So why did he sense that beneath all her armor there was something other than steely self-interest? Was it mere illusion to think that they might be… kindred spirits?
Cursing again, Kirtland took up the decanter and refilled his glass. That, too, he downed in a single swallow. Then followed it with another. He rarely drank to excess. But the explosive encounter with the Black Dove had left him in a strange mood. He had not lingered over the after-supper port and cigars with the other gentlemen but had retreated to his bedchamber to brood over his brandy in solitude.
Lies. Lust. Fraternizing with this particular enemy was fraught with perils. He better have a care that he was not seduced by his own shift in strategy.
There was only a drop or two left of the spirits. He could either seek oblivion in a fresh bottle or clear his head with a midnight ride through the moors. His mouth twitched in a tight-lipped smile as he savored the irony of the idea. Perhaps he would encounter one of Devon’s legendary druids—a magician who might conjure up a counterspell to release him from the merlin’s talons.
“Have you any idea why?”
“No, milady.” Rose shook her head. “But Oban asked that you meet him in the stables at midnight. Go around the granary. He will leave the third door on the left unlocked.”
Siena glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I had better change into a dark shirt and breeches,” she said, allowing Rose to help her out of the ruffled gown. “I won’t need the sword.” The walk was only a short one. “My knife should suffice.”
Seating herself before the looking glass, she combed out the elaborate coiling of her hair and tied it back in a simple knot. A tendril of unease remained.
More trouble?
It was proving hard enough to fend off the unexpected challenges that had arisen. Like blades flashing from all angles, they had her scrambling to keep a step ahead of the cutting edge.
She could use a trusted ally to watch her back. Like the earl, who kept riding to the rescue. A knight in shining armor? She made a face, mocking her own girlish notions, her own dangerous longings. Just because he had shown glimpses of a different face beneath his mask of hard-edged cynicism, she must not think of him as a romantic at heart. Kirtland a hero? He could just as easily be the traitor she sought.
The reflection of Rose, hazy in the half-light, reminded her that she could not look for help elsewhere. She was on her own.
“Your cloak, milady?”
Siena shook her head. “I won’t be gone long enough to catch a chill.”
It took little time to traverse the graveled path leading down to the stables. All was dark, and the only sounds as she approached were the soft nickering of the horses. Following her maid’s direction, she eased the door open.
“Over here,” came a whisper from an empty stall. Oban left the lantern unlit. “I have a message from Town.”
“Yes?”
“Keep an eye on the Russian.”
A shiver, cold as ice, skated down her spine.
“His presence is cause for concern,” continued Oban.
“It is not yet known who he is working for. The art collector is proving difficult to track down. And so are any facts about Orlov’s background. Some rumors say that he is a clever thief, who uses his entree into the highest circles of Society for personal gain. Others hint that his services have been hired on occasion by a foreign government.”
“That is all?” she finally asked when it became evident he had nothing more to say. “No other details?”
“Not at the moment.” Oban spun around at a crackling in the straw, but it was only a cat, black as the witching hour, emerging with a mouse in its jaws.
Her mouth twitched. A good thing she did not believe in omens. Still, the sight of predator and prey was another chilling reminder of the dangers lurking in every corner.
“Communication is a tricky matter,” he went on. “Perhaps I will receive further word soon.”
“I understand,” replied Siena, though inwardly she wished that Lynsley had been able to pass on more of a hint as to why Orlov’s presence was worth a warning. She was more in the dark than ever. After a pause, she moved on to other surveillance matters. “Have you searched through the saddlebags of The Gilded Page Club members?”
“Yes. And as you ordered, I soaked every scrap of paper that I found in gallotanic acid. All came up blank.”
She hadn’t really expected to find evidence of invisible ink, but it was worth a try. “Any other news to report?”
“I’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary. Nor heard anything from the servants that might be of interest. But I’ll continue to keep my eyes and ears open.”
Siena did not doubt his vigilance. A pity she could not put his formidable fists and granite resolve to better use.
“Best we not be caught in clandestine conversation,” he added, already checking that it was safe to leave their hiding place.
Glad that the darkness covered her flush, Siena followed his signal and slipped from the stall. It should have been her own voice murmuring the warning. No matter the distractions, she must stay alert to the dangers around her. Like the cat, they could pounce at any moment and she must be ready.
Her boots moved noiselessly over the damp grass. She had, at least, taken care to plan her route to and from the stables. The conservatory, its milky glass serene in the scudding moonlight, was only a short distance from the stables, and the boxwood hedges provided ample cover.
She pressed a hand to the door latch. Removing several screws from the locking mechanism ensured that it opened without a hitch. Inside, the warmth of the day still hung heavy in the air, muffling the brief stirring of the outside breeze to a muted whisper.
Her movements blended in as well, matching the swaying shadows of the potted palms. From her previous reconnoitering, Siena knew that the cavernous structure was always deserted at night. An oasis of calm.
Keeping to the grass borders, she turned down one of the narrow walkways, still puzzling over Lynsley’s cryptic warning. The Russian’s harmless flirtations now took on a more ominous shape. Like the row of bromeliads to her right, whose whimsical forms were distorted by the silvery light into monstrous jaws, agape with jagged teeth.
Or so it seemed. Her imagination was on edge.
“What’s the hurry, Madame Dove?”
Siena whipped around, grabbing up a thin bamboo shaft from the sheaf of plant stakes by her side.
“I thought it was only barn owls that flew about at night.” Kirtland’s steps were as light as her own upon the mossy brick.
“When and where I choose to spread my wings is none of your concern, sir,” she replied. “What are you doing out?”
He set a fist on his hip. “You are aware of my penchant for midnight rides. I was feeling in need of clearing the port and cheroot smoke from my head, and was on my way to the stables when I saw a shape skulking through the bushes.” It appeared that he had imbibed his fair share of the spirits. His words were slightly slurred, and the spice of the wine and tobacco clung to his clothing. “I decided to follow, in order to make sure it was not a thief who was entering the castle.”
“I, too, was merely seeking a breath of fresh air.”
The arch of his raven brows was eloquent in its skepticism as he regarded her dark breeches and boots. “Dressed as a Death’s Head Hussar?”
With his hair curling around his collar and his emerald eyes catching the glint of the stars, Kirtland radiated the raw masculine magnetism that men like Dunster would kill to possess. Despite all her resolve, a spark of physical awareness flared back to life.
“One never knows when trouble will strike, sir.”
“True.” He, too, picked up one of the wooden rods and tested its flex. “You’ve spun a fine tale of loyalty and revenge. But how do I know that your real intention in corning to Marquand Castle is not to purloin the St. Sebastian Psalters?”
“And how do I know that you do not have the manuscripts secreted on you
r person?” She flicked the point of her stick at his caped coat and Hessians. “Perhaps you are about to gallop hell-for-leather to the coast, where a ship is waiting to whisk you off to the Continent with your stolen treasures.”
Kirtland stripped off his coat and dropped it on a swath of sod. “See for yourself,” he replied with a mocking bow.
Like her, he was clad in naught but breeches and a shirt. The collar was open, revealing a peppering of dark curls against his tanned flesh. With all that had happened throughout the day, she was not sure if she was sharp enough to engage in a duel of this sort. And when in doubt, the prudent move was a strategic retreat. “I concede that the books do not appear to be stuffed inside your clothing.”
A flash of unholy amusement lit in his eyes. Damn the man for looking so devilishly attractive when he chose to smile. “While I, in turn, am not so sure.” Quick as a cat, he slipped around the potting bench and stood in her path.
“Your shirt looks suspiciously full in certain parts.” His stick cut a swoosh through the air. “Perhaps I ought to demand a search.”
“I am in no mood for games, sir.”
“A strange comment coming from you, madam. I was under the impression that you are inordinately fond of games.”
“Step aside,” she muttered.
His stick came up to block her. Despite his uneven speech, his movements were sharp. “Care to make me? I seem to recall that we still have a challenge left to settle.”
Among other things.
“You seem quite sure of yourself in a mano a mano match of skills. Shall we put such confidence to the test?”
The opportunity was too tempting. He was offering an opening, a chance to attack when his guard was weakened by brandy. Fatigue was forgotten as she changed her mind about standing her ground.
He wished to provoke a match of skills? The challenge of seducing him into a slip was suddenly irresistible.
Her own wooden weapon come up to cross with his. “Very well—en garde”
“What rules do you desire?” he asked, parrying a girata.
“Name them.”
“What say you to a forfeit for every touch allowed?”
“Agreed.”
Kirtland ventured a lunge, which she easily blocked.
Dropping low, she sought to catch him off guard with an upward thrust, but he moved back with deceptive quickness, his booted feet light with a lethal grace.
“I doubt either of us will fall victim to such elementary moves,” he remarked, testing her reactions with a series of slow slashes.
She, too, took her time in probing for any weakness. They circled the bench and moved to a narrow strip of greensward bordering the walkway. “Perhaps not, but I do hold a distinct advantage, sir.”
“Indeed?”
“I am clearheaded, while you are clearly foxed.”
“On the Peninsula, one gains a great deal of experience in riding straight into battle after a night of carousing. The first clash of steel is a sobering sound.”
“I am curious, Lord Kirtland …” Thinking a pique to his pride might cause a more obvious opening, Siena pressed on. She was testing his temper as well, on the chance that he would make a verbal slip. “Were you drunk or sober when you disobeyed a direct order from your superior?”
He laughed softly. “What do you think?”
Siena didn’t answer.
“Have you ever faced death, madam?” he went on, evading her controcavione with maddening ease. “Ever taken your fencing skills from the practice yard to a field slippery with blood? Ever tested your precision with the screams of the dying echoing in your ears and the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder choking your lungs?”
Damn. How had he contrived to turn her own weapon against her?
“I’ve trained—”
His make-believe blade was suddenly naught but a dizzying blur. “All the training in the world would not save you now.” Its tip pressed hard against her breast.
“Touche.”
She knocked it away with the back of her hand. “It won’t happen again.”
“You wish another try?” He sketched a mocking salute. “I shall be happy to oblige you, but first you must give over your forfeit.”
Her cheeks, already flushed, flamed to a hotter shade of red. In her haste to take up the challenge, she had neglected to ask the terms. “Very well,” she snapped, resting a fist on her hip. “What is it you demand?”
A deadly grin glinted in the silvery light. “An item of clothing.” His weapon teased at the collar of her shirt. “I shall be a gentleman and leave it for you to choose.”
Siena drew in a breath to protest, then suddenly smiled.
“Or, you may simply concede defeat and leave the field of battle with your dress, if not your pride, intact.”
“The devil I will.” She tugged off a boot. A moment later the other one hit the turf.
Her balance would be better with both feet unshod. “Here, I shall award you a bonus for scoring the first hit. It shall be your last.”
Kirtland flipped the rod to his left hand. “Far be it for me to take advantage of a lady.”
A taunt. And she was reacting like an unfledged chick rather than a trained Merlin.
Da Rimini would be tearing his hair in despair. Non, non, non—you must slide to the left, then counter with a punta sopramano.
“Gentlemanly indeed,” she replied evenly. “However, the rules of engagement were that we fight on equal terms.” She, too, shifted the grip on her weapon. “If you wish to fight a sinistre, I shall do the same.”
He cocked his wrist. “The choice is yours.”
The rods crossed for an instant; then she spun to the side, angling a slash at his ribs. He blocked it, but only barely. Her bare feet flew over the damp turf. Over, under, over, under—her blade beat a methodical attack, forcing him to retreat to the edge of the grass. His gaze flicked
to the right, just for an instant. When he moved, she was ready.
Her rod caught his arm with a satisfying thwack.
“Tit for tat,” she murmured.
“I wouldn’t crow just yet, my Midnight Dove. The match is far from over.” Spearing his rod into the earth, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. “The vanquished party is the one who chooses whether to continue or not.”
The quickening of her pulse matched the flutter of white linen. His long locks tumbled in devil-may-care disarray around his ears, the curling ends grazing the slope of his shoulders. Muscles rippled as he reached for his weapon, and light flickered over the broad stretch of chest and narrow waist.
He was magnificently male. A fact he was shamelessly flaunting.
Had she lost sight of her real purpose in the heat of a more primal battle?
Focus, she reminded herself. The revelations she wanted from him were not physical.
He was watching her intently, and though his gaze was hooded, she thought she saw a peek of a smile.
Distractions were dangerous. Deliciously dangerous. She must stay on guard. “You wish another hit to your manly pride?”
“My manly pride is still well sheathed, madam. And I always take great care in guarding it from any low blows.”
She couldn’t bite back a laugh. “If I were you, I would not be so cocksure. I don’t play by the rules.”
“So I have noticed. I shall consider myself forewarned.” A stirring of the palm fronds hid his face for a moment. “Ready?”
“But of course.” Her hand tightened. She must keep her mind on technique and not the silky curls trailing down to the hard, flat belly and angled hip bones. The match became a pas de deux of martial skills. A sensual dance. As they traded thrusts and parries, Siena
was intimately aware of his whipcord strength, his leonine quickness. There was something exciting, erotic about the physical exertion. A sheen of sweat glistened on his chest, accentuating the fluid grace of his movements, the subtle contours of—
The prick of his point cau
ght her square on the hip.
“Damn!”
“Your filo falso is angled a bit too low. Hold your wrist a touch higher.”
“Il Lupino has cautioned much the same thing,” she muttered.
Kirtland fell back a step. “Allegretto Da Rimini?”
Porca miseria! She could hear the fencing master’s curses ringing in her ears. No more mistakes, Volpina.
Kirtland’s gaze was far more probing than his makeshift sword. “I was not aware that he had come to England.”
“Who said he had?” she countered quickly.
The earl was silent for a moment. “His training explains your extraordinary skills.Though it begs yet another question about your background.”
“Which I have no intention of answering, so don’t waste your breath.” Ruing her slip of the tongue, Siena sought to deflect any further scrutiny of her past. “As is my right, I demand a chance to even the score.”
“First you must yield the token of your defeat.”
Two could wield their bodies as a weapon. Time to regain the upper hand in this war of wills. “Right.” She leaned her rod against a potted palm and began loosening the fastenings of her breeches. With a slow, deliberate waggle of her hips, she peeled the buckskin down over her thighs and let the garment fall to the ground. “Satisfied?” she demanded, stepping out from the pooling of leather.
“For the nonce.” He assumed a nonchalant stance, but she read more than a casual interest in his oblique gaze. For all his austere angles and stony composure, the earl was not impervious to flesh-and-blood desire. “Ready?”
“Not quite yet.” Her shirttails hung loosely around her legs. “I need a moment to dispense with this distraction.” She secured the trailing linen in a knot at her waist, revealing a pair of lacy drawers that barely covered the curve of her derriere.
“Imp of Satan.” His eyes ran up the length of her legs and came to rest on the sliver of midriff showing between the two garments. “It appears I am caught in a devilish dilemma. Gentlemanly honor demands that I lose, while a baser instinct urges me to show no mercy.”
“Which shall win out?”
He cocked his head, throwing all but his mouth in shadow. “I warned you I was no true gentleman.”
The Spy Wore Silk Page 16
