tail between his legs. “Bloody hell, I suppose I might as well finish the job.” Orlov sighed as he regarded the prince with a baleful grimace. “The English have another saying—in for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “If you have any lingering reservations, I would prefer that you voice them now.” Lynsley was nearly indistinguishable from the corridor shadows, his somber tailoring blending in perfectly with the shifting shades of light and dark. “Before it is too late.”

  Light and dark. Their world was defined in black and white, thought Shannon. Though in reality, the boundaries often blurred to a muddle of grays.

  “I—I regret my initial outburst. I have no doubts, sir,” she replied quickly. “I won’t let you down.”

  “You have nothing to prove, Shannon.”

  His voice was, as always, kindly as he stepped into her bedchamber. Fatherly. Or so she imagined in the rare moments that she let herself indulge in sentiment. Thoughts about fathers or family had no place in her world. The Academy was home, her comrades were her sisters, her sword was…

  Shannon tightened her grip on its hilt as she ran an oiled rag over the blade. “No?” The word echoed softly, half question, half statement, before she hurriedly added, “I understand the urgency and the import of what needs to be done. There will be no mistakes, no miscalculations. You may count on me to see it through to the end, sir.”

  “Yet you hesitated at first. Why?” The marquess, for all his affable air, was relentless when it came to business.

  She let out her breath as she carefully sheathed her sword and set it inside the traveling case. Questioning Orlov’s temperament might only cast doubt on her own unsteady character. And yet, it was impossible to answer him with anything less than a modicum of honesty.

  “It’s just that I fear Orlov will be more trouble than he is worth.”

  The gloom did not hide the flutter of Lynsley’s brow. “Yussapov has assured me of his courage and his cleverness.”

  “I don’t doubt the man’s professional skills, sir. However, we know he is a wolf when it comes to women. Such personal peccadilloes may prove to be a dangerous distraction.”

  “To whom?” said Lynsley softly.

  Shannon fingered the Andalusian dagger that she had recaptured from the Russian. Sharp as two-edged steel, truth cut both ways. She was not quite as innocent of undisciplined desires as she wished to believe. “If you and Prince Yussapov are confident of Orlov’s ability to control his impulses, then I most certainly defer to your judgment.”

  He took a moment to answer. “Neither the prince nor I would entrust any mission to an agent who did not have our full confidence, Shannon.” The tiny lines etched at the corners of his eyes seemed to grow deeper, darker in the changing light. “Too much is at stake. So if, in your heart, you have any doubts about working with him, I want you to say so. Otherwise, I expect you to trust Orlov as you would a fellow Merlin.”

  Did she merely imagine the flutter of a pause?

  “Unless he proves himself to be unworthy of it,” finished Lynsley. “If that is the case, you will have to… improvise.”

  “Yes, sir.” Steeling her resolve, she tossed the weapon in an arcing spin and caught it by the point. “I assure you that the Academy training has equipped me to handle any problems that may arise. I won’t let anything—anything—threaten our chances of success.”

  “Very well. Then Godspeed.” He touched her shoulder, a feathery graze that she might well have missed had she not seen the flick of his hand. “May Luck indeed prove to be a lady.”

  “Oh, she is, sir. And she looks after her own.”

  Chapter Nine

  Despite her assertions to the contrary, Shannon had not quite conquered her misgivings about working with Orlov. Indeed, during several of the more uncomfortable moments of the journey up through the North Sea squalls, she had wondered if Lynsley’s intention was to draw up the most diabolical punishment imaginable for her past transgressions.

  If so, he had succeeded. In spades.

  Grimacing at the thought of the coming days, she squinted through the mizzle and watched the craggy Scottish coastline materialize from out of the mists. So far, at least, she had not been obliged to endure a forced intimacy with the Russian. It had been a rough passage, and the steep seas and buffeting winds had kept them both confined to their cramped cabins.

  Where, to her consternation, she had spent the greater part of her waking hours stewing over the dratted rascal and the indignities she had suffered at his hands, rather than mapping out a more precise strategy for confronting the dangers ahead.

  Damn the man. He had played her for the fool. From the very beginning, he had known her official identity, yet had kept silent about his own. He had let her think he was naught but a thief, a rake, a scoundrel with no qualms about committing murder if the deed promised a profit. Though why that should bother her was cause for question—

  “Enjoying the scenery?”

  Shannon slanted a stony look from the gunmetal gray rocks to Orlov’s profile. “I was until now.” She took some consolation in seeing that his face was white as marble.

  He made a clucking sound. “Come, come. Can’t we bury the hatchet… though preferably not in the back of my skull.”

  “We will likely have need of all the weapons at our disposal in order to counter a man as cunning as D’Etienne,” she replied. “If one of those happens to be the need to cooperate with you, then I shall try to wield it to the best of my abilities.”

  Orlov’s expression hardened in response to her uncivil tone. “Still smarting over the pique to your pride? Perhaps females have too thin a skin for this line of work.”

  She made a face. “I need not ask what profession you think suitable for those of my sex.”

  “Resentment does not become you, Shannon. I was not at liberty to reveal my identity or the details of my mission. Under the same circumstances, would you have done any differently?”

  She bit her lip, admitting to herself that he had a point.

  Taking her silence as surrender, he propped his elbows on the railing and cocked a sidelong smile. But to her surprise, he did not press his advantage.

  Like her, he seemed content to tilt his face to the sharp salt breeze and allow his gaze to drift over the rainswept inlets and rocky strands that dotted the granite cliffs. The sounds of the sea, punctuated by the slap of the waves and the rattle of the rigging, made for a strangely companionable interlude as the ship tacked its way closer to land.

  As did the tendrils of heat rising up from his cloak and the subtle scent of bay rum clinging to his freshly shaved cheeks. Suddenly aware that her shoulder had sloped perilously close to his, Shannon inched back.

  “Oddly appealing, isn’t it?”

  “W—what is?” She hoped she didn’t look quite as flustered as she sounded.

  His brow rose ever so sli
ghtly. “Why, the landscape, of course.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “According to my map, we will be seeing quite a bit more of the Highlands once we head inland. It will take several hours by coach to reach the McAllister estate.”

  “Nigh on four by my reckoning. The roads are little more than cart tracks once we quit Dornoch, and they turn even rougher as they climb into the moors.” She smoothed at her skirts, inwardly cursing the flapping folds of wet fabric. She much preferred the utilitarian comfort of her breeches and boots, but the role of governess allowed no deviation from straitlaced propriety. “We have orders to hire a conveyance at the sign of the White Gyrfalcon.”

  “Any reason?” he asked. “They cannot be expecting us. We have traveled here faster than any message from Lord Lynsley—unless he sent it by carrier pigeon.”

  Heeding the marquess’s parting reminder on trust, Shannon did not hesitate to share her information. “The proprietress of the inn is a past student at Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Select Young Ladies. Once I make mention of my time spent there, we shall be assured of encountering no delay in our travel plans. Prime horses, a trustworthy driver, and any other supplies we might need will be ours for the asking.”

  “Birds of a feather,” murmured Orlov.

  “Precisely.”

  “Very clever. And just how large a flock does His Lordship have nesting around the world?”

  “That particular information has no bearing on the present assignment,” she said primly. “If there is any other winged woman you should be aware of, I shall let you know.”

  “Ah.”

  The insouciant waggle of his brow was growing tiresome, but Shannon checked her annoyance. “Just as I shall make you privy to the other important arrangements made by the marquess, now that our arrival is imminent. In my reticule is a letter from McAllister to Lady Octavia, explaining his reasons for engaging a London tutor and governess for the children.”

  “Do you mean that the dowager is to be told the truth?”

  It was her turn to exaggerate a sardonic arch. “Of course not. The letter is a convincing forgery. McAllister himself is completely unaware of our intentions, or the circumstances surrounding them.”

  “Convincing enough to fool his mother?”

  “Lynsley’s operatives are extremely good at what they do,” replied Shannon with a touch of pride.

  “That I can well believe.” An oblique compliment? She ventured a peek at Orlov’s profile, but this time his expression gave nothing away. “Perhaps I should become familiar with its details, and with any other documents that pertain to our mission.”

  It was a fair request, and one she should have thought of herself. “There are a few maps you ought to see, and some sketches of the house and property. I had counted on the carriage ride giving us ample time to go over the material,” she added somewhat defensively. “But you might as well see it now.” After a glance at the quarterdeck, she turned for the aft hatchway. “Meet me in my cabin in a quarter hour.”

  “An assignation?” Though seasickness rendered his grin a pale imitation of its usual self, the effect still stirred a strange little lurch of her own insides. “I am charmed.”

  “Don’t be,” she muttered in passing. “This is strictly business, not pleasure.”

  For an instant, his eyes darkened to a stormy blue and whitecaps seemed to swirl up from their depths. Just as quickly, the squall settled to a flat calm. “As if I need any reminder that this is not a match made in heaven.”

  Counting the minutes, Orlov drummed an impatient tattoo upon the chart table. Though in truth the ticking of his nails sounded ominously like a time bomb waiting to go off.

  Bloody hell. He should not let the woman get under his hide. He didn’t like the situation any more than she did, but her anger seemed sparked by something deeper than a disagreement in strategy.

  It was personal. Passionate. He grimaced. With women it always was. Their minds seemed to work on the same principles as a naval chronometer—a bewildering mechanism of spinning gears and temperamental levers. Intricate and incomprehensible to mortal men.

  He had not intentionally made sport with her misconceptions. The brutal game they both played had few hard-and-fast rules. Secrecy was one of them, and an agent who did not understand the basics would not be very long for this life. Her resentment was unfair.

  Orlov rubbed at his shoulder. It wasn’t that he expected a medal for his actions. However, a touch of gratitude would be nice, he told himself, unable to keep from remembering how surprisingly soft her lips had felt against his. They had tasted of spice and sunlight. Warm, enticing. And her whisper had been like a gentle zephyr caressing his cheeks.

  Flushed with anger, for both her unjust accusations and his own traitorous longings, Orlov swore aloud.

  And now, to add insult to injury, she was acting as though she was in charge of the mission. Hah! Beneath his clenched fingers, he felt his muscles knot. He did not intend to be relegated to a subservient role, simply because Scotland was her turf, so to speak.

  Sod their superiors. In the field, an agent had to stand on his—or her—own two feet. Which, unfortunately, was impossible within the hunched confines of his so-called cabin. His skull ached from innumerable cracks on the overhead decking, and his spine was likely to have a permanent crink to it by the time they made landfall.

  By the bones of St. Rurik, may Yuri Yussapov rot in the bilge of a leaky galleon if the next assignment had anything to do with the sea!

  Adding an oath in Russian to his English invective, Orlov stumbled through the narrow passageway. Like the weather, his mood was growing more foul by the moment.

  “You might try to practice a bit of discretion. Mr. Orlov. A tutor does not go around barging into a closed room unannounced. Especially if it is the bedchamber of an unmarried female.”

  Brushing her aside, he drew the door shut. “I don’t need a lecture on English etiquette.”

  The swinging lantern caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She was confused? Good. He should not be the only one off-balance. His next step cornered her against the bulkhead. Setting his hands on either side of her shoulders, he leaned in closer. “And speaking of practice, you ought to get used to the fact that my name for this charade is Mr. Oliver, not Orlov.”

  She tried to slip out from his arms but Orlov captured her chin. “Just a moment,” he said softly. “Before we sit down to study your papers, I wish to ensure that we are on the same page.”

  “I am not at all sure I know which book you mean,” she countered.

  “Then let me recite chapter and verse.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but not enough to hide the fire of molten jade.

  “The first rule of this venture is that neither party assumes the role of command. As we are equally dissatisfied with the arrangement, we shall each have an equal say in how it is planned.”

  “I did not mean to assume any such thing. With you, it is a waste of time trying to predict how you will act.”

  “Which brings me to my next point,” he replied. “Enough of your oblique insults. I saved your life, you saved mine. Once again, we are equal. As we begin this masquerade as tutor and governess, it would make things a great deal easier if we agree to wipe the slate clean. We must learn to work together.”

  “What you suggest makes sense,” she said haltingly.

  “Then we have a bargain?”

  Shannon had stripped off her wet woolens and changed into breeches and a linen shirt. The collar was open, revealing the throb of a pulse at her throat. In the sliver of silence, he was acutely aware of her heartbeat, her scent, her heat. Every pore seemed alive. Gloriously alive. Her masculine attire only accentuated her feminine allure.

  Hard and soft. Orlov braced his hands on the rough planking to keep them from seeking to twine in the silky strands of hair curling at her neck.

  The rasp of his breath nearly drowned out her whisper.

  “Yes, we have a
bargain.”

  He knew he ought to leave it at that, but his palms stayed pressed against the blackened oak. “Among Cossack warriors, an oath is not considered binding until it is sealed in blood.”

  “Such rituals seem a trifle primitive. I shall take your word for it, if you take mine.”

  Orlov lowered his lips. “We Russians are not quite as civilized as you English.”

  She didn’t flinch. “If you are looking to use your blade, you had better turn your eyes elsewhere.”

  His low laugh was edged with more than mere humor. He could not help admiring her strength, her spark. They were so different, and yet so alike. As if that made any sense. But then, it was not reason ruling his actions, but a more elemental need.

  “No need to do that, golub. I shall settle for something in between words and sharpened steel.”

  Her chin rose, as if in challenge. No longer in control of his desires, he was only dimly aware of shifting his stance and closing the gap between them. Lithe muscle, pliant curves—her body molded against his with exquisite ease. Her breasts were like points of fire, igniting a groan deep in his chest.

  “Vodyanoi,” he whispered. A sea witch, drowning all coherent thought.

  Shannon made no move to avoid the crush of his mouth.

  Waves crashed against the hull, echoing the wild thudding of his heart as he coaxed her lips open. She tasted of seafoam salt, of fresh rain, and of a searing need that seemed to match his own. Hot, hungry, his tongue slid inside her, desperate for a deeper draught.

  Her hands tangled in his coat, somehow finding a way through the wool and linen. As bare flesh met bare flesh, he felt the welling of a cry. A soft, vulnerable sound.

  “Shannon,” he murmured, slanting his kiss to the curve of her cheekbone. Her eyes widened, and for an instant she looked at him with the longing of a woman, not a warrior. “I’m not the enemy. You must trust me on that.”