“Bravo.” The marquess’s soft clap sent a trilling shiver to the tips of her fingers.
So close and yet so far. Had she been convincing? She had seen the shadow of doubt in Lord Lynsley’s eyes as she entered the room. He had the most penetrating gaze she had ever encountered, like pale blue slivers of ice.
Sometimes she felt he saw her more clearly than she saw herself.
Lynsley turned to his companion and arched a brow. “Do you wish to ask Miss Siena about her other accomplishments? Dancing? Whist?”
“Er, no. She appears a paragon of propriety in the drawing room.”
“In that case, run along and change into less formal attire, Siena.” As her student left the room, Mrs. Merlin added, “I have asked Da Rimini to meet us in the armory. A short exhibition of fencing and shooting should serve to answer any further questions.”
A half hour later, a rather white-faced Chertwell pressed a handkerchief to his perspiring brow.
“Convinced?”
“Er, yes. I shall take your word that the young lady can handle a horse with equal expertise.”
Lynsley repressed a grin. “She rides like a bat flying out of hell.”
“Then let us pray she can catch up to the devil in Town—”
“The Merlins will chase Lucifer to Cathay and back, if that is what is asked of us.” Siena, still clad in buckskins and boots, strode into the study. Perching a hip on the corner of the headmistress’s desk, she peeled off her fencing gauntlet and dropped it onto the polished oak. “Or, if you prefer, into the heart of the unknown.”
“London is far enough,” replied Lynsley dryly.
She decided to dare a direct challenge. “So—do I get the assignment?”
The silence seemed to stretch on forever.
“Here are your orders.” Lynsley slowly withdrew an oilskin packet from his pocket.
It was sealed with a black wafer bearing the sign of a soaring hawk. “You are to leave immediately and proceed to the address noted on the first page. You will find clothing, money, and several trustworthy servants waiting for you. From there …”
He drew a breath. “Most of the details are spelled out, and I will fill you in on the rest as I walk you out to the stables. A messenger will visit within a day or two to supply you with complete dossiers on the suspects. After that, you understand that…”
“That neither you nor the government can acknowledge any connection between us.”
“Precisely, Siena. You will be entirely on your own.”
“I know the rules, sir.”
“I have had your things packed as we speak,” said Mrs. Merlin. “The saddlebags are waiting outside the door, along with your weapons.”
A spasm of surprise crossed Siena’s face. “I—I had thought I might make a quick return to my room, to take leave of my friends.”
“It’s best to be off without delay.” The headmistress gave her arm a gentle pat. “I shall pass on your farewell.”
She quickly smoothed the disappointment from her features. It would not do to fall flat on her face in the first minute of the assignment. “Yes. Of course.”
“Good luck.” Chertwell hesitated before inclining a small bow. “And Godspeed.”
“We are trained to depend on our own skills, sir, rather than serendipitous fortune,” she replied with a show of bravado. “But it does not hurt that Luck is a Lady.”
To herself she added a more solemn vow. I will prove to Lord Lynsley that I have earned my wings.
The moon, a shivering sliver of pale crescent light, ducked in and out of scudding clouds.
Julian Henning, the Earl of Kirtland, cocked a brow at the stormy skies. Even the heavens have something to hide, he thought with a self-mocking
shrug. Drawing to a halt, he peered into the gloom ahead. A windswept rain lashed at the trees, the swirling gusts tugging at his caped cloak and wide-brimmed hat.
It was a hellish night to be out-a sentiment echoed by his stallion’s impatient whinny.
“Sorry, Hades. I take it you would prefer a dry stall and a bucket of oats.” He, too, ought to be lounging before a roaring fire, a book of
fine poetry in one hand, a glass of aged brandy within easy reach. But he had grown moody, restless with the creature comforts of Henning Hall, his
ancestral manor house. Tomorrow at first light he would be traveling to his town house in London, and despite the foul weather he had felt
a sudden need to savor the space and solitude of his estate lands. Town life was crowded, confining.
Or perhaps it was some darker inner urge that had driven him outdoors. A black humor was an all too familiar companion these days.
“We’ll ride on to the bridge, then turn back.” Wrapping the reins around a sodden fist, the earl urged his mount forward. The thud of hooves was muffled by the wet earth.
Fog blurred the gorse and thorns into spiky shadows, their swaying forms faintly threatening in the haze.
The path narrowed as it threaded through a copse of oaks. As the last flicker of stars was swallowed in the mists, Kirtland was forced to rely on memory rather than sight to make his way among the trees.
“Bloody hell.” A branch slapped at his cheek. “Only a madman would be out in this weather,” he muttered. A madman or a desperate man. Which was he?
Adding a low oath, the earl cut through the last leafy tangle and broke onto open ground.
He was neither, he assured himself. An outcast, perhaps. But he didn’t give a damn for the opinion of Society. In the drawing rooms of London, rumor and innuendo swirled around his name, dark and muddled as this storm-tossed night. Obscuring the true shape of things.
A mizzle of moonlight filtered through the clouds, catching the sardonic curl of his smile. Money smoothed the rough edges. As did an august title. So, despite the whispers, there were few who dared give him a direct cut. It was his own choice to avoid the frivolous spin of the ballrooms and—
The crack was as loud as cannon fire.
“Damn.” Kirtland pulled back on the reins, steadying his stallion’s spooked steps.
Up ahead, the ghostly outline of the bridge came into view, the remains of the snapped timber jutting up from the roiling currents. The crossing was often used as a shortcut to the London road, but now it was a treacherous trap-anyone approaching from the other side would not see the danger.
At first light, he would have his bailiff ride out to rope off the area and make the repairs.
As he turned for home, the earl caught sight of a movement on the opposite bank. Surely no one else was driven by demons to be out on a night like this. He looked again, thinking perhaps he had only imagined the black blur. But an instant later, a horse and rider came out of the mists at full gallop.
“Beware!” shouted Kirtland as they hit the first planks. “The bridge is about to collapse!”
Even as he cried out, he knew it was too late. The remaining piling sagged, then split with a shuddering snap.
The earl spurred forward to the water’s edge, on the off chance the stranger survived the plunge. The odds were heavily against it, but he could at least stand ready to help him escape from the surging waters.
But to his amazement, the rider managed to control the skidding stallion, straighten its head, and urge the lathered beast into an arching leap. Hooves flying, cloak flapping, they hung for a moment in midair, a dark-winged shape silhouetted against the mist.
Then suddenly they were on solid ground, fighting for balance on the steep bank.
Bloody hell. Kirtland could scarcely believe his eyes. An experienced cavalry officer, he was well aware that only a horseman of iron strength and nerve could have pulled off such a feat—
Just then, a length of the splintered timber snagged the stranger’s boot, threatening to tumble horse and rider onto the rocks below. The earl reacted in a flash. Swooping dangerously close to the river’s edge, he kicked the shard free. “Give me your hand!”
he called, hoping to be heard above th
e roar of the water.
The stranger grabbed hold of Kirtland’s outstretched arm, and the earl angled his stallion for higher ground.
Linked together by their riders, the two horses scrabbled to firmer footing.
Aware of his own pounding heart, Kirtland ventured a sidelong glance at his companion.
The oilskin hat was tilted askew, and the woolen muffler had come half-undone, but the fine-boned features betrayed nary a twitch of fear. Indeed, unless he was much mistaken, it was annoyance that blazed in the narrowed gaze.
“Let go of me!”
There was no mistaking the voice. The rider was not a man but a boy—and a downy one at that.
“Now hold on a moment, lad.” Irked at the curt command, he held fast as their horses slowed to an easy trot. “Common courtesy calls for a more civil remark than that.”
“To hell with courtesy. I’m in a hurry.”
“A date with the devil?” he shot back. “If I hadn’t happened along, you would have been crossing the River Styx rather than the River Thames—”
As the clouds parted for a moment, the brief flicker of light caught the boy full in the face. He was a she.
“I’ll be damned.”
The hand gripping his gave a sudden wrenching twist that nearly spilled him to the ground. Kirtland, however, knew a few tricks of his own from the brutal battlefields of Portugal. Kicking free of one stirrup, he let himself drop low, then suddenly straightened his other leg, catching the young lady off guard.
The momentum of his move yanked her from her own mount. As she fell awkwardly across her saddle onto his, the earl caught a glimpse of the brace of pistols and a Hussar’s saber hanging from her horse. “What is a young lady doing out at this hour, armed to the teeth with cavalry equipment?”
Her answer was a fist aimed at his jaw. He jerked back in the nick of time. The blow glanced off his shoulder. She was now facing him, fighting for balance.
“Damnation! That is rough thanks for having saved your wretched neck.” Her muffler had fallen away, and, in truth, it looked to be a rather
lovely neck, smooth and creamy as alabaster.
“Consider yourself fortunate that I do not break your arm.” She twisted, trying to break his grip, and her spurs grazed his stallion’s flanks. Hooves kicked at the ground, setting up a swirl of fallen leaves.
“Why, you hellion.”
His shout froze her for an instant, giving him just enough time to pin her arms behind her back. She had lost her hat in the first throes of the struggle, but a black silk scarf, tied in pirate fashion, still covered her hair and brow. Its midnight hue accentuated the golden glare of her eyes. She was as mad as a wet cat. A panther, sleek and sinuous in its fury.
The earl trapped her against his chest. Still, it took all of his considerable strength to keep her from breaking his grip. “You owe me more than a slap, my little spitfire.”
His stallion whinnied and reared, rocking them back in the saddle. He could feel the curves of her breasts and the press of her buckskinned bottom as he pulled her astride his thighs. A strange lick of heat flared around the edges of his anger. She was all leg and lithe muscle. So unlike any female he had ever encountered before. Intrigued, he drew her closer.
“Son of a bitch—”
Kirtland drew in a sharp breath, then laughed softly. “Actually, my mother was a whore. But she was clever enough to coax my father into marriage.”
She didn’t blink. “Bastard or not, let me go.” Freeing an arm, she let fly with an elbow, driving the air from his lungs.
His temper, already frayed, was now perilously close to snapping. He had risked life and limb, and by God, he was going to wring a civil thanks from the hellion. As well as an explanation for this mad escapade.
He recaptured her arm and hardened his grip. “Not so fast.”
Biting back a grunt of pain, she countered with a twist that nearly cracked the bones of her wrist.
Feeling somewhat ashamed of using brute force on a female, however strong, Kirtland drew her closer, the stubbling of his whiskered jaw scraping against her cheek. “Pax. I mean you no harm.” Fisting at damp linen and wet wool, he molded her curves to his chest. Through the layers of fabric he felt the thud of her heart pounding against his pulse.
She shivered, then drew back, her eyes unreadable in the squalling rain. “A gentleman of honor?” Her words were half-mocking.
“You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Trust me, I don’t fear any man.”.
For an instant, they both were very still, as if seized by some strange alchemy.
Kirtland thought he detected a glimmer of his own grudging admiration reflected in her gaze. Strength against strength. Neither yielding an inch.
“Nor devils nor dragons, I imagine.”
Her mouth twitched in amusement. “However, I suppose you do deserve a thanks for your heroics.”
“You are welcome.” Without quite knowing why, he tilted her chin and kissed her.
Her lips were soft, lush, the pliant curves so at odds with the rest of her body. She tasted of jasmine and salt. Of wild honey. Of fiery desire…
She, too, appeared gripped by the same sensuous spell that held him in thrall. A slave to some mysterious force.
Her hands, now free, slid toward his throat, but only to curl in the tangle of his rain-soaked locks.
Groaning, he deepened his embrace.
“Who the devil are you?” he rasped when finally he lifted his mouth from hers.
The breath of air broke the enchantment.
“No one you will ever see again.”
Before he could respond, she twisted free. Suddenly all was a blur, with her body appearing to bend at an impossible angle as she arced into
a back flip and slid down off his stallion’s rump. He whipped around just in time to see her vault onto her own horse and gallop off.
A druid? A wood nymph? A figment of his own benighted thoughts?
Kirtland rubbed at his eyes, uncertain of anything save for the ethereal sweetness lingering on his lips. He continued staring into the mist until the shadowy tendrils had long since ceased to swirl. Then, shaking off the numbing chill, the earl turned for Henning Hall.
Perhaps it was best he was leaving the country for the city at first light. Isolation was definitely having an unnerving effect on his state of mind.
Red brick, green door.
Siena reined in her mount. And a brass knocker in the shape of a hawk’s head. The street was deserted, but she kept her face and weapons well under wraps as she rode around to the mews.
A soft rap, and a whispered word.
The door slid open. “You have made good time, given the storm.” A hand took hold of the bridle and drew the stallion into the darkness. Behind her, an iron bar dropped back into its brackets. “You encountered no problems on the journey?”
“None to speak of.” Siena swung down from the saddle.
“I am Oban. I’ll be handling the duties of groom and footman.” A flint struck steel, and in the first spark of light, she caught a glimpse of his profile, hard and jagged as the Scottish accent that burred his speech. The misshapen nose and scarred lips gave him the look of a man who had experienced his fair share of punches. So, too, did the fist holding the lantern. It was as huge as a ham hock, and the knuckles gave a menacing crack as they tightened on the handle. “I’ll take you up to meet Rose. She will see to your personal needs.”
Lord Lynsley was serious about security, thought Siena as she followed the hulking silhouette to a side stall.
“This way.” Oban kicked away the straw to reveal a trapdoor. “There are several other hidden passageways out of the house. I’ll show them to you first thing in the morning, along with a map of the quickest escape routes from the neighborhood.”
He said nothing more, save to point out the mechanics of the latches and locks as they passed through the narrow tunnel into the town house cellar. Siena welcomed his reticence.
She was in no mood to answer any further questions about her midnight journey.
Rose proved to be as quietly efficient as her compatriot. A plain, middle-aged woman with sharp features and a brusque step, she wasted no time in pleasantries.
“A tour of the residence can wait until morning. No doubt you are anxious for a few hours of sleep,” she said as she took Siena’s sodden cloak
and hung it by the cellar stairs. “Follow me.”
As they passed through the paneled corridor, Siena glimpsed several of the rooms. They were small, but opulently furnished in a mix of plush velvets and jacquards. Garnet and ruby were the dominant colors, accented with a profusion of gilded decorations that reflected the current fad for all things Egyptian.
Accustomed to the spartan simplicity of the Academy, Siena found it a bit overwhelming. But as she rubbed at her eyes, she reminded herself that from now on, everything about her must be designed to draw notice.
Rose led the way up a curved staircase of polished mahogany to the third floor. Crossing the carpeted landing, she opened the far door.
A fire had taken the chill out of the bedchamber, the pillows were plumped upon the carved tester bed, and a night rail-a lacy confection befitting her new persona— lay neatly folded atop the turned-down silk sheets.
“A bath, my lady?” Wisps of steam, redolent with the lush perfume of jasmine and clove, were already rising from a tub set by the Oriental screen.
Siena nodded, suddenly aware that her fingers could scarcely keep a grip on her scabbard. But her shivering was not all on account of the wet clothing clinging to her body or the bone-deep fatigue. The stranger’s touch still lingered on her cheeks, her lips …
“And a glass of brandy, if you please.”
It took only a few minutes for the spirits and the last buckets of hot water to arrive. She waited until she was alone to strip off her sodden garments and sink into the scented suds.
Lord, the liquid heat felt delicious, flowing over and inside her. But it also stirred a more wicked warmth.
A rain-lashed gentleman with eyes as dark as sin. And yet, enveloped in his arms, she had experienced a strange sense of comfort. For an instant, she had embraced his strength, melting to his kiss rather than fighting it. He had felt reassuringly solid beneath her hands. His wind-roughened mouth had been surprisingly gentle. Even his gruff growl had offered a measure of safety.
The Spy Wore Silk Page 3
