Seduced by a Spy (18 page)

A strange choice of words. He looked up sharply. Or had all the waiting and watching pulled his nerves to the snapping point?

“De Villiers,” she added. “Arnaud has been insufferable in asserting that the ladies do not stand a chance against the gentlemen. I am counting on you to give us an extra advantage.”

“An unfair advantage,” called Talcott as he peeled off his coat. “There was nothing said about expert advisors. It seems unsporting of you, Sylvia… unless, of course, Miss Sloane would like to offer us her services.”

“You don’t need a governess, Mr. Talcott,” replied Shannon.

“Indeed, let us not be childish in quibbling over the fine points of the competition,” said De Villiers. “We are willing to take our chances against Mr. Oliver,
mes amies
. Aren’t we?”

The thrum of a bowstring punctuated the rustling of the leaves. “Yes, let us see just how well the tutor translates theory into practice.” Jervis snapped off another imaginary shot, then waved a mocking salute at Orlov. “Would your protégés care to go first?”

“Why not?” Lady Sylvia stepped to the line and held out her hand.

Drawing several arrows from the quiver, Orlov sighted down each shaft in turn before choosing one. “The breeze is blowing in from the right. I would factor in at least a hand’s span to your aim,” he murmured.

Sylvia fingered the feathers, then nocked it in place. In one smooth movement, she drew back the bowstring, drew a bead on the bull’s eye, and let fly.

“Oh, bravo!” Helen clapped. Sylvia’s shot looked to have lanced through the target just outside dead center.

“Your turn, Lord Jervis,” said Orlov. “You will be hard-pressed to equal the lady’s shot.”

Jervis pretended not to hear the barb as he fussed over his choice of arrows. When he finally made his selection and took aim, his hands were surprisingly steady.

Interesting, noted Orlov. So the London lord was able to keep anger from interfering with his performance.

A sharp
whoosh
signaled his shot. A moment later, the arrow hit home, matching Lady Sylvia’s accuracy.

“A point for the gentlemen,” announced the comte as Jervis strutted away from the line.

Neither Helen nor De Villiers could come closer than the outer ring. Annabelle and her brother missed the target completely.

Another round ended with nearly the same results.

“Archery is hot work.” Talcott patted his flushed face with his handkerchief. “Shall we take a break for lemonade?”

“And perhaps a quick review on the basics of grip and aim,” said comte dryly.

“Will you show me how to hold a bow, Mr. Oliver?” It was Emma who asked, earning a look of undisguised annoyance from Annabelle, who had just opened her mouth to make the same request.

“Very well, my dear.” Orlov dusted a bit of powdered sugar from his hands. “Finish your biscuit and then let us move over there, behind the apple trees, where we won’t disturb the adults.”

“I should be happy to offer my advice, Miss Annabelle,” said De Villiers. “Seeing as your advisor has deserted you.”

Jervis spread a blanket, removed his coat, and loosened his Belcher neckerchief. “Come have some lemonade, Sylvia. We have no need to sharpen our prowess.”

“A temporary truce? Oh, very well.” She accepted the proffered glass and sat down beside him. “Miss Sloane, would you be so kind as to bring the baskets over here.”

It was not phrased as a request, but Shannon made no objection. After giving Prescott permission to climb into the branches of the shade tree, she dutifully set to work laying out the collation of cold meats and bread.

“Mr. Oliver.” A tug on his hand brought his gaze back to Emma. “I am ready. May I try a shot at the target?”

“First you must show me that you have mastered the basics of handling a bow.” Orlov flexed the length of yew, which was half again as tall as she was. “Then you must be able to draw the string.”

Her chin rose. “I’m very strong.”

“And very determined.” He laughed. “For now, I shall show you the proper grip. Later, we shall see if we can find a more suitably sized weapon in the attics. Then you and Scottie can have your own competition.”

She flashed a gap-toothed grin, seemingly satisfied with the compromise, and carefully wiped her palms on her skirts.

“Put your hand here,” he instructed. “And here.”

Emma’s stubby little fingers struggled to keep the bow upright.

“Try again,” he murmured. But much as he tried to pay attention to her efforts, Orlov found himself distracted by the rising discord between Annabelle and De Villiers.

They seemed to be arguing over some fine point of technique. The girl’s voice turned from a tone of whining to outright defiance, and the comte was clearly losing his patience. He snapped a sharp rebuke and out of the corner of his eye, Orlov saw her try to jerk away. Both were gripping the feathered end of the arrow, while its tip cut a dizzying pattern through the air.

“Fie, sir. I really don’t need any more pointers from you,” cried the young lady.

Annabelle Talcott would do well to listen to someone, he thought. Before she got herself into real trouble. But neither her sister nor her brother appeared to be paying her ill-mannered outburst any heed.

A giggle drew his wandering attention back to Emma. He smiled and shifted her fingers on the bow, but for some reason, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Puzzled, Orlov angled a quick look over to the nearby woods. An inner alarm warned that a threat was lurking nearby. Yet nothing seemed amiss.

“Watch out!” It was Shannon’s voice, sharp as steel.

Orlov ducked, knocking away the bow and instinctively shielding the child with his body. For a moment, he heard only the soft swish of the long grass, the gentle rustlings of the leaves, and Emma’s squeak of protest.

Then the sound of racing feet.

He tensed and twisted, trying to spot the danger. He saw a blur of brown skirts, Shannon’s spinning limbs…

His own arms and legs suddenly went numb as Annabelle screamed, “It slipped!”

At the same instant, Shannon dove, flattening him to the ground. The buzz of the arrow, like an angry bee, cut through the roaring of blood in his ears. He was dimly aware of fabric ripping.

“For a man with no claim to sainthood, you came perilously close to playing the role of Sebastian.” Shannon rolled off his back and sat up.

He saw a small gash on her arm through the torn sleeve. “So you rushed in where angels should fear to tread? Damnation, that was dangerous—”

She tugged down her cuff. “A critique of my tactics can wait until later.” Her voice dropped a notch. “Let us make light of the incident. There is no sense in frightening the children.”

A reminder to keep an emotional distance from the danger?
Orlov knew she was right, but the soft stirring of Emma’s fragile little body against his chest made detachment impossible. His heart was still pounding with a fury that threatened to fracture his ribs.

Never had he faced such a diabolical adversary. He felt helpless fighting shadows and suspicions. It seemed that any one of the London party—including a spoiled young miss—must be viewed as a threat.

But perhaps the most dangerous enemy of all was himself. This mission had become personal. Was his nerve finally betraying him?

A sidelong glance at Shannon sharpened his resolve. Time enough after this mission to decide whether the moment had come to hang up his dagger. Right now, he had a job to finish.

Red-faced and gasping for breath, Jervis and De Villiers were the first to reach them.

“Good Lord, is the child hurt?” demanded Jervis as he dropped to his knees in the tall grass.

“No. Thanks to Miss Sloane,” said Orlov, his body still clenched in a protective cocoon around Emma.

“Mr. Oliver, Mr. Oliver, let me out! I don’t like this game!” came a muffled little voice.

He unbent enough to allow her face to peek out over his arms. “You are right, elf. It’s a silly game. We won’t play it again.”

“Mr. Oliver is more used to rough-and-tumble wrestling with boys,” said Shannon, gently lifting Emma from his grip. “Here, let me wipe a smudge from your cheek.”

Suddenly reminded of Prescott, Orlov jerked his gaze along the edge of the orchard, finally spotting the lad still in his perch overlooking the picnic.

“Scottie, come down from the crow’s nest,” he called. “Our ship is about to set sail for home.”

Talcott huffed to a halt, trailed by the ladies.

“I—it was an accident,” cried Annabelle, her voice wavering between fear and defiance. “Monsieur De Villiers wouldn’t let go of my hand. I—I didn’t mean—”

Shannon silenced her with a stare. “No hysterics, please. None of us imagines you did it on purpose.” Turning to Helen, she said, “Kindly take your sister away and wave a bottle of vinaigrette under her nose if she is in danger of fainting.”

The two Talcott ladies retreated in a swish of silks and sobs.

“I had better go and see if I can keep the floodgates from bursting,” growled their brother. He blotted the sheen of sweat from his brow. “Bloody hell. There are times that I think the chit is more trouble than she is worth.”

“Miss Annabelle has an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate,” said the comte tersely. His face was so bloodless it looked as if it was carved from marble. “And to allow her violent emotions to go unchecked. I feared her temper was getting out of hand and was trying to remove the weapon from her grasp.” A flicker of his gaze was the only sign of his own emotion. “Are you sure the child is unharmed?”

“Quite.” As he spoke, Orlov signaled a silent warning to the comte to say no more about the danger in front of the little girl.

Lady Sylvia looked shaken, but her eyes were on Shannon rather than Emma. “Where did you learn such astounding moves, Miss Sloane? I swear, I’ve never seen such a display of acrobatics—not even at Astley’s Circus. You flew over that wall as if on wings.”

“It was nothing nearly so dramatic. In the heat of an emergency, everything seems to be moving fast. Things often become blurred.”

Orlov knew it was no such thing. He, too, had seen her hit the wall at a dead run, vault into a spinning handspring flip, and land on her feet without missing a stride. An instant later, she had flung herself forward, flattening him and Emma in the nick of time. The arrow had whizzed by harmlessly. Or nearly so. The cut on her arm looked to be only a scratch.

“And yet you sound so calm, mademoiselle,” observed the comte. “As if you have a great deal of experience in handling a crisis.”

Shannon answered without hesitation. “I am a governess, Monsieur De Villiers, so of course I am trained to deal with all sorts of contingencies.” She smoothed a tangle of hair from Emma’s cheek. “Dealing with children is a dangerous assignment. They are always straying into trouble, so I have been taught to always stay on guard.”

“Ah. Of course. When you put it that way, it makes a great deal of sense.” De Villiers inclined a slight bow. “You are a credit to your training. mademoiselle.”

Lady Sylvia looked less sure. Eyes darting from Shannon to Jervis, she bit at her lip. “No amount of training can explain how you managed to outrace an arrow.”

“Indeed not,” replied Shannon. “I had a quite a head start. Seeing how erratic Annabelle’s actions were, I had a feeling that an accident was about to happen. So I decided to take action, no matter how foolish I might look. Better safe than sorry.”

Jervis placed a hand on Lady Sylvia’s shoulder. But whether it was meant as a comfort or a warning was unclear. The London lord had turned just enough to hide his expression.

“It was quick thinking on your part,” replied Orlov. He rose to meet Prescott and swung the boy into his arms.

“What happened, Mr. Oliver? Miss Annabelle is crying and her brother is saying a number of bad words.”

“A small accident. But unlike a stalwart Scottish lassie, the London lady is easily overset.”

“
I
didn’t turn into a watering pot,” piped up Emma to her brother. “Not even when Mr. Oliver tumbled on top of me.”

“Aye. I daresay you have proved that you are tough enough to fall off a horse. If you show equal resolve in finishing your daily lessons, we shall have a first riding lesson this afternoon.”

“Hooray!”

As the children began a delighted discussion of what tricks they wished to learn, Orlov added a low aside to the London party. “I trust you gentlemen will see to everything here. Whether you choose to finish your game—”

“La, how can you even suggest such a thing!” Lady Sylvia leaned a bit more heavily on Jervis. “I can’t bear the idea of touching those horrid weapons again.”

For once, Jervis did not take umbrage at Orlov’s addressing him as an equal. “Calm yourself, Sylvia. We shall call the contest a draw, and take our picnic down to the loch.”

“An excellent suggestion,” said the comte. “The sound of the waters and a sip of the excellent Moselle wine we have packed in the hampers will do wonders in soothing everyone’s nerves.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Pour yourself another whisky, Mr. Oliver. And one for Miss Sloane.”

It was late, but the dowager had insisted that they join her for a glass of spirits in the private study adjoining her bedchamber.

“I think I have had enough,” said Shannon, though the mellow warmth did feel good inside her.

“Bollocks,” said Lady Octavia. “Trust me, gel, after a nasty shock, strong Scottish malt is the best medicine. One more shot won’t hurt.”

She flinched slightly at the word.

“An unfortunate turn of phrase, milady, considering what transpired earlier today. But I heartily second the sentiment,” murmured Orlov. “
Za Zdorovie
.”

The dowager replied in Gallic before tossing back a sip of the spirits. “What the devil
really
happened this morning?”

Shannon stared into the dregs of her glass. The whisky’s heat began to burn in her throat. “I wish I could say.” A glance at Orlov elicited no immediate comment. It wasn’t like him to be at a loss for words, but then, he had been strangely quiet since the incident. “From where I was, I could not tell just how much control De Villiers had of the arrow. It’s possible he aimed at Emma and Mr. Oliver on purpose, but I can’t say for sure.” She sighed. “As for the alternative, I confess that Miss Annabelle seems the most unlikely of the group to be a threat.”

Orlov finally roused himself from his reveries and spoke up. “Don’t be so sure the chit is harmless.” He made a face. “I took her aside for a bit of flirtation, and was lucky to escape with my virtue intact. After thrusting her tongue inside my mouth, she all but forced my hand up her skirts.” He was making a joke of it, but the deep lines cutting out from his eyes belied the bantering tone. “I had better put a lock on my door, lest the grasping little minx make another attempt to strip away my innocence.”

Something was bothering him, but she decided to match his sardonic nonchalance for the moment. Orlov did not seem to react well to sympathy. He turned snappish, as if unused to any kindness. Shannon bit back a sigh. She supposed the same could be said for her.

“I imagine it’s been ages since you had any such tender feeling to lose, Mr. Oliver,” she said dryly.

“Alexandr,” he reminded her over the dowager’s throaty chuckle. “I thought we had agreed to dispense with formalities.”

“It appears you have quite enough intimacies on your hands, sir. Let us stay at arm’s length, so to speak.”

His dark mood seemed to lighten somewhat as they traded quips. “Ah, and here I though we were bosom beaus.”

Lady Octavia’s snort of laughter ended in a wink of amber and cut glass as her gaze moved from Shannon to Orlov. “Your real name is Alexandr?” she asked as she sipped her Highland malt.

“It is.”

“A fine, sturdy name. It suits you.” The dowager’s eyes swung back to Shannon. “And yours?”

She hesitated before answering. “Shannon.”

“Irish, eh? I thought there was a spark of Celt in you.”

Her shoulders lifted in a brusque shrug. “Haven’t the foggiest idea what—or who—I really am. Shannon is merely a…”

“A
nom de guerre
,” said Orlov softly.

“That is as good an explanation as any,” she said curtly.

Behind her spectacles, Lady Octavia’s eyes blinked. “You don’t know your real name?”

She shook her head.

“Or your background?”

“My background was a muddy alleyway in the stews of St. Giles. Let us leave it at that.” It was her turn to withdraw into herself.

Rising, she stalked to the window and surveyed the gardens. The room suddenly seemed too close, too confining. “Time to make the nightly patrol. I’ll take the first turn.”

Orlov excused himself as well. But once back in his rooms he was far too tense to sleep. His wounded shoulder ached, and the fresh bruises on his back were uncomfortable reminders of how close they had come to disaster. If not for Shannon’s quick thinking…

He shook off the thought. She was doing her duty. As he must do his. Regardless of the dangers. But it was growing harder and harder to remain detached. His admiration of her professional skills was deepening to something he could not quite define. Orlov moved to the window and stared out at the mist-shrouded trees. Perhaps it was just as well that words remained elusive. He dared not dwell on what they might spell.

An end to the illusion of seeing the world through a prism of cynicism? In the past he had prided himself on his cold-blooded view of human nature.
Every man for himself
. Barbed humor, casual lust—those were all the feelings he needed to survive. Until Shannon stormed into his life, sparking a different need.

A fire-gold flame.
One that was fast threatening to melt the ice of his indifference.

Orlov pressed his palms to the chilled glass, hoping to temper the strange heat coursing through him. He had thought himself impervious to foolish sentiment. The notion of romance was only a dribble of ink on a piece of paper—it existed only in the pages of a book.

And yet it was growing harder and harder to deny that the attraction was more than skin deep. A sound slipped from his lips, something between a laugh and a groan. Not that her glorious body, her explosive grace, weren’t enough to set any man’s flesh afire. But even more than the sinuous stretch of her limbs, he loved seeing her angry, aroused.
Passion, principle
. Somehow Shannon had rekindled his own desire to care. He found himself wanting to…

To be friends.
He made a wry face. He wasn’t sure she would welcome such an overture, even if he knew how to try it.

He stood a moment longer, staring at his own hazy reflection in the fogged panes, before setting out to take his turn at patrolling the grounds.

The next day dawned gray and windy, but by the afternoon break from classes, the clouds had cleared and the sun had warmed the chill from the air. Leaving her folded dress and shawl in the shelter of a rock outcropping, Shannon quickly worked through a series of yoga stretches. The small glade in the pines provided a private retreat, well hidden from the castle, and the daily exercises helped clear her mind, sharpen her focus.

After yesterday’s near-miss, her nerves were on edge.

Breathing deeply, she pushed up from the cobra position and shook out her muscles. Barefoot and clad only in her breeches and shirt, she reveled in the unrestricted movement of her limbs. Skirts were such a cursed encumbrance, she thought as she cut a sapling as a practice sword for her fencing maneuvers. If only females were permitted the same freedom as a man—

“Aren’t you cutting it a bit close for comfort?” Orlov stepped out from the screen of needled boughs. “It would raise a number of embarrassing questions if any of the London party should see you stripped to the bare essentials.”

“They never venture off the beaten path.” She raised her cudgel and snapped a quick swoosh through the air. There was a tautness about him that sent a frisson through her fingertips. Any doubts about his dedication to the children had been dispelled by seeing Emma in his arms yesterday. But even so, he was still… dangerous. “Which begs the question—what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be watching the children?”

“Lady Octavia is entertaining them in her tower rooms with stories of Viking plunder and pillage,” replied Orlov. “The stairway is locked from the inside, so it’s safe enough for the moment.” He, too, broke off a slender length of yew and peeled away its foliage. She watched it cut a sinuous swath through the air. “Like you, I felt the need to work up a sweat. So far, we have had naught but an exercise in futility.”

“You are in a strange mood today.”

“Am I?” Orlov tested the snap of his stick. Then suddenly it whipped up, crossing hers with a soft
snick
. “Perhaps dueling with shadows is dulling my edge. Care to flex some real muscle?”

As the breeze rustled through the pines, Shannon could hear the echo of her fencing master’s grizzled grunt.
Discretion is often the better part of valor, lionni
. But she wasn’t very good at resisting a challenge.

“En garde.”
Her make-believe blade broke away and cut a hard slice at his ribs. Orlov spun back in the nick of time. “That was quick.” Countering with a
quartatta,
he crossed to a
traverse
. “But not quick enough,
golub
.”

“I wouldn’t crow just yet.” Shannon feinted a
riverso
, then switched to a
terza
stance.

Orlov evaded the attack with maddening ease, then grinned as his
botta dritta
sailed past her cheek. “You appear to have been trained by a master.”

“
Il Lupino
is one of the best blades in all of Europe.” A hop lunge closed half the distance between them. “So you see, I am experienced in fighting a wolf.”

“Allegretto Da Rimini?” His brows waggled. “I grant you he is good, but the wily old rascal is growing a bit long in the tooth. I daresay I am a step faster—”

She whirled aside at the last second. His point grazed only the buckskin of her breeches. “Tit for tat.” Her slash glanced off his forearm.

He parried the next cut as well, then suddenly grabbed her wrist. A flick sent her stick flying through the air.

“Unfair! I—” Her protest was cut off by the press of his mouth. His tongue slid over her lower lip, a soft, sensuous caress that sent a shudder through her steeled spine. He pulled her closer and deepened the embrace. In contrast to the lightning tempo of their swordthrusts, this clash of wills seemed to go on for an eternity.

Twisting, she finally freed herself from his kiss. “That’s fighting dirty.”

“What do you expect, given our profession?”

“Next time, I shall be on guard against any trick.”

“Or any thrust?” He smiled, a sinful, sensual curling of his mouth.

Her cheeks, already flushed from the physical exertion, took on a deeper burn.
Damn the man
. And her own wicked body for yielding a sign of weakness.

She knew she ought to slap him…

As if anticipating her thoughts, he tightened his fingers around her wrist. “In chess, I would call this a checkmate,
golub
.”

“But we are playing a different game.” Shannon twisted out of his grasp and in a whirl of spins and steps threw him over her shoulder.

Orlov fell heavily among the pine needles. “Why, you little spitfire.” He rolled quickly to a crouch and balanced on his toes. “So the Academy training also includes some of the esoteric Eastern disciplines?” His eyes gleamed, sharp as knifepoints. “How very clever of Lord Lynsley to ensure that his women know how to use their bodies as weapons.”

“Against an opponent of superior size and strength, it is key to know how to turn those advantages into weaknesses.” She stood firm, though her limbs were tingling from the way his gaze raked over her from head to toe. “Such skills give us a mental edge as well. Most men are overconfident when facing a female in hand-to-hand combat.”

“An elemental mistake,” he agreed, springing lightly to his feet.

Shannon shifted along with him, keeping her shoulders square to his moves. There was something strangely erotic about the sinuous dance. Though they were not even close to touching, she was acutely aware of his body.

“Did I mention that my travels took me to Bombay for a short time?” He slid in and out of the shadows. “Where I met a fascinating fellow who knew how to make cobras dance to the tune of his flute.”

“Ah, so that is where you learned to charm the scales off a snake?” she countered.

Orlov laughed. “Among other things.” His attack was quicker than a serpent’s strike. Uncoiling in a blur of motion, he shot forward, lunging in low and hard with a flick of his foot that caught her hard on the knee.

Though she managed to dodge the full impact, the blow knocked her back.

He was on her in a flash.

She countered with a jab to the jaw, which snapped his head back. He grunted in pain, but kept hold of her wrist, turning sharply with a deft jerk that pinned it against her back. “You have only to cry surrender,” he murmured, his breath hot and tickling against her neck. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you like before.”

“The hell I will.” Twisting, she angled a glancing knee to his groin. Which drew a gratifying
woof
. His grip loosened for an instant and she pulled away.

“A low blow,” he grimaced.

“It was you who said all is fair.”

His eyes took on a wicked gleam. “So I did.”

Shannon watched warily as he backed up a step and suddenly dropped to a crouch. An instant later he straightened again and flexed his shoulders.

Damn.
Was he trying to distract her with the rippling of muscle beneath the light linen? She forced her eyes away and edged back, toward the outcropping of rock where she had left her garments.

Time to end the game before things got out of hand.

Orlov seemed of a different mind. His hand flashed out, and suddenly her eyes were filled with dust. Momentarily blinded, she froze, then felt his arms encircle her waist and lift her from the ground.

“Bloody hell.” She struggled, but had no leverage. Still swearing, she tried a chop to his throat but drew only a muffled grunt.

“You should have remembered your Sun-Tzu—If they are strong, avoid them.”

Her flailing fists caught his wounded shoulder, throwing him off balance. Still wrestling, they fell to the ground. Orlov angled to take the full impact, and Shannon landed atop him. She felt the hard heave of his chest, and caught a grimace of pain.

“I am sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered. Her breathing was as ragged as his. “Are you injured?”

He rolled, and she suddenly found herself pinned between the soft earth and his hard, unyielding body. “A basic mistake,” he murmured. “Show no mercy.”

“In a real fight …” Her words died in her throat as he straddled her thighs and pinned her arms so that she lay spread-eagled on the bed of pine straw.

“In a real fight,” he repeated, “the merlin would find her wings clipped and her talons useless against the ravening wolf.”