Seduced by a Spy (15 page)

“Don’t be afraid, mademoiselle.” The comte’s touch sent another small shiver down her arms. “It is not loaded. And I have firm hold of the barrel. It will not slip from my grasp.”

“Arnaud fancies himself quite an expert on hunting birds, Miss Sloane. But his technique can be a trifle too heavy-handed.” Jervis, who had joined them, gave a cocky smile. “Allow me to demonstrate.” Plucking the old fowling piece from his friend, he took mock aim at one of the winged cherubs adorning the carved ceiling.

“Do put that down, Randall, before there is an unfortunate accident,” snapped Lady Sylvia.

Her friend laughed. “I doubt it has been fired since Cromwell’s time.”

“Sylvia is right,” announced Annabelle loudly. Shaking off her sulky silence, the younger Talcott sister sought to draw some of the attention to herself. Flaxen curls set off a heart-shaped face and lush, rosebud mouth. She was far prettier than her sister, and with another year or two of polish to round off the adolescent edges, she would be a Diamond of the First Water.

But patience did not seem to be one of Annabelle’s virtues, noted Shannon. Throughout supper, the girl had seemed greatly annoyed that the gentlemen were not making more of a fuss over her.

Exaggerating a shudder, Annabelle added, “How you can bear the touch of it is beyond me. Weapons are far too dangerous. The mere sight of such horrid things sends chills down my spine.” A flutter of lashes seemed to invite the comte to offer his soothing support to her, rather than a lowly governess.

De Villiers did not appear to notice.

“Only in the wrong hands, Bella.” It was her brother who answered. “Sylvia is made of sterner stuff. I can vouch for her skills in archery.”

“She is a crack shot with a bow and arrow,” agreed Jervis as he set the old musket back in its place. “As I can well attest. She beat all of us gentlemen soundly at Lord Henniger’s house party.”

How interesting
. Shannon shot the lady a sidelong glance. So those graceful hands were not quite as dainty as they seemed.

“Perhaps we should organize a rematch.” The comte perched a hip on the edge of the console table and began buffing his nails on his sleeve. “Seeing as the choice of entertainments here promise to be rather sparse, it would provide a source of amusement.”

The others applauded the suggestion.

“Are you adept with a bow and arrow, Miss Sloane?” he asked.

“A governess is not ordinarily trained in such skills,” she replied obliquely.

“Not ordinarily.” The rich scarlet hue of his coat—strikingly similar to the color of British regimentals—set off his dark coloring to perfection. A choice, no doubt, as deliberate as the flash of pearly teeth. “But being a country miss, I thought you might have some experience with such sport,” he continued. “You
did
say you were from the country, did you not?”

Lady Sylvia proved an unwitting ally in deflecting the question. To Shannon’s eye, she looked none too happy with the fact that her gentlemen friends were paying attention to a mere servant. “Lady Octavia was adamant about us not distracting Miss Sloane from her duties in the schoolroom. I should not like to cause my dear aunt any distress.”

“Oh.” Looking disappointed, Annabelle nibbled a sugary bit of cake. “I was hoping to see Mr. Oliver display his prowess at hitting the bull’s eye. He looks to have an admirable form for sport.”

“Your eyes ought not be straying to the tutor,” began her brother. “Your infantile infatuation with Lord Norbert—a country nobody was bad enough, but—”

“He is
not
a nobody,” responded Annabelle hotly. “He is a perfectly respectable gentleman. You have no right to look down your nose at a barony, just because it is located in Yorkshire.”

Her brother’s voice rose, too. “I’ll not permit you to squander your chances of making a good marriage in London by allowing some feckless fribble to come sniffing around your skirts. If you thought to ask him to follow you here, be advised I will boot his—”

A stirring of Lady Sylvia’s silks nudged Talcott to silence. “Let us not begin squabbling in front of strangers,” she said with a pointed look at Shannon. “Miss Sloane will think us ill-mannered savages.”

Glancing at the clock, Shannon decided her delaying tactics had served their purpose and it was safe to withdraw. It would not do to make an enemy of the dowager’s relative so early in the game.

“Not at all,” she replied softly. “Indeed, you have all been more than kind to tolerate my presence with such good grace. I am well aware that Lady Octavia’s notions on the social status of the household help are not shared by a majority of the
ton
.” That yet another stranger might soon be arriving at the castle was unwelcome news, but she dared not ask any questions about the Talcott family argument. “If you will excuse me, I, too, have lessons to go over for the morrow.”

Looking somewhat mollified by the humble tone, Lady Sylvia unbent enough to offer a slight nod. “Good evening, Miss Sloane. Pray, do not feel intimidated by our arrival. You have a formidable enough adversary to cope with in my aunt. We should hate to add to your travails.”

“How kind.” She could not quite read in the gentlemen’s faces whether they seconded the sentiments. Talcott’s features were too slurred with drink to reveal much of anything, but the other two looked as if partridge and grouse were not the only birds they intended to stalk.

To many men of wealth and rank, servants were fair game.

The comte left off polishing his person to escort her to the door. “
Bon soir
, mademoiselle.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “And
beaux rêves
.”

Sweet dreams, indeed.
For the moment, let him think she was naught but a pigeon ripe for the plucking. When the time came, he would learn how quickly she could unsheath her talons.

Much to her dismay, Shannon did not move quite fast enough the next morning to catch Orlov in the breakfast room. Distracted by all the questions she had concerning his nocturnal forays, she rushed through the morning lessons with Emma, hoping to have a word with him before nuncheon, only to have the housekeeper call her to the kitchen for an opinion on whether the London ladies would prefer roast beef or leg of lamb for the supper meal.

When she returned to the schoolrooms, the tutor and both children were gone.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Taking the back stairs two at a time, she hurried through the scullery and took the shortcut out to the gardens. The sun, playing hide-and-seek among the thick clouds, had not yet warmed the chill from the air. It caught in her throat, like a sliver of ice.

Where had Orlov taken Prescott and Emma?

The path forked and she plunged on to the right, passing under a low pergola covered with climbing roses. Thorns caught at her cloak. Had she been wrong to let her guard slip? Looking to the distant moors, she was about to turn for the stables when a raucous cackling sounded from behind the nearby boxwood bushes. Sliding cautiously along the line of the hedge, she peered over the curling leaves.

“In Russia, they are called wolf birds.” Orlov was coaxing one of several big black ravens closer with a crust of bread. “But despite their predatory looks, they are quite gregarious.”

“Th—they won’t bite? Or peck out my eyes?” Emma flinched as the bird flapped its glossy wings, her clenched little fists turning white at the knuckles. But seeing that her brother didn’t budge, she kept her seat on the low stone wall.

“No, my little elf.” Circling her shoulder, he drew her closer to his side. “Here.” He turned her palm upward and crumbled a bit of the bread into a fine powder. In a deep voice, he uttered a few Russian words. “There, I’ve said the magic spell. If they come any closer you can throw Druid dust in their eyes, and turn them into tiny sparrows.”

She giggled. “There are no such things as spells and Druids. Papa says it’s just the stuff of old legends.”

“Perhaps. But it never hurts to keep an open mind. As a scientist, your father would no doubt agree.” Orlov tossed the raven a crumb. With a hop and jab, the bird caught it in midair and gobbled it down, setting off a flurry of protest from the others.

Forgetting her fears, Emma clapped her hands together. “They look so funny, with their bobbing heads and great big feet.”

“Aye, they do.” He mimicked their motion, drawing more laughs from the children.

Shannon smiled, in spite of her still-pounding heart. The Russian was a contradiction, a conundrum. A cold-blooded killer, a kind-hearted guardian—the two seemed hard to reconcile. Which was a truer measure of the man? She had a sense that there was no easy answer. And yet…

The errant thud of her pulse, fast and furious as a stallion’s gallop, warned her to rein in her wild speculations. She had promised Lynsley to keep her impetuous emotions from riding away with her. Alexandr Orlov was a man of hardened will, tempered arrogance, carnal appetites. Whatever inexplicable attraction sparked this powerful heat in her veins, she must fight it at all costs. Losing control could be dangerous to all concerned.

“Is something wrong?” To a chorus of aggrieved squawks, Orlov suddenly looked around to meet her gaze. He swung Emma up into his arms and rose. A blur of black wings cast a momentary shadow over their faces.

Aware of her wind-snarled hair and thin muslin dress, Shannon felt rather foolish. “Cook is looking for the children. She has baked a special treat of hot mutton pasties and they are fast growing cold.”

Would that the same thing could be said for her burning cheeks. The man had an uncanny knack of making her feel… naked beneath his raking eyes.

His mouth curled up at the corners. “I do hope she has made an extra batch. I am famished.”

“I missed you at breakfast.”

“I rose early and decided to take a walk while the weather held. I did pocket a few slices of bread, but I fear they have now gone to feed our winged friends.”

“St. Francis of Assisi would be impressed.”

Orlov flashed a choirboy grin. “Lord knows, I have little claim to sainthood. However—”

“Scottie was teasing me about being afraid of ravens,” piped up Emma. “And Mr. Oliver offered to teach me that they aren’t so bad, once you see past the black feathers and sharp beaks.”

“Yes, appearances can be deceiving.” Shannon resisted the urge to sneak a peek at the Russian. “It is an excellent lesson to keep in mind. Now run along, the two of you, before Cook’s feelings are hurt.”

“I take it the invitation does not include me?” said Orlov as the children scampered away.

“Stay a moment,” she replied a touch sharply. “I wish to know what transpired last night.”

“Precious little of any import. I found nothing incriminating in De Villiers’s rooms. Most gentlemen would pack a brace of pistols for such a journey.” He made a face. “However, his taste in cologne is grounds for being shot on the spot.”

“The carriage—” she began.

“I checked it this morning, while the coachman was still sleeping. Again, I saw no sign that anything is secreted within the paneling or the upholstery.”

“No maps.” She frowned in thought. “No hidden messages, no stash of money.”

“That is not to say that a more thorough search would not turn up something of the sort. I will keep my eyes open for any opportunity to dig deeper. But so far, there is nothing to arouse suspicion.”

“Save for their very arrival.”

“Save for their arrival,” repeated Orlov.

The furrow between Shannon’s brows deepened. “Then you are not fully convinced that is it merely coincidence?”

“Oh, as I told you before,
golub
, I take a rather jaded view of the world and those who people it.” He looked to the moors as the sun gave way to shadow. Mist was beginning to blow in from the coast, hazing the hills with austere shades of windswept gray. A breeze, redolent of approaching rain, ruffled the twisting ivy and from far away, the growl of distant thunder rumbled against the stones. “That way I am rarely disappointed.”

Fallen leaves rustled against the gravel.

“In this case, I am inclined to agree—” she began.

Orlov suddenly shoved her up against the stone archway and kissed her hard. “Look outraged… but not too outraged,” he murmured, angling his mouth to nip at her earlobe.

She gasped, her anger hot against his flesh.

“Yes, that’s it.”

Struggling, Shannon freed her arms. She clawed at his shoulders, then her hands softened as they slid into his hair. He felt the burr of callused fingertips, the stretch of sleek muscle as her body molded to his. She had not been neglecting her training. Her lethal grace—all long limbs and lithe curves—once again brought to mind a lioness. A regal huntress. Matching him strength for strength.

With a low groan, he kissed her again on the lips, the pretense of passion deepening to a more primal need.
So fierce, so feminine
. His tongue thrust inside her, touching, teasing, tantalizing.

Shannon shivered as she arched back and entwined herself in a more intimate embrace. Emboldened, Orlov slid his hands over her breasts, feeling the tips harden against his palms. Shifting his stance he nudged a knee between her skirts.

She appeared to be taking his orders to heart. Rather than fight him, she opened her legs to his scandalous advance. In another moment…

He pulled back.

“Hit me,” he whispered, bemused to find his voice strangely fuzzed. “Hard.”

Her palm came across his cheek in a stinging slap.

They froze, facing each other in stiff-armed silence. Surprise held them still for some moments.

“Well played,” he finally murmured, slowly brushing a tangle of curls from the nape of her neck. “If ever you tire of your current employment, you might consider a career on the stage.”

“What the devil was that all about?” Her face was flushed and her breath was a bit ragged.

“The ladies were watching.” With his eyes, Orlov indicated the screen of yews bordering the upper terrace. “They are gone now.”

“Why—” she began.

“By playing the role of a rake, I mean to see what hidden tensions I can stir up among the London party. This little scene will help to convince Lady Sylvia and the Talcott sisters that I am not quite a gentleman.”