Seduced by a Spy (5 page)

Damn.
He had yet another bone to pick with the prince. After his last mission, he had been counting on a well-deserved interlude of rest and recreation in Stockholm, rather than another difficult assignment. Frustrated, Orlov gave a baleful sigh. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed the intimate pleasures of the opposite sex.

As for combat…

He grudgingly admitted that Lynsley’s winged warriors were a match for any man.

Lithe, lovely, lethal.

It was a potent combination. No wonder that the few people who knew of Merlin’s Maidens waxed poetic on their unique talents.

He, on the other hand, was far too jaded to indulge in soulful stanzas. His world was crafted of steel and shadows, not sonnets. To yield a fraction to softer sentiment was a grave mistake for someone in his profession. As was now painfully clear.

Bloody hell.
What momentary madness had prompted him to risk his own skin for the female Fury? “Every man for himself” was the creed he had lived by for as long as he could remember. It was a little late for a change of heart.

Wincing, Orlov turned his face to the bulwark and sank deeper into a haze of fitful dreams.

Shannon looked down at the sleeping Russian. His fair hair was matted with salt and sweat, his jaw stubbled with whiskers that gleamed gold in the lamplight. Like points of fire. How could a man appear so devilishly handsome in a disheveled state, while she…

A reflection in the polished brass showed that she looked like hell.

Her lips curled in mocking irony. He, on the other hand, looked artistically pale, perfect. A gilded icon. Though she knew all too well that he was hardly a saint.

Indeed, he was Lucifer incarnate, she reminded herself sharply. A brimstone beast from the netherworld, breathing smoke and lies. It would be a cardinal sin to see him in any brighter light.

Orlov opened his eyes.

Embarrassed to be caught staring, Shannon forced a frown. “Finally awake, are you?” She fumbled with the flask of water. “Here, you must be thirsty.”

He accepted a draught with a murmur of thanks. “How kind. However, I would prefer port. A ten-year-old tawny, if possible, served with a selection of Stilton.”

“Hmmph.” She tried not to dwell on the supremely sensuous shape of his mouth, or the thick lashes fringing his eyes. “Swallow your sarcasm, sir.” She brushed a bedraggled lock from her cheek, reluctant to admit that his dry humor was rather amusing. “I’m not much in the mood for it.”

Orlov looked around the cramped confines of the cabin. “Forgive me. It appears my unexpected presence aboard this ship has created an uncomfortable situation for you.”

“You keep turning up where you are least wanted, Mr. Orlov. Which begs the question of how you came to pick such an isolated fortress as the target for your thievery.”

His gaze shuttered. “I had heard that O’Malley was hiding some special treasures. As you see, I wasn’t wrong.”

“You nearly paid dearly for them.”

“Great reward does not come without great risk.”

She was not about to let his glib parry deflect her probing for answers. “True. Nonetheless, it is quite strange that you somehow appear, as if by magic, at places whose treasures are not common knowledge.”

He turned to the shadows. “Not really. I make it my business to know about such opportunities.”

“What business is that, Mr. Orlov?”

“Like you,
golub
, I have my secrets.”

“It’s no secret that you are a thief. And word has it you make an obscene profit selling your ill-gotten gains.”

Orlov contrived to look injured. “The Earl of Kirtland got a bargain. He would have paid a great deal more had the books you speak of actually come up for auction.”

“They were not yours to sell.”

“Let us not haggle over the fine points of morality. I could have sold them for far more money to another collector.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Am I being subjected to an interrogation?” His eyes followed her movements as she took up a small knife. “Or perhaps an Inquisition.”

“The bandage must be changed regularly to avoid infection.” Shannon started to cut away the linen, trying hard not to touch his bare flesh. That his pithy retorts were every bit as appealing as his sculpted muscles was a fact she wished to keep under wraps.

He seemed to sense her discomfort and smiled. “How churlish of me to make light of your patience and kindness. You are truly an angel of mercy,
golub
. I pray that at some point, I may return the favor.”

“God, I devoutly hope not.” Lapsing into a surly silence, Shannon hurriedly applied a fresh dusting of basilicum powder and snugged a new length of linen around the wound.

Whether or not the Almighty heard her implied prayer, a soft rap on the door signaled that her daily reprieve from the cramped quarters—and the Russian’s company—was at hand.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air.”

Chapter Five

“Stop squirming, sir. You are not strong enough to sit up.”

His fever had broken during the night, and Orlov was already chafing to escape his sickbed. “Care to test that assumption,
golub
?”

“It would hardly be a fair fight,” she snapped. “Perhaps when you are at full strength.”

“Is that a challenge?” He couldn’t resist provoking her. With her color up and her eyes ablaze, she looked even more alluring.

“Take it as you will…” Shannon looked away. “With any luck, we won’t have any more of these chance encounters. It is not healthy.” She flexed her wrist. “For either of us.”

“I
did
apologize for our past encounter,” he murmured.

“Quite handsomely,” she conceded. “But be that as it may, you can’t deny that sparks fly when we rub together.” Turning back to small chart table, she resumed her writing.

The lamplight moved in a rhythmic dance across her profile. Though his head was still muzzy and his shoulder ached abominably, he held off from closing his eyes in order to study her features. It was, he realized, the first time he had had the chance to observe her at any leisure. Up until now, he had only seen her in violent action—a blur of spinning limbs and flashing steel.

In studious repose, her features were sharp cut, strong, yet surprisingly delicate. Like fine porcelain, her face had a luminous glow, highlighted by sultry green eyes that appeared an intriguing shade of smoky jade. Her nose was straight, in contrast to lushly full lips, whose soft curves invited the imagination to think of how they would taste, how they would feel.

Orlov felt his mouth go dry. There was something fascinating about her fierceness. She was quite unlike any female he had ever known. Which, given the swath he had cut through the boudoirs of Europe and England, was a number he did not care to count up. In truth, none had been very memorable. Women seemed to tumble so easily into his bed.

At that thought, his expression hovered between a grin and a grimace. She—when the devil would she tell him her name?—would put up an admirable fight on that score. Was that part of the challenge, the allure? God knows, he didn’t desire anything deeper from a woman than a fleeting coupling. Flesh entwined, then parting. Passion flaring hot, then cooling just as quickly to the ashes of memory.

Emotional entanglements?
That was only asking for trouble.

Distance, detachment.
Adhering to hard-and-fast rules was how one stayed out of danger.

Still, he could not help but remark, “Speaking of unfair advantage,
golub
, You know my name, but have yet to reveal your own.”

The faint scratch of her pen was the only answer.

“Perhaps, as Bonaparte did with his Creole bride, I shall simply christen you with a name of my own choosing.”

She snorted at the suggestion. “You are implying there is an intimacy between us? Hah!”

Stung by her scorn, Orlov frowned. “More a mutual respect, forged in the heat of combat. There is always a certain camaraderie between soldiers, even if they are on opposing sides.”

Shannon refused to look up from her paper. “There is
nothing
between us, Mr. Orlov.”

“Methinks the lady protests too much,” he murmured under his breath.

“Do not misquote Shakespeare.” She kept up her furious scribbling, pausing only long enough to slap a fresh page atop her pile.

“I assure you, the words are quite accurate. I studied English literature at Oxford.”

“I assure you, the sentiments are not. Though the fact may be a grievous blow to your vanity, not every female in Creation is longing to toss her skirts up for you.”

“Indeed. I have never seen
you
wearing aught but breeches.”

She flushed and fell silent. But not before muttering something that included the words “odious” and “ass.”

Still scowling, Shannon finished writing her report and read over the pages. Lynsley ought to be satisfied with the account. She had been thorough in recording all the details of the mission. Perhaps too thorough. It was a pity that Orlov’s presence had to be mentioned. Some things were best left unsaid.

Such as an inexplicable attraction to a rogue.

Was his allure yet another indication of her unsteady temperament?
By all rational measure, it made no sense. She fought for noble principles while he scavenged for personal gain. She should, by all rights, loathe him. And yet…

A groan, hardly more than a breath of air, gave her a guilty start. To be fair, the Russian was not all bad. He possessed a stoic courage and an ironic sense of humor. Not once had he complained of the pain, or the quirk of fate that had caused the bullet to rip through his flesh rather than hers.

Luck?
As Shannon fingered the silver charm beneath her shirt, she found herself wondering about that moment. What had moved Orlov to leap to her rescue?
A code of honor?
By his own admission, he had none. She made a face. Perhaps he had simply tripped in his haste to save his own skin.

But there was no point dwelling on uncomfortable abstractions when there were more practical matters to deal with. Setting aside her pen, she rose and reached for her knife. “This pains me more than it does you, Mr. Orlov. But it’s time to change your bandages.”

“I am always ready to rouse myself to your touch.”

“While I cannot wait to be done with the onerous task, duty demands I set personal feeling aside. Let us try to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

Catching her hand, Orlov turned it and kissed the inside of her wrist. “You wound me anew with your scorn,
golub
. Come, let us agree to be friends, at least for this fleeting interlude.”

Shannon was suddenly aware of a heat shooting through her. A strange fire, that threatened to melt her defenses. For a flickering instant, she found herself tempted to surrender to his suggestion. Then, coming to her senses, she yanked her fingers free. “You are wasting your charms, Mr. Orlov.”

Her skittishness provoked a smile from him. “Am I?” he murmured with a smoky seductiveness. His accent added an exotic edge that made her itch to touch the golden stubbling on his jaw. “I wager I could make you ask me to conquer you,
golub
,” he added, fixing her with a lazy, lidded gaze. The gleam of his pirate earring added a rakish wink.

“You are very sure of yourself,” she snapped.

“I know my desires. Do you?”

She didn’t answer.
What a ridiculous question
. Of course she knew what she wanted. Not him—that was for sure. The last thing she needed in her life was an arrogant, infuriating male.

Yet beneath the show of acerbic wit, was there a glimmer of some deeper emotion in his eyes? At certain moments, an odd sort of stirring seemed to peek through the cocksure banter.

Longing?
For what?

“If we are to be sequestered in each other’s company, we could at least try to converse.” His sardonic drawl cut short her musing. “Tell me something of yourself. What brought you to join Lord Lynsley’s flock?”

Shannon set her teeth. “I am not about to share the intimate details of my life with you, Mr. Orlov.”

“If I were seeking intimacies, I would know just where to find them,
golub
.”

“What you would find, sirrah, was your head handed to you on a platter.” Cutting through the twist of linen, she set it aside and reached for the jar of salve. “And stop calling me by that ridiculous name. It means ‘pigeon,’ does it not?”

“In Russian, it also means ‘dove.’” The low lamplight limned the nuanced curves of his mouth. A pliant, playful humor curled at its corners, at odds with the arctic chill that sometimes hardened his eyes to slivers of ice.
That
was a look that sent shivers down her spine. At the moment, however, there was naught but a faint twinkle. “It was meant as a peace offering of sorts. What would you prefer that I call you? Olive?”

Shannon bit back a snort, hoping she sounded angry, rather than amused. She did not wish him to know she found his irreverent teasings entertaining.

“I don’t imagine Olivia would be any more acceptable.”

“Indeed not. It reminds me of a spinster aunt, who makes herself useful by darning stockings.”

Orlov exaggerated a shudder. “I can imagine you engaged in many activities involving a pointed implement, but darning is not one of them.”

“Do you never tire of making sexual innuendoes?” she challenged. “If you are hoping to put me to blush, you are wasting your time. My sensibilities are not those of an innocent maiden.”

“And yet…” Steepling his fingers, Orlov ran his gaze the length of her body. “You
are
innocent.”

To her dismay, she felt her cheeks begin to burn. “You don’t know anything about me,” she replied. Even to her own ears, the retort sounded shrill. Covering her confusion, she turned away and took a book from her bag of supplies.

“Not your name, perhaps. But there are other elemental things that a woman expresses without words. They are in the way she moves, the way she smiles—”

“Bollocks,” she swore. “You see what you
want
to see, Mr. Orlov. And your vision is colored by your own hubris.” She snapped open the travelworn cover. “Don’t think for an instant that I will ever be impaled on your conceit.”

After a stretch of silence, he shifted in the narrow bunk. “If we can’t converse, then might I at least ask you to read aloud?”

“I doubt you would like the story. It offers a scathing satire on male pride.”

He angled a glance at the title. “And female prejudice, for in truth both sexes are skewered with the same ruthless wit.”

Surprised, Shannon looked up. “You are familiar with Miss Austen’s works.”

“As a matter of fact I find her observations on society immensely entertaining.”

She wondered if he was merely making sport of her as he added, “Miss Elizabeth Bennett reminds me a little of you. A bold young lady, unbowed by conventional expectations, unafraid of standing her ground.”

Shannon felt an odd fluttering in her fingertips.

“Would you agree that her one fault may be her tendency to rush to judgment?”

Her gaze fell back to the book. “I—I should not wish to venture an opinion until I have finished.”

“Ah. A wise strategy.” Lacing his hands behind his head, Orlov closed his eyes. “Then let me not keep you from enjoying the story.”

Shannon turned the page. “Oh, very well,” she muttered. “‘
There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well . .
.’”

Orlov settled back against his pillow, enjoying the play of light over her face as she read. Like the story, her features offered a compelling play of nuanced emotions. He found himself even more intrigued by her expressions than by Miss Austen’s words. For all her beguiling character, Elizabeth Bennett was no match for the flesh-and-blood female who was sharing his cramped quarters. He was acutely aware of her, though she edged her stool as far away from his berth as possible. Heat prickled across the narrow sliver of space.

She was still angry. He had come to recognize the subtle signs of her ire—the tilt of her chin, the flare of her gaze, the exact crimson shade of her flush. However ungentlemanly it was to admit it, he had gone out of his way to provoke her. He liked her show of fighting spirit. He imagined she would not back down from a duel with Satan himself, if the devil dared to displease her.

“Am I boring you?” Shannon looked up abruptly.

“You are a great many things, but never boring, my dear.”

Her eyes flashed like daggerpoints.

“Before you take offense, allow me to say that I meant it as a compliment.”

“I would rather you keep your flirtations to yourself,” she replied. “Along with your hands.”

He cocked his head. “What are you afraid of?”

“Not you,” she shot back. “Nor any man.”

“No,” he agreed. “I would guess that your own inner demons are a far more dangerous opponent.”

Shannon laughed, but its echo sounded a bit hollow against the oak planking. “The opium has addled your wits, sir. You are talking nonsense.”

“Then why are your cheeks turning such a delightful shade of pink?”

“Because you would test the patience of a saint. And God knows, I have little heavenly tolerance. I am not known for suffering fools gladly.”

“I can well imagine that you have a temper,” he murmured. “And a short fuse to setting it off.”

His comment sparked a snort. “Bloody hell.” She kicked back from the chart table, but could not stalk more than several strides before coming up against the door. Spinning around in frustration, she flung herself onto her own berth. “Imagine what you wish. Since you seem to prefer your own fantasies to Miss Austen’s fiction, I won’t bother to keep on reading aloud.”

Orlov immediately regretted that his teasing had caused her to lapse into an angry silence. He had been enjoying the melody of her voice more than he cared to admit. It had a lushness to it—like her hair, it reminded him of sun-dappled honey, rich with a nuanced texture and hue.

Swallowing a sardonic reply, he said softly, “Forgive me. I should not vent my own foul temper on you. If I promise to refrain from further interruption, might I ask you to continue,
golub
?”

Shannon hesitated, but after a long moment sighed. “Very well. And I suppose I might as well tell you my name, if only to avoid being called
golub
for the entire trip. It is Shannon.”

As he let the words wash over him, Orlov could not helping thinking that perhaps she was right. The narcotic was doing strange things to his brain. Not only had it dulled the pain of his wound, but it had also affected his usual sense of detachment. How else to account for the inexplicable allure of a feisty female Fury? One who would rather slice out his liver than read him a novel.

He turned to the bulkhead, but even with his eyes closed, he could not put her out of his mind.

Fire and ice.
By all conventional rules of chemistry, the combination should fizzle, rather than ignite an explosive attraction. Damn. As soon as the drug wore off, he would be back to his normal self.