Orlov strained to see any sign of movement in the swirl of smoke and shadows. It was nearly nightfall and the fading twilight had blanketed the moors with a purpled haze. The fires burning in the castle tower added a scudding of charcoal clouds that deadened any sound of footfalls.
“Rather, it is you who have been most annoying. You have made me chase you across Ireland and now Scotland. It’s grown most tiresome.”
The scrape of a boot, almost lost in the crackle of burning wood, sounded from overhead. Orlov allowed an inward smile as he crept a step closer to the shed. From behind its shelter, he could gain an angle—
A pattering behind him caused him to whirl around.
“Mr. Oliver!” He watched in dismay as Emma bolted past Shannon, her little fists outstretched. “You forgot your knife!”
“Go back, elf!” But he saw his shout was too late—a wink of steel flashed at the terrace railing.
Flinging himself at the racing child, he caught her in a rolling hug. One turn, two. A bullet whizzed by his ear, cutting a furrow through the slate tile. All was a blur of flailing limbs and flapping skirts. Somehow he managed to push Emma clear, into the sheltering safety of the shed wall.
In making the desperate lunge, he had lost hold of his pistol. It lay not far away, scant inches from his reach, but as he stretched out to grab it, everything went black.
“Emma!”
Between lighting the way for Lady Octavia and loosening the cord of the crossbow, Shannon had momentarily let her grip on the little girl’s hand slip.
Orlov reacted in a flash, shielding Emma’s skinny form with his own body. They hit the ground at the same instant that a shot rang out. The flare from the muzzle illuminated a lean face—a high forehead, aquiline nose, and full lips pulled taut—before darkness swallowed the feral smile.
“Stay back, Scottie.” Shannon caught the boy’s collar and thrust him back into the dowager’s grasp. “Guard your grandmother.”
Cursing her limp, she hurried up the last step. The reddish glow from the tower windows showed D’Etienne as a slim black shape, moving with hellish precision as he took aim with one of the marble urns and launched it at Orlov.
It hit with a sickening thud and shattered just inches from his head. He appeared stunned by the shards of flying rock, for after a spasm of his fist, he lay unmoving on the terrace.
Emma cried out, her high-pitched voice punctuated by the Frenchman’s deep laugh.
“It’s you who have grown too dull for this sort of work, mon ami.” D’Etienne was taking his time in reloading his pistol for the coup de grace. He had his back angled to her, and in the swirl of mist and moonlight she could just make out the heavy rucksack slung over his shoulders.
Damn. Setting down the makeshift resin candle, Shannon sighted along the stock of the ancient crossbow, desperately searching for a clear shot. But the thick canvas—bulging with enough explosives to blow half the Highlands into the North Sea—served as a shield.
“Having a heart is a fatal weakness,” called D’Etienne. Still gloating, the Frenchman rammed a fresh bullet down the barrel. “Moi, I don’t dwell on the fine points of morality. A skilled banker or artist is paid for his expertise—why should I not profit from my god-given talents as well, eh? The Emperor is extremely generous in rewarding merit over rank or privilege.” In another moment, he would curl his finger around the trigger.
Though her own hands were shaking, Shannon fought off despair. Surely there was some strategy from all her training. Sun-Tzu, the Chinese military master—
Chinese. Something from her earlier history lecture suddenly sparked an idea. She grabbed the flaming pine resin, jabbed it onto the point of her arrow, and let fly.
The small dart barely made a sound as it bit into the canvas. The Frenchman must have felt a quiver, for he whirled around.
Shannon dropped the crossbow and backed up a step.
D’Etienne laughed again. He took up a deliberate stance atop the terrace railing. “English archers may have won the Battle of Agincourt. But this is a new age, a new dawn…” A flicker of light, white then pink, rose from behind his head.
Shannon held her breath.
Suddenly aware of the danger, D’Etienne spun round and round, arms flailing, dancing a macabre ballet as he tried to peel off the rucksack and its deadly contents.
A last pirouette exploded in an ear-splitting boom, followed by a burst of brilliant light. Flames shot up, red and orange streaks against the black velvet sky. A shower of white-hot gold sparks, glittering like a myriad lethal little stars, hung for a moment in silent splendor before slowly drifting back down to earth.
“Bravo!” From the ruins of the stairwell came Lady Octavia’s applause. “Bravo, gel! I’ve witnessed countless pyrotechnics over the years, but none so deserving of accolades as that one.”
Orlov stirred and sat up. “High praise indeed, coming from the mother of Angus McAllister.” His face was streaked with blood from the cut on his brow, but through the grime and the gunpowder he flashed a lopsided grin. “Perhaps the military ought to enlist your unique expertise as well as his. That was certainly a highly unusual strategy. But highly effective.”
“Wellesley and his generals don’t need my help. They have only to read their history books—the Chinese have been using fire arrows for centuries.” Shannon sat heavily on the stone wall, overcome by a sudden weariness. “It was a lucky shot. And not one I would want to try again.”
From down in the valley, the tolling of the village church bells rose up in counterpoint to the dying thunder of the blast. The flames from the castle must have been visible for miles. Help would soon be on the way.
Hardly daring to believe it was over, she closed her eyes.
Things had not gone exactly as planned, but she had accomplished all that Lord Lynsley had asked of her. Would he see the mission as a success? Or would he find fault with the decisions she had made in the field?
Too exhausted in body and spirit to contemplate the future, Shannon lifted her face to the cooling night breeze. Consequences be damned. For now, she would savor the light lilt of the children’s voices, the soft “Hmmph” of the dowager’s cough, and feathery warmth of…
As her lashes fluttered opened, she was surprised to find them pearled with tears. “Warriors aren’t supposed to be watering pots,” she whispered against Orlov’s lips. He tasted of salt, of sweat, of fire. She drank in his warmth.
“Do you recall the illustrious list of Warrior Queens we discussed?”
His touch was making it impossible for her to think clearly.
“Your name ought to be added to their ranks.”
“I am merely an anonymous foot soldier,” she managed to reply. “My exploits can never be written down.”
Orlov framed her face with his strong, capable hands. “My brave and bold Valkyrie, you and your exploits will always be etched on my heart.” His kiss tickled at the corner of her mouth. “Though I confess it’s becoming rather a sore point that you keep on having to save my skin. A blow to my manhood, you see.”
She hugged him closer, reveling in the contours of their closeness. “There doesn’t appear to be grievous injury to your manhood, Alex.”
“I am sure with a bit of nursing, it can be coaxed into making a full recovery.” His chuckle was echoed by Emma’s giggle.
“Mr. Oliver, are you kissing Miss Sloane?”
Loath though she was to leave his arms, Shannon stepped out of his embrace.
“I was, elf,” answered Orlov. “But I have one for all my brave ladies. Here is yours.” He lifted the little girl against his chest and planted a noisy smack on her forehead, earning a peal of delight. “And yours, milady.”
“Hmmph.” The dowager touched her wrinkled cheek and tried to disguise a sniff with a snort. “If I were half a century younger, Miss Sloane might have to watch her back. But let us save any further display of sentiment for later. We had better take shelter in the stable before we catch our dea
th of cold. I daresay Squire Urquhart and the villagers will be along shortly.”
“Just as long as I do not have to kiss anyone,” muttered Prescott.
“I shall remind you of that statement in several years,” said Orlov dryly. Arm in arm with Lady Octavia, he started across the terrace.
Sighing, Shannon flexed her aching leg and made to bring up the rear. The sight of his broad shoulders and tapered waist was a rueful reminder that in a few days they would turn their backs on this job and head off to new missions, new challenges, new dangers.
Surely nothing was as dangerous as ice-blue eyes and a devilish smile. The man was indeed a master thief, for he had stolen her heart…
She looked up abruptly to find he had sent the others along and was waiting for her.
“You didn’t really think I was going to leave you on your own, did you?”
Her mouth quivered. “Every man for himself.”
“Those rules went up in smoke the first time around.” His stone-roughened fingers caught hers, pressing their palms tight. “Come Hell or Lucifer himself, we face the fire together, Shannon.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The hired coach kicked up a cloud of dust as it jolted through the winding turn. Orlov flexed his raw hands and shifted his grip on the reins. Though bone weary and bleary-eyed, he and Shannon had decided it was best to move the dowager and the children away from the area as quickly as possible. It did not appear that D’Etienne had any accomplices, but they were not about to take chances. Not after all they had been through.
The previous night had gone by in a blur after the arrival of the local magistrate and a troop of the local farmers. The fires had been put out, the family shepherded to the shelter of the village rectory, and an explanation made of the events. Not the exact truth, of course, but a story that seemed to satisfy the authorities. Angus McAllister’s experiments with gunpowder were well known in the area.
In deciding what to do about the London party, the dowager had agreed with the suggestion to avoid any public scandal. No doubt some of them deserved further punishment, mused Orlov. But perhaps seeing their own selfish faults so clearly would have some effect. De Villiers—the only one of the group who had nothing to be ashamed of—had offered to see to the arrangements for the long journey home.
As for their own travels, the mood had been strangely subdued since setting out from the village. Despite their triumph, he hadn’t felt much like talking and Shannon seemed lost in her own thoughts.
Was she finding the fruits of victory as bittersweet as he was? Soon he would be back to his old haunts, his old life—wine, women, waltzing until dawn. The prospect left a stale taste in his mouth.
“Another hour should bring us to Dornoch.” Rousing from her reveries, Shannon shaded her eyes to the scudding sun. “We can shelter at the White Gyrfalcon while we decide on how to proceed.”
“The damage to McAllister’s eyrie will take months to repair, so return to the family estate is not an option.” Orlov glanced back at the creaking cab, where Lady Octavia and the children sat swaddled in layers of sheepskins and tartans. “And in any case, I am of the opinion that they shouldn’t remain in Scotland. Lynsley ought to consider reuniting them with McAllister, wherever the military has him sequestered. Napoleon does not suffer defeat gladly.”
But that was not his problem, he reminded himself as he guided the team of horses around a tumble of rocks. He had done his job. It was time to move on. No matter that the road ahead looked suddenly bleak, the granite and gorse leached of all color by the harsh wash of sunlight.
Shannon’s squint suddenly deepened. “There are two riders coming our way at a fast gallop.”
Orlov felt her stiffen and reach for her pistol. He drew the horses to a halt. “You go guard the dowager while I handle things from here.”
She started down, then stopped for another look. “Gypsies, judging by their brightly colored wraps and flowered headscarves. They won’t usually attempt an attack on a coach of this size.”
“Anyone may tie a garish rag around his head.” He checked the priming of his own weapon, then covered it with his coat. “Besides, I traveled for a time with a tribe in Westphalia. Those two do not ride like Romany.”
“True.” She swung out from the footrail for a better vantage point.
“Let us not fight over the honor of standing in the line of fire.” But before Orlov could say more, Shannon broke into a smile and shot her hand up to wave a quick signal.
“No bullets will be flying. It’s one of my fellow Merlins.”
“What the devil—”
“Greetings, Fifi,” said Shannon as the lead rider brought her lathered stallion alongside the coach. “What brings you so far from the nest?”
“Things were far too quiet without you setting off sparks.” From beneath the wild tangle of raven curls flashed a pair of thick-lashed emerald eyes. Orlov saw them quickly slant his way.
“So you decided to gallop off into the fire?” Shannon assumed an air of nonchalance, but he didn’t miss the note of underlying tension in her voice.
Damn Lynsley. He knew what she was thinking. And while the marquess could not be faulted for taking precautions, at that moment Orlov itched to punch him senseless for doubting her.
“We thought you might need a hand,” said Sofia.
Her friend’s gaze shifted slightly, allowing Orlov a quick study of her face. This was the third member of Merlin’s Maidens he had met, and if anything, the rumors of their striking beauty had been underexaggerated.
Catching Sofia’s questioning look, Shannon replied, “As you see, I’m not alone. Allow me to introduce Alexandr—”
“Orlov.” The flowing folds and riotous colors of the exotic garb half obscured the fine-boned features, but he saw her sultry mouth thin to a hard line. “The rascal who nearly bungled Siena’s mission. And then nearly broke your arm. Mrs. Merlin has also filled us in on a few more of his recent exploits.”
“This is my roommate, Sofia,” murmured Shannon. In a louder voice she added, “Let bygones be bygones, Fifi. Mr. Orlov is now an ally.”
Sofia raised a brow. “The Emperor’s Eastern campaign has certainly made for strange bedfellows.”
Shannon colored slightly, but was saved from having to answer by the approach of the second rider, who had come on at a more leisurely pace.
“Ciao, bella!” He blew a kiss to Shannon, then cocked a jaunty salute to Orlov. “Ciao, Allessandro.”
Shannon blinked in surprise. “You two know each other?”
“Oh, sí, sí,” answered Sofia’s companion. Like her, he was layered in bold colors and his leather bandoleers were bristling with brass ornaments. “Sandro and I are old friends. We met several years ago in a house of… lovely ladies. The loveliest in all of Milano, eh, amico.”
It took a moment for Orlov to recognize the fellow as Giovanni Marco Musto—a rogue whose exploits with women made him look like a choirboy. His eyes narrowed. Little wonder he had needed a second look. He had rarely seen Il Serpente with all his clothes on.
“I seem to recall there were twin sisters who had taken a fancy to you that night,” continued the Italian. “Sicilians, dark as sin, with sweet, ripe melones.” As Marco was speaking with his hands, translation was unnecessary. “Who were only too happy to share their fruits—”
Orlov cut him off with a sharp cough. “Any chance you might have brought along some bread and water? It’s been a dry and dusty journey down from the moors.”
Sofia gave Marco a shove, setting off a tinkling of bells. “The provisions are packed in your saddlebags. Have a look, and quickly, while I explain our presence.” She flashed a wry smile. “We are here under official orders, in case you were wondering.”
“Of course—I’m the only one hot-tempered enough to break the rules.” Shannon managed a short laugh, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. “So, Lord Lynsley did not think I was capable of getting the job done?”
Her fr
iend’s expression turned serious. “Mrs. Merlin assured me this is no reflection on you, Nonnie. Rather it is a mark of how much the marquess wants to be sure that D’Etienne will no longer threaten England or her allies.”
“He won’t.”
“Shannon saw to that,” said Orlov. “See to it that she gets the credit she deserves.”
She shook her head. “No—it was a joint effort.”
Orlov started to speak, but Shannon quickly changed the subject. “I take it Lord Lynsley planned a contingency for getting the family out of Scotland. He never leaves anything to chance.”
“Of course.” Sofia straightened in the saddle. “In the event of an emergency, Marco and I were to escort the McAllister family to the fishing village of Tain. The naval frigate that brought us here is anchored there, waiting to whisk them to the North Sea Squadron base at Middlesbrough.” Sofia’s brow quirked in question. “But seeing as you are in command of the situation…”
“The enemy is no longer a threat, but the castle has been reduced to smoldering cinders,” said Shannon. “It seems the logical choice to follow Lord Lynsley’s plan.”
Orlov could not argue. Her reasoning made perfect sense. So why was he feeling so perfectly miserable? It was not merely the thought of rough seas that had his stomach churning.
But a thump from inside the carriage reminded him that he had more important considerations than the stormy state of his emotions. “All is well, Lady Octavia. These are friends, not foes,” he called. “We will soon be on our way.”
“Yes, we had better not linger. The tide will soon be turning,” said Sofia. “Take the unmarked turn ahead. It’s a shortcut down to the south shore of Dornoch Firth. Then follow the right fork to Tain. We will ride on ahead and inform the captain that he should make ready to weigh anchor.”
Marco finished rummaging in his saddlebags and tossed over a small sack. “Sorry, no sweet melones, Alessandro. Only cider and cheese.” His grin was nearly as brassy as the thick chains looped around his neck. “Arrividerci for now, bellas.”
Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Page 28
