Seduced by a Spy (23 page)

The ice-blue resolve melted, but only for a moment. “No.”

“Then please be careful. Three against one, stalking through steep moors thick with gorse and pine? The odds are stacked against you.”

“Assuming there is a conspiracy.” He cocked a brow. “You think them in league?”

“The idea had crossed my mind,” she confessed. “We cannot dismiss it, no matter how far-fetched it might seem.”

“I, too, have given it some consideration. It’s unlikely, but I will be on guard.” His fingertips brushed at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t frown,
golub
. A hunting rifle will not be my only weapon.”

“A pistol or knife is little protection at long range. And an attack may come from two angles.”

“Sun-Tzu says if your enemies are substantial, prepare for them. My true advantage lies in knowing what I am up against. On the other hand, the London gentlemen cannot know for sure what sort of threat I represent.”

Shannon caught hold of his hand. “Don’t be too sure of that. D’Etienne will have heard about Ireland. He is far too clever not to put two and two together.”

He was no longer smiling. “Would that our own surmises would add up to more than guesses.”

Palms pressed as one, she could feel the warm pulse beneath his toughened flesh.
Hard and soft
. She no longer felt them as two contrasting elements, but as part of a whole.

He broke away, but only to lift her fingers to his lips. “I promise I will be careful,
golub
. Tell me you will do the same.”

“You may rest assured that I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I mean to keep the children indoors for the day. Lady Octavia says there is a trunkful of old games stored in the attics. Between lessons and skittles I should have no trouble keeping them occupied.”

“Stay here in the Tower. It’s is the safest part of the castle.”

“Yes, safe as a merlin’s eyrie,” Shannon stared out at the distant moors. “It is you who are alone and vulnerable.”

“That is exactly what we are trained to do, Shannon—work on our own. Danger is the one constant companion of our lives.” Untangling his legs from the rumpled sheets, he rose. A dappling of light skimmed over the contours of his naked body. “Remember, I am a professional. I am used to taking care of myself.”

The reassurance did nothing to still her fears. The play of sun and shadow showed not only chiseled strength, but past scars, stark white against the tanned flesh.

“You are flesh and blood, Alexandr. And what I remember all too well is how easily a bit of lead cuts through the toughest muscle and sinew.”

“The trick is never to think of the past, Shannon. Only the future.”

He was right, of course. A warrior must always stay a step ahead of regrets and recriminations. Shielding her face from the flare of the flint, Shannon lit the single candle by the bedside.

Don’t look back.

No doubt Sun-Tzu had an aphorism for such a situation, but Shannon couldn’t think of a one. No heroic lines from Homer, no poetic quotations from Shakespeare. She said the only words that came from the heart. “Keep your eyes open.”

“And you,
golub
.” Orlov finished dressing and slipped out the door.

Chapter Twenty

“We may as well pack some birdshot, but I for one would prefer to see if we can pick up the trail of a Highland stag,” announced Jervis as he handed out the hunting rifles from the gun room. “I’ve heard much about their size and stealth. It would be a prize to bring one down.”

The comte lifted his shoulders. “I am perfectly amiable to stalking whatever prey you choose.”

Were the gentlemen simply making the usual small talk before a hunt? Or was there a more menacing meaning to the exchange? Orlov stood to one side, assuming an attitude of casual indifference as he readied the cartridge bags. The comment did not include him, which was just as well. He was in no mood for any more games—verbal or otherwise.

“Sweet Jesus, I’m not sure I could hit the broadside of a barn,” groaned Talcott. His eyes were red and his sallow skin resembled the underbelly of a cod. “I would cry off, except I’m sure that if I stay here, I will be pestered to accompany the ladies to whatever cursed pile of rocks they are so keen to see.” He pressed a hand to his brow and winced. “I would rather risk a fit of apoplexy in traipsing the moors than endure several hours of Annabelle’s whining. Bloody hell, you would think that the world had ended simply because the chit had to put off her coming out for a season.”

If he were a gentleman, he might feel obliged to give warning of the youngest Talcott’s plans, thought Orlov. However, his scruples were not so finely honed. In truth, he had little sympathy for any of the family, save perhaps Helen. Caught in the middle between a dissolute wastrel and a spoiled hellion, she was more to be pitied than disliked.

“All young ladies dream of fancy balls and handsome suitors. It is only natural that she is disappointed,” observed De Villiers.

“You are far more tolerant than I would be,” replied Talcott. “She behaved like a simpering schoolgirl, making calf’s eyes at you throughout the journey.”

“There are worse things than having a pretty girl bat her lashes at you.” The comte turned. “Would you not agree, Monsieur Oliver?”

“I can think of a great many,” he replied politely.

“And then, of course, there are even better things,
non
? For example, bedding a beautiful woman like Mademoiselle Sloane.” De Villiers winked at his London friends. “Now there is a bird I wouldn’t mind pursuing. Have you perchance had the pleasure of plucking her feathers?”

Orlov willed himself to stay calm. “I was under the impression that a gentleman does not discuss his private dealings with a lady,
non
?”

“But you are no gentleman, Mr. Oliver. And Miss Sloane is no lady,” sneered Jervis. “The rules don’t apply.”

“Thank you for the reminder.” Orlov ran a hand down the barrel of his rifle and tested the action of the trigger.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the echo of the sharp
snick
.

“Ready, gentlemen?” Jervis shouldered his weapon and marched for the mud room. “My valet will follow along with food and drink for the day.”

Orlov waited for the others to file out, then fell in step behind Talcott.

“Might I have a word with you, Aunt Octavia?”

“Hmmph.” Turning away from the leaded windows, the dowager relaxed her grip on her walking stick—this one a stout length of yew topped with a heavy brass ball—and gestured for Lady Sylvia to enter the sitting room. “Well, don’t just stand there, gel. Come in.”

To her surprise, Lady Sylvia was carrying a silver tray with two tea cups and a bowl of sugar. The dowager’s eyes narrowed even more on seeing her relative’s cat-in-the-creampot smile. “What’s this?”

“A peace offering,” replied Lady Sylvia. “I wish to apologize for my outburst of last night.”

“Hmmph.”

“And for the air of tension surrounding the entire visit. I had hoped that perhaps we might…” She shrugged as she placed the tray on the sidetable. “But there is no use in crying over spilled milk. My party will be taking its leave soon, and while I know it is too much to ask that we part as friends, I should at least like to do so without animosity.”

Lady Octavia eyed the steaming brew with some skepticism. She would sooner expect hemlock than Oolong from her relative, but as Lady Sylvia seemed sincere, accepting the goodwill gesture seemed a small concession to make.

“It is a special mix I brought from London—a blend of Indian spices and black tea.” A splash of cream lightened the deep chocolate color. “It’s best enjoyed with a liberal helping of sugar. May I?”

The dowager gave a brusque nod as Lady Sylvia held a heaping teaspoon over the cups. “Just don’t expect to turn me up sweet,” she murmured. “At my age, I am too old to change, gel.”

A laugh. “Oh, I have no illusions of altering your opinion of me. I know you think me shallow and far too extravagant in my taste of fashions and friends.” Lady Sylvia stirred her tea. “But truly, do you never miss the gaiety of London Society? The glamour of the
ton
, the glitter of the ballrooms?”

The dowager took a long sip before answering. “Fool’s gold. Beneath the lustrous veneer is nothing of real value. Perhaps one day you will understand what I mean.”

“Perhaps.” Lady Sylvia was saved from having to say more by the pelter of small feet on the stairway landing.

“Miss Sloane says we may end lessons early.” Prescott shot into the room a half step ahead of his sister.

“She says you have found a grand set of skittles in the attics and that we may play with it in here with you, grandmama,” added Emma, a bit breathlessly.

“If you keep your voices down to a dull roar.” Shannon followed on their heels. “And if we are not interrupting a private family conversation.” Her brow rose in question. “I can keep the children occupied in the schoolroom if you prefer.”

“No need, Miss Sloane. I was just leaving.” Shannon was surprised to see Lady Sylvia take up the tea tray as she swept by. “As the weather looks to be holding, we will be leaving shortly to view the ruins of St. Alban’s Abbey.”

“She’s finally come to the conclusion that her presence is best served in small doses,” said the dowager dryly, once the door had fallen shut.

“What did she want?” Shannon’s gaze remained on the panels of polished oak.

“To offer an apology, if her words are to be believed.” Lady Octavia fingered the knob of her walking stick. “She is not quite as featherbrained as I thought. Indeed, had she ever spoken to me with as much candor as today, things might have been different between us.”

“I wonder what prompted a change of heart.”

“As do I. She didn’t ask for money. But likely she is just trying to butter me up for later.”

“Sugar and spice,” murmured Shannon. “I believe there is an old nursery rhyme—”

A snort interrupted her words. “Hmmph. She tried that already.” A glare glinted off the dowager’s spectacles. “But I didn’t bite.”

Whatever schemes Lady Sylvia had brewing, they seemed trivial compared to the threat of a cold-blooded French assassin.

Shannon shivered in spite of her shawl. “While the London ladies feast on a picnic of cold pigeon pie and old Town gossip amidst the Abbey Ruins, our concerns are closer to home.”

“Indeed.” Though she spoke with some force, Lady Octavia was forced to stifle a yawn.

“Did the children keep you up all night?” she asked in some concern. “If you wish to take a nap, I am perfectly capable of keeping watch.”

The dowager waved off the suggestion. “Slept like a babe. And you?”

She hoped her cheeks did not betray the telltale flush of heat. “No disturbances to speak of.”

“Miss Sloane, will you come show me the proper way to play skittles?” called Emma from the far corner of the parlor. “Scottie is making up his own rules.”

“I am not,” retorted her brother. “Mr. Oliver taught me how the Russian Imperial Guards play.”

“I had better mediate an international truce,” murmured Shannon. She was not sorry to have something to take her mind off Orlov. The gentlemen had been gone for several hours, and she couldn’t help imagining all the terrible things that could befall an individual out on the moors.

Even one as wily as a Russian wolf.

“If you tire of games, I brought down the book on pirates.” Lady Octavia rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “I think I shall ring for some more tea.”

But it was one of the local gardeners who appeared in the doorway, rather than Rawley. “Excuse me, milady, but I’ve been sent with a message. Right urgent, I was told.” Hat in hand, he tugged at a shock of ginger hair. “From the tall gent—the tutor.”

Shannon forced a show of calm as she waited for the man to go on.

“Well, don’t just stand there, man, spit it out!” said the dowager.

The man swallowed in some confusion. “Auch, he asked that Miss meet him as soon as possible by the loch. At the old laird’s boathouse.”

“You spoke with him?” Shannon rose. “When?”

“Not me, miss.” He ran a hand over his grizzled chin, leaving bits of dirt clinging to the rough stubble. “It was Jock who passed the word.”

She looked to the dowager, who nodded in answer to her unspoken question. “He’s a steady enough fellow,” added Lady Octavia, after dismissing the gardener with a brusque thanks.

Still, she hesitated. Her foremost duty was to the McAllister children. As for Orlov…

“He wouldn’t ask you to leave the children unless there was a demmed good reason.” The dowager’s low whisper echoed her own sentiments. “He left me a loaded pistol, and made sure I knew how to use it.”

Her mind raced through a few hurried calculations—the distance to the loch, the time it would take to make the round trip. “You are sure?”

“Go.”

“You will stay here in the Tower? And bar the stairwell door until I return?” she murmured.

“Never fear. These old fortress walls have held off hordes of wild Highlanders. They won’t give way to a Frog assassin, no matter how slippery a reptile.”

Shannon dared not vacillate any longer. Lynsley might question her judgment, but it would not be the first time they had disagreed on strategy.

“Mind your grandmother while I am gone,” she called to the children. “I must run an errand for her, but I shall be back shortly.”
And if she was not
? No, she would not even think of it. Lady Octavia had been told about the inn in Dornoch, run by one of Lord Lynsley’s operatives, and knew it was where she must go in case of disaster.

Giving thanks that she had taken to wearing her breeches and shirt beneath her dress, Shannon turned for the door.

“Damn. Another miss,” growled Jervis.

“Perhaps the gunsights need to be readjusted,” said De Villiers. “None of us has had any luck today—and my last shot was at nearly point-blank range.”

“Shoot
me
and put me out of my misery,” wheezed Talcott. Dropping his rifle, he slumped to a seat on a pile of stones. His face was a mottled red, and his shirtpoints and Belcher neckerchief were soaked with sweat. “Jervis, where the devil is your man with the refreshments? I need a swig of brandy to fortify my strength.”

Still fiddling with the powder pan, Jervis looked up in annoyance. “He will be along in a moment.”

“We might as well take a break for some sustenance. The last beat through the heather was a trifle steep.” The comte did not look at all winded from the climb, noted Orlov. His step had been sure over the uneven ground, and he had handled his weapon well on flushing a brace of partridge. That he had missed bagging the birds was simply a bit of bad luck.

Their eyes met and De Villiers smiled. “You have yet to take a shot, Monsieur Oliver.”

“I did not wish to interfere with your sport. Perhaps later.”

“Afraid of matching your skills against those of a gentleman?” said Jervis with a lordly sneer.

“I’ll take my chances.”

The comte laughed. “He is right. We have nothing to crow about.”

Jervis did not appear to find the observation amusing. “Enough of damn birds. Let us cross that ridge and head into the stand of pine trees. It seems a likely place to pick up the trail of a stag.”

“The Highland variety prefer a more open terrain,” murmured Orlov, more to goad the other man into a temper than to offer accurate advice.

“If I wanted a schoolroom lecture on the flora and fauna of Scotland, I would have hired a lackey for myself.”

“I am sure Monsieur Oliver was only trying to be helpful.” De Villiers moved quickly to smooth his friend’s ruffled feathers. “Ah, here is your man now with the food and drink.”

The valet unslung the large canvas sack from his shoulder and began unwrapping the oilskin packages of cheese and cold ham. Orlov watched, seeing for the first time the man’s misshapen knuckles and scarred fingers. They looked more adept at throwing a punch than knotting a gentleman’s cravat.

“Some claret, Hartley, and be quick about it.” Jervis accepted the bottle from his servant and took a long drink. “Come, gentlemen, don’t tarry too long. If we are to have any hope of downing a prize, we cannot waste any time.”

Talcott groaned. “I will wait for you here, if you don’t mind.”

“There is no guarantee we will pass back this way again,” snapped Jervis, a rather nasty smile curling the corners of his mouth. His mood seemed to be growing edgier by the moment. “So unless you can find your own way back to the castle, I suggest you follow along.”

Swallowing a hasty bite of cheese and bread, Talcott swore again. “Christ, don’t leave me here in this godforsaken place.”

“Then don’t lag behind.” Jervis seemed to be taking a malicious pleasure in venting his ill-humor on his friend. He allowed a few more minutes to pass, then signaled to his valet to begin packing up.

Talcott swore and struggled to his feet.

“Hartley, give his lordship a hand.” Brushing the last crumbs of cheddar from his fingertips, Jervis took up his cartridge bag. “Let him carry your rifle,” he said to Talcott.

His friend gratefully passed over the weapon.

Orlov slowly gathered his own gear, straining to overhear the exchange as Jervis drew his servant aside for a few words. They spoke too softly, however, and he was forced to back off.

“Ready, gentlemen?” Jervis did not wait for an answer as he started up the steep trail.