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…
She felt the breath squeezed from her lungs as his touch slid over her ribs to the fastenings of her breeches.
“Alexandr.” All of a sudden, her whisper was lost in the sound of other voices swirling in the breeze.
“Bloody hell.” Orlov was quick to react. He shot to his feet and pulled her up. “Get dressed,” he ordered, brusquely, indicating her folded gown and cloak. “And hurry.”
He was right, of course. Her attire—what little was left on her person—would provoke a number of uncomfortable questions.
“Help me with the fastenings,” she said, tugging the shapeless dress in place over her breeches.
His hands lingered for an instant on the nape of her neck before deftly tying the tabs.
No doubt he had a great deal of practice in such matters, Shannon thought as she snatched up her shirt and stuffed it beneath the tangle of herbs in her basket. Somehow the idea hurt, a sharp twinge that was far more painful than any physical cut or bruise. Turning, she stumbled.
Orlov steadied her slip. “Are you all right?”
She nodded mutely.
He hesitated, his eyes searching, then looked away. “Take the path that leads down to the gardens. I’ll duck into the trees and see what I might overhear.”
“Right.” It was a good strategy.
“And Shannon…”
She looked around, expecting a tactical detail.
His mouth caught hers in one last lightning kiss. “Be careful.”
A reminder of the dangers lurking close at hand? Shannon allowed a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll not let my guard down a second time today.”
He flashed a half smile and was gone.
Hurrying her own steps, Shannon ducked around a thicket of gorse, unmindful of the thorns scraping her skirts, and cut through the copse of oaks. A few moments later, she was back on the footpath, her collection of cuttings ample explanation for her presence on the moors, should anyone think to ask.
She slowed to a leisurely pace, yet her breathing remained ragged. She had no right to feel possessive, no right to feel as though the damnable attraction that drew them together was anything more than skin deep.
Pleasures of the flesh. Orlov made no secret of his womanizing. A man of his virile appetites must be unused to going so long without a female sharing his bed. No doubt, the primal urges were coursing through his veins.
Strange, it seemed she too had urges, no matter that she wished to deny it. He set off the strangest longings in her. Though trained to be tough as tempered steel, she softened like putty in his arms. It puzzled her. And frightened her just a little.
But she was a Merlin. And Merlins were up to any challenge.
Chapter Seventeen
Shaking off the sexual heat of Shannon’s touch, Orlov was now fully alert. The steps had turned for one of the more secluded paths leading down to the loch. He took a shortcut through the trees, his feet moving lightly over the pine straw, and slipped into a rock crevasse overlooking the trail. Hidden from view, he went still. A few minutes later, the voices sounded again.
“I was sure you had forgotten me. And your ardent promises.”
Annabelle. What mischief was the minx up to now?
“How could you think such a thing!” exclaimed her companion. From his angle of view, Orlov could catch only a partial glimpse of the fellow—sandy hair, slender build—but the burred Yorkshire accent made it clear he was not one of the London party.
“As if any man could forget you, my love,” went on the stranger, his tone turning a touch reproachful. “I told you I would find a way to be together. But it was not easy finding a way to pass you a message.”
The young lady gave a furtive look around. “My brother would die if he knew I was meeting you on the sly.”
So, the loyal Lord Norbert had followed the young lady to Scotland? Orlov gritted his teeth to keep from swearing aloud. Yet another entanglement to trip up this mission. It was as if some great, malevolent spider was spinning a web around the McAllister castle.
“Forgive me if I have put you in an awkward position. I simply had to see you.”
“My brother has threatened to turn you away if you show up at the castle doors.”
“It doesn’t matter, darling. I found lodging in the village of Boath. And I have a plan that will soon solve all of our problems.”
“So you do love me?” Annabelle’s tone was at once arch and unsure.
“With all my heart!” assured her admirer. “If all goes well, in another week I shall sweep you away from here, my dearest angel, and then we shall be married. I have it all arranged with a local justice in Inverness.” A pause. “Please tell me you have not changed your mind.”
“Never!” Annabelle let out a trilling laugh. “La, it is all so romantic. All my friends will be green with envy! Just think of it. A dashing adventure, a hint of danger…”
Orlov grimaced. Someone ought to have curtailed the silly chit’s reading of horrid novels.
“And then I shall be Lady Norbert—a grand dame who no longer has to listen to the carping complaints and silly restrictions of my boring family.”
So, Lord Nobody had proved to be a very persistent fellow. Orlov hoped the fellow possessed a great deal of patience as well. Though that seemed highly unlikely, given the mad rush on both of their parts to elope.
“We shall be very happy, Bella, just you and I,” promised Norbert. “But for now, you must be very careful not to give away our plans. It must be our little secret.” He hesitated a fraction. “You are sure you are not in danger of incurring the wrath of your brother? I worry that he may begin to suspect something and keep a closer eye on you.”
“Pooh! I’m not afraid of Robert. Besides, he’s usually so foxed by breakfast that he wouldn’t notice if I showed up for my coffee in the nude.”
“Oh, but I would, sweetmeat.”
A giggle, followed by long, mewling moans. The kiss seemed to go on forever.
Orlov winced. The girl seemed desperate to offer herself up on a platter to any man who cared for a taste. Shifting his shoulders against the stone, he prayed they would quickly move on, so that he could get back to his own business.
Twigs snapped, pebbles crunched underfoot. Annabelle’s laugh cut off in a high squeak.
Bloody hell. Surely they were not…
Orlov ventured a quick peek over the ridge of stone.
The fellow’s bare arse was buried in a frothy swirl of petticoats as he braced the girl against a tree.
Swearing another silent oath, Orlov ducked back into his hiding place Perhaps with the right guidance Annabelle’s wildness could be tamed into some semblance of common sense. But he did not have high hopes for her future happiness.
He could not help comparing the girl’s utter lack of self-restraint with Shannon’s disciplined devotion to duty. One born to privilege and pleasure, one born to pain and poverty. One was a spoiled brat, one was…
How to describe Shannon? His mouth crooked, her kisses still sweet on his lips. She defied capture in words. Adjectives like courage, strength, principle did not spell out the full depth of her character. A man might spend a lifetime in her presence and still find new surprises every day.
A shrill shriek cut off his musings. At least the tupping had been blessedly brief.
“Oh, Stephen!” Annabelle’s voice melted to a tremulous titter. “Will we do this often when we are married?”
“As often as you like, my darling.”
“Mmmmm.” Her skirts rustled in the breeze. “The plan… you will come for me soon?”
“Yes, my love. Very soon, I hope. I need another few d
ays to arrange everything. I’ll send word as we planned. You will be ready?”
“Oh, yes.” A girlish giggle. “I know just what you expect of me, and you need not fear that I will have a last-minute change of heart. This will be fun.”
“That’s the spirit.” Her lover laughed softly as he brushed a kiss to her upturned face. “What a lucky man I am to have chosen such a daring darling.”
“What does he look like?” Shannon checked the priming of her pistol, then tugged on a black knit cap in readiness for her round of the nightly patrols.
Orlov’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Sandy locks, well-muscled thighs, and a hairy arse.”
She bit back a laugh. “Well, if he points his weapon at me in the dark, he is going to be singing his marriage vows as a soprano.”
He chuckled, then abruptly changed his own tune. “In all seriousnes, be extra vigilant out there.”
“You think the randy Lord Norbert is here to steal more than the chit’s virginity?”
“The thought occurred to me.” Orlov ran a hand through his hair. “We can’t afford to overlook any possibility.”
“True.” Shannon thought for a moment. “However, I doubt a professional like D’Etienne would risk exposing himself to the opposition for a quick tupping.”
“You have a point,” he admitted. “Still, don’t let down your guard.”
“That goes without saying.” After making a minor adjustment to hammer and flint she added, “You would think that the girl would have enough sense to wait for a ring on her finger before lifting her skirts.”
“I would not have thought you such a stickler for propriety.”
“I am not being prudish,” she replied. “Merely practical. In negotiating a deal, you should never give away your most valuable bargaining chip without getting something of equal value in return.”
“Ah.” His expression was hidden by the flutter of the draperies. “So you have no moral objection to sleeping with a man out of wedlock?”
Shannon knew he was being deliberately provoking. Still, she could not keep a faint flush from coloring her face. “Seduction is part of our schooling,” A blade slid into the hidden sheath of her boot. “It’s all part of the job.”
“And you are, of course, the consummate professional.”
There was an odd sort of note to his teasing that made her look twice before turning for the open window. “As are you, Mr. Orlov.”
“Indeed?” The Marquess of Lynsley looked up in some surprise from his study of the weekly military reports. “Show her right her in, Graves—” He rose as Mrs. Merlin marched by the startled secretary, her silk skirts a fluttering contrast to the starkly masculine furnishing of his ministry office. “Never mind.”
“I would not normally intrude on your schedule, Thomas,” she said, once the door had closed. “But I have just received news that D’Etienne has been spotted near the Scottish border.”
“You are sure?”
The headmistress nodded. “He was positively identified by one of our former students. And seeing as Seville witnessed the assassination of our envoy in Holland, I am sure she would not mistake his face.”
“The Amsterdam mission.” Lynsley heaved a heavy sigh and fell silent for several moments. “This is a devilish dilemma. The question is whether to send word…”
“Or?” asked Mrs. Merlin.
“Or reinforcements. We can’t afford any mistakes.” His jaw hardened. “I don’t want to let him get away this time.”
“You are concerned about Shannon.” It was more a statement than a question.
“We both know that she can be volatile. And while her handling of the Irish mission was commendable, I am unsure of how her passions will affect this particular assignment.”
The headmistress withdrew a sheet of foolscap from her reticule. “In reviewing what we know of this man Orlov, perhaps there is reason to worry.” She hesitated. “Do you trust Yussapov?”
The marquess made a face. Despite his patrician air and elegant tailoring, he was no stranger to the cutthroat underworld of clandestine missions. “I trust no one in this dirty game we play, save for you, Charlotte. However, in this case, it seems that the prince’s interests are the same as ours. So I don’t expect a double-cross.”
“But you cannot overlook the possibility,” she said softly.
“You have had some time to contemplate the options,” he said. “Any suggestions you care to offer?”
“If you wish to send one of our own as a backup, we could dispatch Sofia.”
“In what guise?” Perching a hip on the edge of his desk, Lynsley began to drum his well-tended fingers upon the polished wood. “The area is quite isolated. Any new arrival at the McAllister Castle will not go unnoticed. We already have a governess in place, and the servants are all local folk.”
Mrs. Merlin nodded. “The same concerns occurred to me. But given Sofia’s dark looks and her talent with the tarot cards, I thought she could masquerade as a traveling Gypsy. With Marco, our assistant fencing instructor, playing the role of her husband, the two would make a formidable force to reckon with.” She paused. “Assuming that Shannon is having any difficulty in completing the mission on her own.”
His expression was unreadable as he turned and walked to the windows. A mizzled mist hung heavy over the spires of the nearby buildings, fuzzing the outlines of stone and slates to hazy shades of gray. “There is no clear answer.”
“There never is.”
He allowed a small smile. “Then I suppose we had best err on the side of caution. Can they leave by nightfall?”
“They are packing their bags as we speak.”
Chapter Eighteen
Leaves stirred, their verdant hue gleaming bright against the muted heather hues of the moors. The breeze was mild, and the sun had dappled the stones of her vantage point with a mellow warmth. Shannon cast one more longing look at the craggy cliffs, then forced her attention back to the book on Scottish history. She felt compelled to do her best to further Emma’s education, no matter that scholarly skills were not her strength.
But there was no denying that she would much rather be in the saddle, pushing herself and her mount to the edge of exhaustion through the twisting trails and steep climbs. The Highlanders had a fearsome reputation for savage strength and flinty resolve. Surveying the wild terrain, its isolated splendor both grim and grand, she could understand why.
Perhaps, she mused, there was a touch of Celtic blood in her veins—fire and ice—for she found a strange beauty in the harshness of the hills.
A sigh slipped from her lips as she watched a lone hawk circling high overhead. The small knoll overlooking the stables was as far as her wings would take her this afternoon. A glance at the manor house, looking small and alone surrounded by untamed nature, brought her thoughts back to ground.
The presence of Annabelle’s clandestine lover added yet another thorny problem to contend with. A randy English lord lurking in the bushes, coupled with Lady Sylvia’s nocturnal trysts and the movements of the other guests, made the job of detecting any signs of the enemy’s presence even more daunting…
“Have you not had enough studying in the schoolroom?” Orlov sounded bemused. His hair was tangled around his ears, and his collar was open, revealing a tanned V of flesh.
Shannon made a face. “Too much, in fact. I am not trained as a teacher. I am trying to find an appropriate lesson for Emma. Speaking of which, where are the children?”
“Safely ensconced in the kitchen, helping Cook prepare a batch of gingerbread. I took the opportunity to make a circuit of the grounds. No sign of surveillance.”
“Damn. Waiting for D’Etienne to make his move is stretching my patience thin. Isn’t there some way for us to take the offensive?”
“Remember that Sun-Tzu says warfare is the Tao of deception. And one of the cardinal rules is that although you are capable, display incapability.” He softened his sardonic expression with the semblance of a smil
e. “Not that we have much choice. With our limited resources, we must wait for him to come to us.” The slanting light picked out the lines etched around his mouth. They seemed to have deepened over the last few days.
Ashamed that it had taken her so long to notice the toll that the waiting was taking on him, she dropped her gaze.
“He might have been delayed,” added Orlov. “Or he might be taking his time to decide how to deal with the unexpected additions to the household.”
“Or he may be waiting for a certain signal.” She sighed. “What of the London party?”
“They have packed a picnic and taken a carriage ride to view an ancient site of Druid standing stones. According to local legend, it is called ‘The Sorceress and Her Apprentices.’”
She turned a few more pages of her book, giving a desultory look at the text. “Why is there not more mention of females in history, save as wives or witches?”
“Possibly because the books are mostly written by men,” he said dryly. Burrs clung to his breeches and mud spattered his boots. His linen shirt, damp with exertion, clung to the contours of his chest. As he sat down beside her, Shannon caught the earthy wafting of sweat mingled with grass and leather. A masculine scent, and one she was coming to recognize as distinctly his own. “Then again,” he went on. “There are few of your sex who possess the same martial spirit as Merlin’s Maidens.”
“We are merely proof of what women can do, if given half a chance. I imagine there are a great many unsung heroines from the past, whose brave deeds have long since been forgotten.”
“An interesting point.” Orlov seemed in a more reflective mood than usual. Rather than make any attempt to rekindle the sexual heat of yesterday’s outdoor encounter, he leaned back on his elbows and tilted his face to the warming rays.
Despite the dulling effects of the walnut rinse, his hair was still threaded with intriguing highlights of gold and honey. Shannon was suddenly not thinking of heroines, but of how the silky strands softened the planes of his face, somehow making him appear more boyish, carefree.
His grin, an impish curl of quicksilver humor, only added to the effect. “Why not make your next lesson about the great warrior women in history?”
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