“Yes, Miss Sloane,” they answered in unison.
“But you have a cut on your wrist,” said Emma in a worried voice. “And on your cheek.”
“Mere scratches, elf.” Shannon wiped at the blood. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Why do you have a pistol?”
She hesitated for a fraction. “Pirates. Of a sort, that is. They are trying to board and hold us for ransom. I mean to fight them off.”
The driverless team had slowed to a shambling walk. “Stay very quiet, children, and don’t move.” She cracked the door open. Still no sign of the enemy. Which one of them would make the first move?
The answer came in a flash. Breaking out from behind a thicket of gorse, a figure darted between the harnessed horses.
Damn. She had no angle for a shot. Stepping to the ground would make her an easy target. But if he reached the coachman’s box, he would have the upper hand.
Do not move unless it is advantageous. It was one of Sun-Tzu’s basic precepts. Her hand tightened, and the door hinges creaked. Caught up in a deadly game of chess, she must make a split-second decision on how to counterattack—pawn, rook, queen, knight.
Knight. Holding the door like a shield of old, she swung out, gaining just enough arc to see her attacker reaching for the perch.
They both fired at the same time.
He dodged away with lightning quickness but her bullet caught the butt of his weapon, knocking it from his hand. His shot shattered the door panel. Its force spent, the lead ball bounced harmlessly into the grassy verge.
Drawing her second pistol, Shannon leaped to the ground and edged around the front wheel. The man’s pistol lay in the dirt, its splintered butt stained crimson. So, she had drawn first blood.
At the sound of retreating footsteps, she ventured another step, just in time to see a loping figure disappear into the woods.
She drew in a deep breath. And let it out in a sharp oath. The harness had been sliced through, leaving it useless. Clever bastard. But two could put a blade to imaginative use. Her own horse had bolted, but she wasn’t about to wait around to see what other tricks he had up his sleeve.
Choosing the strongest-looking of the matched bays, she cut the animal free of its traces. On horseback they would make better time and have far more freedom to improvise. A lumbering coach, confined to a twisting road, was too easy a target. She knotted off a set of reins and led her makeshift mount around to the side of the carriage.
“Toss me that blanket, Scottie.” Shannon folded it across the horse’s withers. “Now help your sister over to me.”
Annabelle’s sobs started up again, a high keening whine. Helen still lay in a swoon.
“Well done.” Holding Emma steady, she reached for Prescott. “Give me your hand.”
“W-what are you d-doing?” Lady Sylvia finally roused from her dazed silence.
“Taking the children back to their rightful guardian.”
“You can’t be meaning to leave us stranded here! We shall be at the mercy of any predator.”
“You will just have to take your chances.” Shannon took a moment to reload her spent weapon. “Be grateful I don’t shoot you on the spot. Perhaps your cohort will be as forgiving.”
Lady Sylvia blanched. “I didn’t… it wasn’t…”
Ignoring the halting explanation, she swung up behind the two children. “Hold tight to the harness. We are going to take a hard gallop, but I won’t let you fall.”
“I bet none of the acrobats at Astley’s could match your riding,” said Prescott. “That was a corking good trick. Will you teach me how to do it?”
Shannon’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Scottie. However, it’s not one I care to repeat.” The wind had risen and the skies were beginning to darken with clouds from the North Sea. Turning the horse in a tight circle, she made one last survey of the surroundings. “We will choose an even better one once we are home.”
The lengthening shadows cast the trees in an ominous light. Leaves rustled, roughening the whistling through the moorland heather. Still, there was no sign of the enemy, nor of any reinforcements. By all accounts, the Frenchman worked alone. But in Ireland, he had found temporary allies with the O’Malleys. Scotland, too, was a hotbed of intrigue. There were many diehard clansmen who considered Napoleon the lesser of two evils. Indeed, they would side with the Devil himself if it offered the chance to throw off the English yoke.
“May we go home now?” asked Emma in a small voice. “I’m hungry. And Mr. Oliver promised to read me a Russian fairy tale about a little girl and a magic hawk after tea.”
Leaning low, Shannon set her heels to the big bay’s flanks. “We shall fly, elf, as if we were on wings.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Jervis was in a truly foul mood by the time they broke out of the trees and started around the loch. “That damn rabbit was close enough to kick,” he snarled, sending several pebbles skittering across the footpath.
“Perhaps the cartridge misfired,” suggested the comte.
Orlov allowed a small smile. Though in truth, there was little enough to laugh about. He felt a bit like the shards of stone, bouncing aimlessly about the moors. Yet another day spent in a wild goose chase. He stretched the tension from his shoulders, suddenly feeling weary to the bone. This hide-and-seek mission was taking its toll. He would be heartily glad when it was over.
Would he?
His step slowed at the thought of parting from Shannon. She would return to her Academy and await Lord Lynsley’s next assignment, while he would go… God knows where. St. Petersburg, Baden-Baden, Vienna—wherever the glitter and gaiety offered a respite between Prince Yussapov’s calls to duty. The tickle of fine champagne, the thrill of a torrid affair, the challenge of purloining some rich peer’s baubles. A wild life, perhaps, but one that had always been perfectly suited to his temperament. Never linger long enough to care.
But he knew Shannon was no passing dalliance, no wanton whim.
His cynical words to Yussapov on settling down came back to him in mocking clarity. By nature, he had been a solitary beast all his life, and there was an old adage that said an old dog could not learn new tricks.
Yet Shannon had taught him more about loyalty and courage in the last few weeks than he had learned in a lifetime. And about love.
He cringed at the word, hearing Yussapov’s roar of laughter ring in his ears. Love. He was tempted to laugh himself. But there was no denying the twinge in his heart, sharp as a knife, at the thought of never seeing Shannon again. Did she ever have leave from her duties? Would she consent to taking a week in the countryside with him, an interlude where they might talk about what the future could hold?
His mouth crept up at the corners. Maybe an old dog could manage to grovel. Or sit up and beg.
“You find something amusing, Mr. Oliver?” Jervis looked over at him, a dangerous glint in his eye. He had polished off one bottle of claret on the trek through the pines and was now well into a second—this one of brandy.
Alcohol added to anger and frustration was a volatile mix. Stirred from his own broodings, Orlov realized that the combination was now threatening to blow up in his face.
“Merely my own thoughts,” he replied. There seemed no point in sparking a fight at this late hour in the day.
“Wipe that sly smirk off your face.” Jervis suddenly swung his rifle around.
“Attendez-vous,” said the comte in a low voice. “You are tired, mon ami. We all are.”
Jervis brushed him off. “What am I am tired of is this man’s infuriating insolence.” The hammer drew back with an audible click.
“Come now, surely you English, with your finely honed sense of honor, don’t believe in shooting a man for smiling.” De Villiers exaggerated a grin, looking to crack the tension with a joke.
“The cursed fellow ought to be taught a lesson in civilized manners,” huffed Talcott. “He has been acting far too bold with his betters.”
Orlov was suddenly keen to see just
how far Jervis was willing to go. The comte was right—a man didn’t murder someone over the curl of a mouth. Not unless his nerves were stretched to the point of snapping.
“Civilized manners?” He lifted a brow, adding an extra measure of sarcasm to his voice. “And which of you honorable gentlemen am I to look at as a paragon of manly perfection?”
A rush of fury flooded Jervis’s face. “You dare to mock me, you cur?”
“Randall—”
Before the comte could stop him, Jervis shoved the rifle barrel hard against Orlov’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The explosion drowned out De Villiers’s cry. Sparks flashed, illuminating Talcott’s look of mute shock.
Orlov looked down at his coat, and for a heartbeat no one moved. The smell of gunpowder swirled as the shot echoed through the surrounding trees. He waited for another instant, then wrapped his hands around the smoking muzzle and smiled.
“Hartley!” gasped Jervis. “For the love of God, help!”
Wrenching the weapon from the gentleman’s grip, Orlov pivoted and in the same motion swung the butt up, catching the valet with a blow to the head. Stunned, the man slumped to the ground.
Jervis turned in a panic, lunging for De Villiers’s weapon. Orlov spun the rifle in his hands, a lethal blur of limbs and steel, and whipped around, slashing the barrel across Jervis’s ribs.
No longer looking so lordly, Jervis sank to his knees, groaning.
Tossing aside the weapon, Orlov drew his hidden pistols. “Help your comrades to their feet,” he ordered.
“S-spawn of Satan,” stuttered Talcott. “No one but the Devil himself could survive a point-blank shot.”
“Or someone who took the precaution of removing the bullets from your cartridges,” answered Orlov. “But I assure you, my own barking irons have plenty of bite, so don’t attempt anything rash.”
“Sacre coeur, you sabotaged our shot and powder?” exclaimed the comte. “Why? What is going on?”
He seemed genuinely puzzled, but then, thought Orlov, D’Etienne would be capable of great cunning. A master of duplicity, deception. “That is exactly what I intend to find out.” He took up position behind them, keeping a careful distance. “Hands on your heads, gentlemen. March.”
The crunch of stones set a grim cadence for the walk through the walled gardens.
As the party rounded the corner of the courtyard, Orlov saw the lone bay standing by the front entrance, the remnants of a leather harness hanging from its flanks.
“Why, isn’t that one of Sylvia’s—” began Talcott.
“Quiet.” Orlov felt every muscle clench. Had he made a fatal mistake by allowing Shannon to face the London ladies by herself? By now he ought to know that females could be formidable opponents. Far from being the weaker sex, they were capable of physical strength. And diabolical cunning. His mind began to race through the possibilities…
“Slowly now, and stay together.” They crossed the courtyard, Orlov’s mood turning more murderous with each step.
“Open the door.” He gave a savage shove to Jervis as he slid a step to the side. If they were walking into a trap, let His Lordship take the full brunt of it. Indeed, he would almost welcome bullets or blades. It would save him from having to kill the man with his bare hands.
Jervis hesitated, but seemed to sense that the lesser of two evils lay behind the blackened oak. He took hold of the latch and swung it open.
Silence greeted them. The branch of candles stood in its usual spot on the sideboard, casting a whispery light over the deserted entrance hall. Orlov swept the room with a quick glance. Nothing seemed out of place.
“Monsieur,” murmured De Villiers.
Orlov pressed one of his pistols to the back of the comte’s head. “Not a word.” With the other, he signaled for Jervis’s servant to step into the small cloakroom beside the main corridor. The valet was but a pawn in whatever game was being played, but it was best to remove him from the board.
Still slightly dazed, the man made no protest as Orlov closed the door and turned the key.
“Now to the Tower,” he ordered.
The open portal and darkened stairway sent a cold shiver up his spine. “Shannon,” he shouted, deciding stealth served no further purpose. If the enemy was here, he was no doubt well aware of their presence.
His own hoarse voice, amplified by the mortared stone, was the only reply.
Talcott drew a ragged breath.
Footsteps suddenly sounded from above. “Mr. Oliver…”
Orlov felt the air leach from his lungs as Shannon took shape from the shadows. She was wearing her dowdy dress, but the collar was badly askew and muddied riding boots peeked out from beneath the hem.
“It appears that you, too, have had a spot of trouble.”
“Is everyone all right?” he demanded, seeing the cuts on her cheeks.
She nodded. “Aside from a little wooziness from the drug in her tea, Lady Octavia is quite unharmed. As are the children.” Her own weapon kept dead aim on the others. “But it was a near miss.”
“Lady Sylvia,” whispered Jervis, his face pale as death.
Shannon’s lip curled in contempt. “I can’t vouch for her safety. Or that of her friends. The moors can be even more dangerous at night.”
“What happened?” asked Orlov.
She gave a terse account of Lady Sylvia’s trickery and her ensuing chase. “I caught up with the coach just in the nick of time.”
His heart skipped a beat as she calmly described the attack. “I managed to hit him—no more than a flesh wound. He will be back.”
“M-my sisters,” moaned Talcott. “You cannot leave them out there to die.”
“Damn,” growled Orlov, a mixture of rage and relief giving his voice an odd edge. As she shot him a quick look, he had to restrain the urge to gather her in his arms and kiss the smudges of gunpowder and grit from her face. “I am tempted to let them suffer the consequences of their own chicanery.”
Shannon gave a slight shake of her head.
“But I suppose we cannot in good conscience leave them to the mercy of the wilds,” he finished. “No matter that it is what Lady Sylvia deserves.”
“Better to collect them,” agreed Shannon. “And then question everyone at the same time. It seems we are finally coming close to fitting this puzzle together.”
Orlov nodded, though he could not shake a nagging feeling that some key piece was missing. “You can hold out a little longer by yourself?”
“Lady Octavia has the children settled in her quarters with hot chocolate and cakes. With the door barred they will be safe enough.” Her eyes flashed with a hellfire light. “Don’t worry about me. If our adversary thinks he can get under my guard, he has another lesson coming.”
Orlov smiled in spite of himself. “If I were him, I would be quaking in my boots.”
Talcott gave a nervous titter. “Lud, one would think you two were trained for the battlefield rather than the classroom.”
Shannon silenced him with a quelling look.
“Come, I’ll leave you to stand guard over these gentlemen in the drawing room. A fire is already laid in the hearth, and the double doors give you clear view of this corridor,” said Orlov. Though loath to leave her alone, he had little choice. “I’ll have Rawley bring some rope, if you wish to ensure that they don’t cause any trouble.”
“I sent Rawley and the others away to the village with the gardeners,” she replied. She gave a thin smile. “I am sure our London visitors will comport themselves like perfect gentlemen.”
“Else they will answer to me.” He signaled for the men to turn around. “Be advised that any transgression will be punished with more than a birch to the backside.”
“Take care, Alex,” she said softly. “A wounded predator is even more cautious. And cunning.”
He touched her cheek, a gesture so swift that it was lost in the half light of the fading day. “Two against one—I like our odds, golub.”
“Help yourselves to some brandy.” Shannon chose a vantage point by the sofa. “Then perhaps one of you would be so good as to light the fire.”
De Villiers went to the sideboard and poured a glass. Jervis joined him. Talcott made a half-hearted attempt with the flint and steel, but his hands were shaking too badly to strike a spark.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, seeking to still the tremors with a splash of Scottish whisky.
Sighing, she set aside her pistol and took up a taper. She was halfway to the hearth when Jervis suddenly broke away from the two other gentlemen and snatched a sword from the wall. With a menacing slash, he advanced toward her.
“Out of my way. I had nothing to do with what happened this afternoon—if Sylvia made a change in plans, let her answer for it. I don’t intend to wait around for any magistrates.”
Shannon quickly reached for one of the rapiers on display and blocked his path to the door. “You aren’t going anywhere, Lord Jervis.”
“Don’t try to be a bloody hero, Miss Sloane.” Seeing he was cornered added a note of shrillness to his voice. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I swear, I won’t hesitate to use this if I must.” He wet his lips. “I’ve trained with Ludwig von Mulenberg, the renowned Prussian swordmaster. So trust me, you will only end up as mincemeat if you dare to stand in my way.”
“Von Mulenberg?” The stones suddenly echoed with the clash of steel against steel. “He couldn’t cut his way out of butter with a hot blade.”
Jervis fell back a step under the force of her attack. Sliding sideways, he feinted, then sought to slash her sword arm.
Shannon parried the blow with ease. “You will have to muster a more imaginative combination than that, sir.”
His eyes betrayed a flicker of confusion. “Who the devil are you?”
“No one you should wish to toy with.” Her blade cut a deadly arrebata through the air. “Sit down, Lord Jervis, while your legs are still attached to your torso.”
A tentative punta sopramano probed for an opening. She countered with a spinning combination that nearly knocked the sword from his hand. “You ought to be the one wearing skirts.”
Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Page 25
