“Which is what they prefer.” Her voice was taut, all trace of camaraderie banished by his rakish remark.
Orlov had known the comment would be like steel striking flint. Why did he wish to throw up a shower of sudden sparks when the heat between them had shown signs of banking to a comfortable glow?
He backed up a step, under the pretense of watching Prescott and Emma trip through one of the exercises in footwork. Perhaps because of late he had experienced the oddest longing for a steady warmth that would penetrate to the bone. It was, he knew, a dangerous desire. In his profession, it was a grave mistake to get too cozy.
“On your toes,” he called loudly, though he might well be speaking to himself. “And the key is to focus on some point in the distance, not the earth at your feet.”
Avoiding Shannon’s eyes, Orlov scanned the hills. No sign of the enemy. Unless he was looking in the wrong direction.
Perhaps he ought to be staring at his own traitorous soul. From the very beginning, he had been plagued with questions about this mission, doubts about his powers of detachment.
Was his nerve finally failing him?
Looking back to the children, he suddenly felt old. And unsure of whether he was the best man for this job. When he had set out for Ireland, his fears were that he had grown too jaded to care about anything anymore. Now, he worried that perhaps he had come to care too much.
Rubbing absently at his shoulder, he dismissed his leaden spirits as an aftereffect of his most recent brush with death. His resilience was not yet at full strength, and no doubt that was why he was feeling such a strange churning of emotion. Perhaps the bullet had been an uncomfortable reminder of his own mortality. A life with precious little of value to show for it. He had always been a devil-may-care rogue, reveling in his freedom. The notion of domesticity had always sent shudders through every fiber of his being.
To feel an unaccountable need to keep two orphans—no, three—safe was… absurd.
That Shannon’s closeness—her long-legged lean body, her sweetly seductive scent—stirred a more potent fire than mere protectiveness was also chafing at his resolve. Balefully aware of his physical reaction, a tightening, a yearning that he was unable to control, Orlov shifted his stance, until his back was nearly turned to her. All that accomplished was to stir a sharp prickling between his shoulder blades.
“If you will stand watch here a little longer, I will take a walk around the gardens and finish connecting the trip wires around the terrace.” Shannon’s brusque tone jarred him from his mordant reveries. “Any breach of the perimeter will now set off a small bell in my bedchamber. I take it you mean to continue with your nightly patrols?”
“Yes.” After all, he was at more at home walking in the dark shadows than in the light of day.
“I have made a map of the ridge above the stables, showing where the crumbling rock has turned the path treacherous. I shall slide a copy under your door. The dangers would be easy to miss in the dark.”
Orlov imagined her head bent over her notebook, the spill of tresses exposing the graceful arch of her neck. Damn his rebellious body. A wolf and lioness—no wonder that the fur should fly.
His breath, rough with a repressed curse, escaped in a low growl.
Shannon stiffened, interpreting the sound as a reprimand. “Any other precaution you wish to suggest?”
“Not for the moment. We are doing all we can. Let us wait and see what the next few days bring.”
Rain. Shannon brushed the sodden locks from her cheeks and ducked away from the torrential downpour. The slate-gray clouds, blowing in from the North Sea, had brought with them a lashing wind, sharp as slivered stone. Her cloak was scant protection from its cutting edge. She quickened her steps, just as a gust nearly knocked her off her feet. Frigid water pooled along the graveled path. Already her half boots were soaked through, numbing her toes to the bone.
Only a madman would venture out in such a storm, she thought, knowing the trip to the stables had been an exercise in futility. She hadn’t really expected to find D’Etienne lurking in the stalls. But she had been too restless to remain indoors for yet another day, staring at the impenetrable muddle of mists.
The moors were not the only surroundings shrouded in gloom. Orlov had unaccountably wrapped himself in an arctic silence, an enigmatic solitude. He had been avoiding all but the most cursory of conversations with her. Not that she had any desire to deepen their friendship—if the uneasy truce could be described as such.
Circumstances had made strange bedfellows of them. Just as quickly as the Scottish weather, the enforced intimacy could change to an adversarial confrontation. Shannon tightened her grip on her windswept hood. Along with his vocal support of forming a strategic alliance with Russia, Lord Lynsley had, in private, added a last whisper of warning. If the partnership with St. Petersburg did not live up to its promises, it was up to her—and her alone—to look out for England’s interests.
Friend or foe. Perhaps Orlov was right in keeping her at arm’s length. Emotion could not be allowed to cloud duty. And well she knew that her own ungovernable passions might well be her worst enemy.
Wrenching open the scullery door, Shannon shrugged out of her dripping cloak and wet stockings, determined to shed her black mood as well. With the school lessons done for the day and Orlov keeping watch over the children, she was free for another hour or two. She meant to put the time to good use, studying the local maps she had found in the library. Strategy was often dictated by surroundings. In a battle of wits with the deadly Frenchman, she meant to leave no stone unturned.
Laughter drifted out from the open drawing room doors. Though barefoot and shivering in her damp dress, Shannon paused in the hallway to peek in. Orlov was teaching the children to play chess while Lady Octavia napped by the blazing fire. A hard lump started to form in her throat, but she quickly swallowed any regrets at having no home, no family, apart from the Academy.
It wasn’t often that she let herself think about her early life in the slums of St. Giles. Even now, the memories were painful, like daggerpoints prickling against her flesh. Scavenging for scraps of food in the alleys. Sleeping in cellars teeming with other urchins and lice. And sharpest of all, fending off the predators who saw small girls as fair game. Fear had been the one constant companion through those years. Other friends had fallen victim to illness, to—
Enough. Shannon closed her eyes for an instant.
Life was unfair, but at least she was trained to fight back.
Unlike Scottie and Emma, she had had her innocence stripped away at a young age. Which was all the more reason she would give her life to protect them. No matter the cost.
Another giggle, this one from Emma as Orlov whispered some secret in her ear.
Shannon was surprised that he was so kind with children. She wondered whether his offhand remark on progeny was true. Or did he have babes… a towheaded son with blue eyes, a little Nordic princess with a smile that could slay dragons.
Her heart lurched. Oh, why was she torturing herself over the cursed man? He was a rake, a rogue who by his own admission cared for little in life but himself. This was simply another job. For which he was undoubtedly being well paid.
“Ha, sir, I have your knight surrounded!” She saw Prescott push an ivory pawn to a black square.
“Ah, but you are forgetting that a skilled rider can spur over the most daunting obstacles.” Much to the children’s delight, Orlov picked up the carved horse and rider and tossed it up in an arcing somersault before plucking it out of the air. “Of all the players on the chessboard, the knight is the one who can attack from different angles. You must always keep a sharp eye on its moves.”
As he set the ebony figure back in place, he slanted a look at the shadowed doorway.
A challenge? A warning?
Their gazes met for an instant before Shannon turned away.
She was halfway down the hallway when she heard soft footfalls behind her. There was no mist
aking the sure step, the long stride.
“Anything to report?”
Shannon shoved back the snarl of hair from her forehead, suddenly aware that she must look like a drowned marmot. Her nerves already on edge, she was about to snap a sharp rebuke when she saw his face. In the low, smoky flicker of oil sconces, the smudged shadows under his eyes looked more like bruises, and the lines at the corners of his mouth dug deeper than just a few days ago.
“Come to my room,” she said softly. “I have a balm that will help ease the pain of your wound.”
“Which one?”
He suddenly sounded weary, his usual self-confidence worn thin. She had grown so accustomed to his air of arrogance that the note of uncertainty took her aback.
Forgetting her earlier assessment of his character, she reached out to touch his jaw. The golden stubble was like a thousand points of fire in the half light. Beneath her palm, she felt a tiny muscle twitch.
“You see, I’ve a thorn in my backside from the damn gorse,” added Orlov quickly. He forced a sardonic laugh, but its echo did not ring quite true. “Dare I hope that you are offering to remove it, golub?” He tried to shake off her hand but she stood firm.
“Don’t push me away. What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I am not used to sitting and waiting like a helpless lamb staked out for slaughter.”
“You have been pushing yourself too hard. From now on, I insist that we share the nightly rounds.”
“No,” he said tersely.
“That is not your decision to make, remember? We are equal partners in this mission. You have no right to bark orders at me.”
“It was more of a growl,” he said, adding what sounded suspiciously like an oath in Russian. “Would it help if I prefaced it with a ‘please’?”
Shannon shook her head. “Not a whit.”
This time, the curse was considerably louder and in English. “Damnation, why the devil must you insist on taking such risk?”
“And if I asked the same of you?”
He drew in a harsh breath, only to let it out softly in a reluctant laugh. “Touché.”
“Let us hope that no Frenchman can slide his blade in under your guard, Mr. Orlov.”
“You are a far greater danger to me,” he said cryptically. “And you had best use Alex for the present, rather than my surname.”
Talk about dangers. They were already intimate enough without giving voice to it aloud. Alexandr. It had a sinfully seductive sound on the tongue. Exotic. Enticing. Even shortened, it was far too… personal.
“Don’t worry. I won’t make a slip in public, Mr. Orlov.”
“My dear aunt! I thought we would never get here!”
Rawley stepped aside from the open door to admit the dowager’s relative and her two companions into the entrance hall.
“What a pity,” murmured Lady Octavia with a cool irony that bordered on sarcasm.
Lady Sylvia St. Clair’s smile gave an uncertain twitch before she went on. “The roads turned dreadful once we reached the border, and from there, it is almost impossible to find decent lodging and food.” She shuddered as she unfastened the clasp of her cloak and passed it to the elderly butler. “One would think the Scots survive on naught but whisky and mutton.”
From where he stood in the small side parlor, Orlov had a clear view of the new arrival. She was a statuesque brunette, whose fitted carriage dress was designed to show off her voluptuous curves. A stylish shako crowned a heart-shaped face, and from beneath its fur trim, a profusion of glossy ringlets artfully accentuated the porcelain smoothness of her complexion. Sable lashes fringed eyes of a deep topaz brilliance.
At first blush, her looks were breathtaking. But there was, he decided, a certain brittleness to her beauty.
“It is an austere country, with few of the comforts you and your Town friends are used to.” The dowager’s expression remained stony as Highland granite. “Knowing that, I am surprised you would wish to make such an arduous trek.”
“La, what are a few trifling hardships in the face of a family reunion? It has been far too long since we have seen each other.” Pursing her rosebud lips, Lady Sylvia circled the dowager’s bony shoulders in an awkward embrace. “I have missed you and the children greatly, so when Randall—Lord Jervis—announced that he could not put off a visit to family lands in Sunderland, we decided to make a grand adventure of it.”
“Hmmph.” Lady Octavia recoiled from the peck to her cheek. “Well, I do hope you have warned your friends not to expect much excitement. There is, as you know, little to do here save tramp through the moors.”
“Which shall suit us perfectly!” Orlov noted that Lady Sylvia recovered from the rebuff with admirable aplomb. She could not be oblivious to the frosty reception, but seemed determined to ignore it. “Arnaud—Comte De Villiers—is a great admirer of Rousseau and has longed for some time to experience the natural splendor of the Highland hills. The men mean to hunt and fish while we ladies enjoy the simple pleasures of hearth and home.”
“Hmmph.” The dowager shook her stick at the two gentlemen who stood behind Sylvia. “Well, don’t just stand there, sirrahs! Start bringing in the baggage so that we may get everyone settled.”
Lady Sylvia’s eyes narrowed in irritation for an instant before she trilled a soft laugh. “You have left off your spectacles, my dear Octavia. Those are not our servants.” In a louder voice she added, “Allow me to present my dear friends, Lord Jervis and Comte De Villiers. Lord Robert Talcott is accompanying his two sisters in the other coach, which should be arriving soon.”
“I can see quite clearly,” retorted the dowager. “As the gentlemen each appear to possess two arms and two legs to go along with their titles, they ought to have no trouble hoisting the trunks up the stairs. Rawley’s rheumatism no longer allows him to lift heavy objects.”
Stifling a grin, Orlov moved out from behind the half-opened door. “Might I be of some assistance, Lady Octavia?”
Lady Sylvia’s pique took a more speculative curl as her eyes slid over his person.
“You have enough duties to shoulder, Mr. Oliver, without being asked to play valet to my visitors,” replied the dowager.
“And pray, what duties are those?” asked Lady Sylvia, flashing her first real smile.
“Mr. Oliver has been engaged as a tutor for Scottie,” snapped the dowager. Turning to him, she softened her tone somewhat. “You need not worry that a party of guests will disrupt the daily routine of studies. Angus takes the notion of education very seriously and would not wish for any distractions.”
Orlov inclined a small bow.
“Angus made no mention in his letter of having hired a teacher.” Lady Sylvia was casually peeling off her gloves, but the tautness of her mouth showed she wasn’t quite as relaxed as she wished to appear.
“Not one, but two,” added Lady Octavia. “A governess for Emma accompanied Mr. Oliver from London. And like him, Miss Sloane comes with the highest recommendations. Angus would, of course, insist on no less.”
Was it merely a quirk of light, or did a shadow of distress flit over the younger lady’s brow? “La, he is taking the children’s education very seriously, indeed.” She pressed a hand to her breast, her ringed fingers winking with jewel-tone hues of ruby and emerald.
For a lady without a feather to fly with, she did not appear to be lacking in fancy plumage, observed Orlov.
“I do hope they will be given some respite from their books to spend time with their aunt.” A sigh punctuated the request. “You know how I simply dote on Westcott and Emily.”
Thump. Despite her advanced years, the dowager was capable of wielding her cane with remarkable force. “I am sure that Pres-cott and Em-ma will be delighted to discover such devotion in a relative they haven’t seen for over three years.”
A stain of red ridged Lady Sylvia’s elegant cheekbones.
The dowager had drawn first blood, but Orlov did not underestimate her opponent. For all h
er pampered prettiness, Lady Sylvia St. Clair had the look of someone who was not going to be easily vanquished. It was not that he saw strength in her eyes, but rather fear.
“Hmmph! Well, let us not just stand here in the doorway. My aging bones do not tolerate the damp and chill like they used to.”
Orlov took the snort as his cue to withdraw, before the agitated arc of the dowager’s stick included him as well. He wished to remain in the lady’s good graces. “If I might offer an arm, milady,” he murmured.
“La, Octavia, surely you would rather that Mr. Oliver’s muscle were put to more practical use.” She turned, favoring him with a brilliant smile. “Might we impose on you for a moment?”
“Oh, go on,” snapped Lady Octavia. “You might as well help get things settled while I inform Cook of the new arrivals. Rawley will show you up to the guest rooms. Tea will be served in the drawing room.” She stomped off with a speed that drew a faint smile to Orlov’s lips.
“The spiteful old bat.” Lady Sylvia’s mutter chased away his amusement. “She’s more outrageously awful than ever. Lud, I wonder that Angus is addled enough to trust her to care for the children.”
“She does not appear to welcome the prospect of guests.” Lord Jervis, who along with the other gentleman had remained tactfully silent until then, shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it carelessly over one of the carved sidechairs. He was tall and trim, but there was a softness about his well-manicured hands and handsome features that bespoke a taste for Town pleasures.
“Lady Octavia has always had an unreasonable dislike of me,” said Lady Sylvia darkly. “No doubt from jealousy, seeing as…” Biting back further comment, she smoothed the scowl from her face as she turned to Orlov. “You have my sympathies, Mr. Oliver. You and your unfortunate colleague will likely be making the arduous journey back to London in the near future.”
“Oh, I am not easily intimidated,” he replied pleasantly. “In my profession, one learns to deal with all manner of difficult situations.”
Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Page 13
