Seduced by a Spy (12 page)

“What a bouncer,” hissed Shannon as the dowager tapped her way down the hallway. “How did you ever come up with those stories?”

He fixed her with an inscrutable look. “What makes you think they are lies?”

“Oxford?” She said it with pronounced skepticism.

“Merton College, to be more precise. Professor Henry Gilmartin is a renowned scholar on the Socratic tradition.”

“I thought…”

“Think what you will.”

He was right, of course. She really knew nothing about him, save for the bare-bones facts of his last few exploits. It had been her own imagination that had fleshed out the man. Assumption had shaped his character, sculpted his features to fit her own perceptions.
Art and reality
. She had painted a portrait of him in her head. Maybe she needed to look a bit more closely at the actual shape of her subject.

“Have I a bit of haggis on my chin?”

Caught staring, Shannon quickly looked back down at her notebook and resumed sketching a floor plan of the manor house. Yet somehow the pencil moved from the straight lines and right angles of the walls to scribing a fanciful curling of squiggles. A lock of hair took shape, then an ear, a nose, a sinuous curving of lips.
Damn
. Her impulsive doodlings were likely no more accurate than the other views. Her skills were too clumsy, his character too complex to capture on paper.

“Anyone I should know?” He had moved swiftly, silently across the carpet. “With fangs like that, it looks to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or, perhaps, the other way around.”

She snapped the pages shut. “We have wasted enough time in frivolous banter. The moon is full tonight. I mean to make a more careful survey of the grounds and see if I can spot any signs of surveillance.”

“I’ll come along. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“No.” Her objection was a touch shrill. Somehow his closeness caused her body to tighten, her breath to quicken. “We ought not leave the children’s rooms unguarded. In fact, we had better be extra vigilant. There was no sign that the window had been tampered with, but it was a chilling reminder that D’Etienne can strike at any moment.” She drew a deep breath. “In the morning, we ought to see about setting up a series of trip wires to signal an alarm in one of our bedchambers. It won’t be easy with children and the animals, but some of the access points can be covered.”

A change came over Orlov. Subtle but sure. He no longer looked the lounging drawing room rake. His body tautened, taking on a coiling of muscle, a predatory alertness that sharpened his gaze to a frightening intensity.
A wolf
. Though he had left off wearing the gold earring, its bared fangs seemed to glint from the loosened strands of hair.

“I’ll go, while you keep a watch over the corridors,” he said. “I am at home prowling over wild hills such as these.”

“I’m quite capable of making my way over the moors,” she said tartly. “As you should well know.”

His eyes narrowed at the reference to Ireland. “I recall your exploits. Just as I recall that in hand-to-hand combat,
I
was the one who came out on top.”

Their gazes locked, a silent clash of steel and will.

“Damnation,” he said softly, seeing that neither of them was willing to flinch. “Let us not be at daggers drawn with each other, Shannon. Pride must give way to pragmatism. I am asking you to be reasonable—I am not questioning your strength or skills. But if you look at the situation with a dispassionate eye, you have to agree that it makes more sense for me to venture out while you stay here. Both tasks are equally important.” He paused. “If we are to make this mission successful, we must work together.”

She wished she could counter his logic, but no arguments came to mind. “Very well. But let us set a time for the surveillance. An hour should be sufficient. If you haven’t returned by then, I will assume the worst and act on one of our alternative plans.”

“If I fail to come back, don’t try to be a bloody hero. Get the children and Lady Octavia into the carriage as quickly as possible and drive hell for leather to your comrade’s inn at Dornach.” Orlov took her arm, lightly, but Shannon was aware of the force pulsing from his fingertips. Beneath the casual show of grace, they were hard, callused from constant contact with roughened steel. “Despite what you may think of me personally,
golub
, I am very good at what I do.”

“I trust that is so.”
Trust
. Lynsley’s word echoed in her ears, a chill reminder that she must always be on guard.

“It is.” Releasing her, Orlov turned for the hallway, moving quickly, quietly. In an instant he was naught but a blur in the shadows.

Shannon crossed her arms, goosebumps prickling her flesh. The draperies fluttered, mirroring the strange shiver running down her spine. She was suddenly glad he was not stalking her.

Whatever his faults—and they were legion—Orlov was a formidable adversary.

Mano a mano.

She hoped it would not once again come down to that.

Chapter Twelve

Orlov looked over Prescott’s copybook exercises. “Excellent. Your penmanship is already quite good.” A dappling of sunlight from the mullioned schoolroom window danced across the page. “We will move on to a longer passage… but not until the morrow.” He capped the bottle of ink. “I think we have had enough scholarly lessons for the day. Care to try your hand at some more vigorous activity?”

The lad moved like a flash to put his books back on the shelves.

Chuckling, Orlov set the box of pens and rulers beside the varnished globe and followed his pupil down to the gardens.

“Are we going to learn to duel with pirate cutlasses?” asked Prescott eagerly.

“Not just yet, Blackbeard. As we are landlocked at present, let us begin with some other skills.” Seeing the lad’s face fall, he added, “Boxing and riding will come in very handy when you go ashore seeking plunder.”

The thought seemed to cheer up Prescott considerably. “Aye, aye, sir. Where do we start?”

Orlov spelled out a program of drills. There was an ulterior motive to the games he had planned. It wouldn’t hurt to have the children trained in the rudiments of self-defense. An unexpected move, a sudden twist or slip, might take even a trained killer like D’Etienne by surprise. It could even mean the difference between life and death.

Stripping off his coat, Orlov demonstrated a few balancing exercises before moving on to the basics of throwing a punch. “Hold your hand just so, Master Prescott.” His fist angled upward. “And jab with the knuckles. Here and here. Hard as you can.” He straightened. “Now you try.”

“Like that, sir?” Prescott’s blow landed flush on target.

“Exactly,” he wheezed. “Try it again. It’s a useful trick to know if, say, a stranger ever seeks to grab hold of you.”

“And as you can see, Emma, it is quite effective, even against a far bigger opponent.” Shannon and her student stepped out from the shadows of the boxwood hedge. “I do hope you are not suffering too many bruises, Mr. Oliver.”

Orlov hadn’t heard them approach. He looked up, rubbing at his ribs. “Only to my pride,” he murmured as she held out a hand and helped him to his feet. “This bloodthirsty buccaneer would put Captain Morgan to flight.”

Prescott grinned. “Will you show me another punch?”

“On the morrow, lad. For now, go practice the balance exercises I just demonstrated while I have a word with Miss Sloane.”

“Mr. Oliver is going to teach me some riding tricks, too,” confided Prescott to his sister. “I want to learn how to flip backward off of a galloping horse.”

“Let’s not put the tail before the head, lad. That will take a good deal of practice,” said Orlov wryly.

Emma slipped free of Shannon’s hand and ran over to him. There was, he noted, an elfin, ethereal air about her. Finespun curls, pale as northern moonlight, danced in disarray from her loosened braid, framing porcelain features and light blue eyes whose hue was soft as a rainwashed dawn. She might have been a swirl of Celtic fairy mist, save for the look of fierce resolve peeking out from the fringe of quicksilver lashes.

“Will you show me, too, sir?” she demanded.

He smiled inwardly. The similarities between the newly paired teacher and student were uncanny—the same jutting chin, the same stubborn stance, the same utter fearlessness.

“If Miss Sloane agrees,” he answered, lifting her into his arms. Her skinny little body felt so fragile against his chest.
Vulnerable
. Overpowered by a sudden surge of anger that anyone might threaten such an innocent life, Orlov hugged her tighter, breathing in the fresh scent of lavender soap as her fairy curls brushed his cheek. “However, like your brother, you will have to prove yourself ready for such a feat of acrobatics.”

Emma’s hands fisted in his collar. She looked up, shy, solemn, and nodded.

Orlov smoothed a smudge of dirt from the tip of her nose. Then, suddenly embarrassed at his odd reaction to her tentative smile, he tossed her high up in the air, catching her in tangle of muslin and wool. “It will take a good deal of hard work,” he said gruffly, bringing her back down to earth, “before either of you are ready to attempt it.”

Emma straightened, trying to look very tall. “I can keep up with Scottie, I know I can.”

“Then go with your brother and have him show you the exercises I taught him.”

Shannon, meanwhile, had perched a hip on the stone wall and was eyeing him with an odd expression. “Is your shoulder troubling you? I saw you grimace just now.”

Damn
. She didn’t miss much.

“Not at all,” he replied somewhat snappishly.

Her brow quirked slightly at his tone, but she merely asked, “How are you finding the duties of a tutor?”

“More exhausting than jumping through hoops at Astley’s,” he admitted. “Are children always so energetic?”

She cocked her head. “Have you not had much experience with them?”

“God, no.” He exaggerated a grimace.

“Yet you seem to have an excellent rapport. I would have guessed that you had younger siblings.”

He shook his head. “Nor any progeny of my own—that I know of.” The offhand words quickly chased the smile from her lips. “The truth is, I’ve no idea how to treat the bantlings, other than as I would any adult.”

“Which is what they prefer.” Her voice was taut, all trace of camaraderie banished by his rakish remark.

Orlov had known the comment would be like steel striking flint. Why did he wish to throw up a shower of sudden sparks when the heat between them had shown signs of banking to a comfortable glow?

He backed up a step, under the pretense of watching Prescott and Emma trip through one of the exercises in footwork. Perhaps because of late he had experienced the oddest longing for a steady warmth that would penetrate to the bone. It was, he knew, a dangerous desire. In his profession, it was a grave mistake to get too cozy.

“On your toes,” he called loudly, though he might well be speaking to himself. “And the key is to focus on some point in the distance, not the earth at your feet.”

Avoiding Shannon’s eyes, Orlov scanned the hills. No sign of the enemy. Unless he was looking in the wrong direction.

Perhaps he ought to be staring at his own traitorous soul. From the very beginning, he had been plagued with questions about this mission, doubts about his powers of detachment.

Was his nerve finally failing him?

Looking back to the children, he suddenly felt old. And unsure of whether he was the best man for this job. When he had set out for Ireland, his fears were that he had grown too jaded to care about anything anymore. Now, he worried that perhaps he had come to care too much.

Rubbing absently at his shoulder, he dismissed his leaden spirits as an aftereffect of his most recent brush with death. His resilience was not yet at full strength, and no doubt that was why he was feeling such a strange churning of emotion. Perhaps the bullet had been an uncomfortable reminder of his own mortality. A life with precious little of value to show for it. He had always been a devil-may-care rogue, reveling in his freedom. The notion of domesticity had always sent shudders through every fiber of his being.

To feel an unaccountable need to keep two orphans—no, three—safe was… absurd.

That Shannon’s closeness—her long-legged lean body, her sweetly seductive scent—stirred a more potent fire than mere protectiveness was also chafing at his resolve. Balefully aware of his physical reaction, a tightening, a yearning that he was unable to control, Orlov shifted his stance, until his back was nearly turned to her. All that accomplished was to stir a sharp prickling between his shoulder blades.

“If you will stand watch here a little longer, I will take a walk around the gardens and finish connecting the trip wires around the terrace.” Shannon’s brusque tone jarred him from his mordant reveries. “Any breach of the perimeter will now set off a small bell in my bedchamber. I take it you mean to continue with your nightly patrols?”

“Yes.” After all, he was at more at home walking in the dark shadows than in the light of day.

“I have made a map of the ridge above the stables, showing where the crumbling rock has turned the path treacherous. I shall slide a copy under your door. The dangers would be easy to miss in the dark.”

Orlov imagined her head bent over her notebook, the spill of tresses exposing the graceful arch of her neck.
Damn his rebellious body
. A wolf and lioness—no wonder that the fur should fly.

His breath, rough with a repressed curse, escaped in a low growl.

Shannon stiffened, interpreting the sound as a reprimand. “Any other precaution you wish to suggest?”

“Not for the moment. We are doing all we can. Let us wait and see what the next few days bring.”

Rain.
Shannon brushed the sodden locks from her cheeks and ducked away from the torrential downpour. The slate-gray clouds, blowing in from the North Sea, had brought with them a lashing wind, sharp as slivered stone. Her cloak was scant protection from its cutting edge. She quickened her steps, just as a gust nearly knocked her off her feet. Frigid water pooled along the graveled path. Already her half boots were soaked through, numbing her toes to the bone.

Only a madman would venture out in such a storm, she thought, knowing the trip to the stables had been an exercise in futility. She hadn’t really expected to find D’Etienne lurking in the stalls. But she had been too restless to remain indoors for yet another day, staring at the impenetrable muddle of mists.

The moors were not the only surroundings shrouded in gloom. Orlov had unaccountably wrapped himself in an arctic silence, an enigmatic solitude. He had been avoiding all but the most cursory of conversations with her. Not that she had any desire to deepen their friendship—if the uneasy truce could be described as such.

Circumstances had made strange bedfellows of them. Just as quickly as the Scottish weather, the enforced intimacy could change to an adversarial confrontation. Shannon tightened her grip on her windswept hood. Along with his vocal support of forming a strategic alliance with Russia, Lord Lynsley had, in private, added a last whisper of warning. If the partnership with St. Petersburg did not live up to its promises, it was up to her—and her alone—to look out for England’s interests.

Friend or foe.
Perhaps Orlov was right in keeping her at arm’s length. Emotion could not be allowed to cloud duty. And well she knew that her own ungovernable passions might well be her worst enemy.

Wrenching open the scullery door, Shannon shrugged out of her dripping cloak and wet stockings, determined to shed her black mood as well. With the school lessons done for the day and Orlov keeping watch over the children, she was free for another hour or two. She meant to put the time to good use, studying the local maps she had found in the library. Strategy was often dictated by surroundings. In a battle of wits with the deadly Frenchman, she meant to leave no stone unturned.

Laughter drifted out from the open drawing room doors. Though barefoot and shivering in her damp dress, Shannon paused in the hallway to peek in. Orlov was teaching the children to play chess while Lady Octavia napped by the blazing fire. A hard lump started to form in her throat, but she quickly swallowed any regrets at having no home, no family, apart from the Academy.

It wasn’t often that she let herself think about her early life in the slums of St. Giles. Even now, the memories were painful, like daggerpoints prickling against her flesh. Scavenging for scraps of food in the alleys. Sleeping in cellars teeming with other urchins and lice. And sharpest of all, fending off the predators who saw small girls as fair game. Fear had been the one constant companion through those years. Other friends had fallen victim to illness, to—

Enough.
Shannon closed her eyes for an instant.

Life was unfair, but at least she was trained to fight back.

Unlike Scottie and Emma, she had had her innocence stripped away at a young age. Which was all the more reason she would give her life to protect them. No matter the cost.

Another giggle, this one from Emma as Orlov whispered some secret in her ear.

Shannon was surprised that he was so kind with children. She wondered whether his offhand remark on progeny was true. Or did he have babes… a towheaded son with blue eyes, a little Nordic princess with a smile that could slay dragons.

Her heart lurched. Oh, why was she torturing herself over the cursed man? He was a rake, a rogue who by his own admission cared for little in life but himself. This was simply another job. For which he was undoubtedly being well paid.

“Ha, sir, I have your knight surrounded!” She saw Prescott push an ivory pawn to a black square.

“Ah, but you are forgetting that a skilled rider can spur over the most daunting obstacles.” Much to the children’s delight, Orlov picked up the carved horse and rider and tossed it up in an arcing somersault before plucking it out of the air. “Of all the players on the chessboard, the knight is the one who can attack from different angles. You must always keep a sharp eye on its moves.”

As he set the ebony figure back in place, he slanted a look at the shadowed doorway.

A challenge? A warning?

Their gazes met for an instant before Shannon turned away.

She was halfway down the hallway when she heard soft footfalls behind her. There was no mistaking the sure step, the long stride.

“Anything to report?”

Shannon shoved back the snarl of hair from her forehead, suddenly aware that she must look like a drowned marmot. Her nerves already on edge, she was about to snap a sharp rebuke when she saw his face. In the low, smoky flicker of oil sconces, the smudged shadows under his eyes looked more like bruises, and the lines at the corners of his mouth dug deeper than just a few days ago.

“Come to my room,” she said softly. “I have a balm that will help ease the pain of your wound.”

“Which one?”

He suddenly sounded weary, his usual self-confidence worn thin. She had grown so accustomed to his air of arrogance that the note of uncertainty took her aback.