Seduced by a Spy (3 page)

“Tell me when, and where.” Was she headed to France? To the Low Countries, to…

“Ireland,” he said. “We have received word that for the next fortnight he is residing at a remote castle of the O’Malley clan near Killarney. The French have sent him to instruct several of their members in the tricks of his trade before moving on to Scotland for his next attack.”

“An isolated location, a fortress bristling with armed guards,” she mused. “Let us hope he has a weakness for women.”

“D’Etienne is French,” replied Lynsley dryly. “And is said to have an insatiable appetite for feminine flesh. Which is another reason why you have been chosen over one of my military operatives.”

“He is about to get a taste of a
femme fatale
.” She thought for a moment. “Any preference for how it is to be done?”

“I leave the choice to your discretion, Shannon.”

“Is D’Etienne the only target, sir? I have heard that O’Malley and his bunch are a brutal lot.”

Lynsley appeared to measure his words carefully. “D’Etienne is our main concern. Don’t risk the mission by going after the others. But an Irish rebellion would be a serious threat to our government at this time. If there are other casualties…” He did not need to finish the thought.

“I had best go collect my weapons.” She stood up.

“Sofia had already been instructed to load them in the coach.” Mrs. Merlin consulted the small gold watch pinned to her bodice. “You have a quarter of an hour to change your clothes and pack the rest of your gear.”

The marquess pressed the document packet into her hands. “I would not have you think this is a punishment or a penance,” he said softly. “Don’t go up against insurmountable odds. I would rather have you return, ready for another try, than die a hero’s death on the ramparts.”

“I understand, sir. Discretion is the better part of valor.” Shannon flashed a rueful smile. “Contrary to what some of my classroom teachers think, I
do
listen to their lectures.”

“So I am learning.” His expression of grim foreboding had lightened somewhat. “I have sent my carriage on ahead and shall ride with you for the first few miles to go over the logistics of the mission. Certain details I cannot put down in writing. The rest of the information you will have ample time to study while you are at sea.”

“Godspeed, Shannon. Now go.” Mrs. Merlin fluttered her hands.

She snapped a salute and moved off swiftly through the arched hallway. It was an unspoken rule that sentiment played no part in Academy farewells. Still, on crossing the courtyard, she felt a small lump form in her throat.
A rite of passage
. From the familiar—the nicked gargoyle, the cracked tower bell, the loosened gate latch—to the unknown. For the first time, she was no longer a student but a full-fledged agent.

One of Merlin’s Maidens.

She must now prove herself worthy of her wings.

Hurrying her steps, Shannon took the stairs two at a time up to her room. Not that packing would occupy a great deal of time. A proper young lady of the
ton
might require an army of trunks to transport her wardrobe, but for her, a single canvas seaman’s bag would do. A rain cloak, a throwing knife, a set of picklocks from—

“Take this as well.” Sofia jammed a small leatherbound book in between the slivers of steel. “You may have a few moments of peace in which to read.”

“But you haven’t finished it.” Shannon didn’t look up from rolling her riding gloves into a tight ball.

“Which is why I expect you to bring it back in one piece. It cost me an arm and a leg.”

“Thanks, Fifi. I will do my best to keep it unscathed.”

“See that you do.” Her roommate perched a hip on her desk. “Or I’ll take a birch to your backside.”

“You could try.” Shannon tested the flex of a braided rope and added it to the bag. “But you might find yourself too sore to sit down for a fortnight.”

Sofia grinned and mimed an intricate ballroom twirl. “Not if I dance out of reach.”

Both understood the feelings that lay beneath the banter. Thrown together, skinny little orphans plucked from the sordid stews of London, they had become close as sisters during their years at the Academy. The only family each had ever known.

“Your prowess on the parquet far exceeds mine,” admitted Shannon. “Of the three of us, you have always been the most ladylike.” Seeing her friend scowl, she hastened to add, “Not that I am disparaging your fighting skills, it’s just that grace and charm are your weapons, while I must rely on a steel wrist and a sharp aim to vanquish a foe.”

Her friend leveled a long look her way before answering. “Don’t underestimate your strengths, Nonnie.”

As she tugged her shirt over her head, Shannon caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. Though slender as a rapier, she could hardly be described as delicate. Not with her height, and the hint of lithe muscle accentuating the more feminine curves. Marco had once compared her to a lioness, pointing out her blonde mane and explosive athleticism. He had also remarked on her gaze, calling it piercing, predatory.
The eyes of a hunter
.

Shannon stared at the glitter of green for an instant, then ducked away. How strange. She saw doubt where others saw determination. As for her face, while others described her features as striking, she considered herself quite ordinary.

Smoothing the folds of the fresh linen, she stripped off her old breeches and donned a clean pair.

“Know thyself as well as the enemy,” she said softly, quoting another precept from Sun-Tzu’s classic treatise on the art of war. “I shall take great care to avoid any mistakes in judgment.”

“You have nothing to prove, you know.” Sofia fingered the thin filigree chain at her neck. “To yourself or to others.”

Not trusting her voice, Shannon jammed a last bit of clothing into her bag and pulled the strings taut.

“One last thing…” Unfastening the clasp, Sofia took the length of silver and the hawk-shaped pendant and pressed it into Shannon’s palm.

“T-this is your lucky charm!”

“I am counting on you to bring it back, along with my book, so that I may depend on its powers when it’s my turn to fly.”

Fisting the tiny talisman, Shannon gave her friend a fierce hug. “Time to go.”

Fog. Rain.
The bone-chilling dampness pervaded every cursed corner of the creaking timbers. Orlov wrapped his cloak a bit tighter around his shoulders. Not even a layer of thick sable could keep it at bay. Glowering at the gray waves, he took yet another turn on the narrow deck.

“You are not at home on a ship?” The Dutch captain fell in step beside him.

“I prefer space to stretch my legs.” The schooner gave a yawing lurch. “And
terra firma
beneath them.”

“With this wind, we shall soon be reaching our destination.”

“It can’t be soon enough.” Orlov added a rather salty oath.

The officer immediately knocked his knuckles on the wooden railing. “We sailors are a superstitious lot. It is bad luck to insult the sea gods.”

“Then it is fortunate I have no ambitions for a nautical career. I hold very little sacred, save my own skin.” Wiping the drops from his brow, he grimaced. “Which may soon turn into fish scales.”

“This is no more than a passing drizzle.”

Cold comfort indeed.
“I think I shall go below,” he said, though his dank cabin was designed for someone only marginally larger than a bilge rat.

Once he had wedged his lanky frame into the narrow berth—a feat that forced him to draw his knees to his chin—Orlov lit the lamp and thumbed through the sheaf of documents. He had, of course, read over them before.

Ad nauseam
, he added wryly as his stomach gave an unpleasant heave. A touch of seasickness brought on by the foul weather did not improve his mood. By the bones of St. Sergius, he hated traveling by ship.

He turned his attention back to the papers. Yussapov’s spies had been quite thorough. D’Etienne’s background and accomplishments were spelled out in grisly detail. The man was, by all accounts, a ruthless bastard whose list of victims included several women and a young child. Orlov’s expression clouded. He freely admitted to having precious little claim on morality, but he did not make war on the families of his foes. His profession was a dirty business, and killing a sordid necessity, but in this particular case he would not suffer any twinge of conscience.

The maps appeared excellent as well. Routes were drawn, landmarks described, and several bolt holes marked along the way. He spent some time committing the information to memory, before nausea and a piercing headache forced him to extinguish the flame. However, the pounding of the waves against the hull was still foreign to him and he had trouble settling into the rhythm of the ocean.

Were the sea gods seeking vengeance for his verbal slight?
Or was it some more earthly demon prodding a trident into his skull?

He could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right. As of yet, he could not put a finger on it. The feeling was nebulous, like the crosscurrents of fog rising up from the sea. Impossible to grab hold of, but its swirl stirred a prickling at the nape of his neck. It might be only the ill effects of the
mal de mer
.

But he didn’t think so.

Instinct, a sixth sense for survival, had warned him in the past of impending danger. He had learned to trust these strange twinges—a leap of faith for someone who tended to view the world with sardonic detachment. Trust was, after all, not a very practical attribute in his profession. Deception and duplicity were far more useful. Lying had become second nature…

Pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples, Orlov sought to hold such disquieting musings at bay. It wasn’t often that he gave a second thought to the morality of what he did.
Right and wrong? Good and evil
? Perhaps a true gentleman would believe in absolutes. But it seemed to him that the world was not black and white, but rather shaded in an infinite range of grays.

And yet, he did have
some
principles. Though he would be loath to admit it aloud, he did care—if his actions helped stop the spread of tyranny and injustice, then perhaps his benighted soul would not roast in damnation for eternity.

He made a face. The Almighty might be forgiving, but there was a young lady who would like to see his soul—or more likely his liver—fried over the hottest coals of Hell. Not that he could blame her. He had made several uncharacteristic mistakes during his last mission, a fact that might very well be exacerbating his present malaise.

Was he losing his touch?

Damn Yussapov. And damn the sudden stirrings of his English sense of honor. Somehow the tumultuous seas had churned up the oddest mix of sensations. In his mind’s eye, he suddenly saw the prince’s beaded face, melting into visions of a blond Valkyrie, and then a soaring hawk. From high in the heavens came a cry, cursing him roundly for his misdeeds.

That it echoed some of his own recent musings amplified its accusations. However, the Russian part of him knew how to drown such melancholy brooding.

Growling an oath, Orlov reached for the flask of spirits.

Chapter Three

T
his godforsaken part of Ireland was not for the faint of heart.

Shannon surveyed the forbidding stones. Lynsley had not exaggerated the isolation of the McGuillicuddy Reeks.
Desolation
, she corrected. Famine had left the hardscrabble moors deserted, and although there was a bleak beauty to the landscape, she knew it was a harsh, hostile environment for anyone trying to eke out a living.

Returning her attention to the wind-chiseled walls of the O’Malley stronghold, she trained her spyglass on one of the outer towers. A primitive garden cut between its base and a copse of stunted live oaks. The tangle of branches would cover her approach, and the turreted roof would afford an excellent anchor for her climbing rope. Lynsley’s spy had informed her that the second-floor library was rarely used. From there, she would find a short corridor and connecting stairs to the chambers where the French assassin was quartered.

Her own surveillance had confirmed that the library was deserted at night. And while she would have liked to double-check every detail on the informant’s sketch of the castle layout, she had seen enough of the actual interior to feel she could trust the basics.

She shifted her position behind the outcropping of granite and gorse. Lynsley had also been correct in figuring that a female would have a distinct advantage in completing this mission successfully. A male stranger in the area would have raised suspicions, but a mere woman…

Disguised in rags and greasepaint, she had approached the castle on foot, timidly asking if there might be an opening for a scullery maid. None of the armed guards had viewed a haggard crone as any threat. Allowed to pass through the gates, she had been shown to the kitchens and offered a bowl of gruel before being told there was no position open and sent on her way.

Irish hospitality was legendary—as was their low opinion of a woman’s ability to do aught but bear children.

A grave miscalculation on their part.

The inside glimpse of the fortress had been quite helpful. But even before her inquiries, Shannon had decided that using seduction as a strategy against D’Etienne was too risky. Given the isolated location, a flirtatious young stranger would draw too much attention from the other men. As for the other serving women, they were likely all members of the O’Malley clan, and would watch her every move.

Her attack would instead depend on stealth.

Satisfied that she had seen enough, Shannon crept down from her perch and returned to the hollow where she had hidden her horses. Her arsenal, supplemented from the supplies of the navy sloop that had brought her to Ireland, offered a choice of ways to attack the target. Flexibility was key, and she had spent the interminable hours aboard ship planning for every contingency.

Lynsley would have no reason to fault her for making an impetuous move, she vowed.

After watching the routine of the stronghold for several days, she had decided on the simplest strategy. O’Malley’s men had grown lax in their nightly patrols of the grounds, perhaps overconfident that the deep gorge and narrow stone bridge would deter any unwanted visitors. They spent most of the midnight hours drinking and playing cards in the kitchens. Shannon was certain she would have no trouble entering the castle unseen and completing her assignment in brutal silence.

She ran a thumb over the edge of her knife.
In and out
. That was the plan. But in case anything went awry, she would have a few tricks up her sleeve.

Nothing would be left to chance.

Fog hung low over the battlements, softening the jagged silhouette of the ancient crenellations. Orlov took one more look around the castle grounds before inching through the bushes. The trap door, its hinges thick with rust, was just where his map had indicated. Hoping that the rest of his information was accurate, he brushed aside the moss and went to work on the lock.

As the hasp yielded with a dull snick, Orlov shouldered a small canvas sack and slipped inside. By his sketch, the old root cellar led up to the pantries, and from there, a circular stairway gave access to the rooms where O’Malley was quartering his visitors. He felt his way through the pitch-black gloom, finding the passageway behind a stack of rotting crates.

So far, so good.

The smells of roasted beef and spilled ale wafted out from the kitchens. Orlov paused to cock an ear as several men finished off their meal and prepared to relieve the guards on patrol. A nugget of useful information could often be picked up from the muddle of rough laughter and crude curses.

After listening for some moments, he edged back into the shelter of the stairway, swearing a silent oath of his own.
Time to improvise
. A mission of this nature rarely went like clockwork, he reminded himself. Which was why he had come prepared.

The rope slithered over the roof slates, its loop tightening over one of the iron stanchions. Shannon tested her weight against its hold, then wrapped a turn around her hand. As if on wings, she rose noiselessly up the face of the wall and landed lightly on the library ledge. Her blade released the window latch, allowing her to crack open the casement.

Once inside, she took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Between the scudding clouds and the waning moon, there was barely a glimmer of light filtering in through the mullioned glass. Just enough to show a massive oak desk, which looked to date back to Elizabethan times, bookcases crammed with mismatched tomes and…

A slight scratching sounded from the far corner of the room.

Crouching low behind a curio cabinet, she thumbed back the hammer of her pistol. A mouse, perhaps? Taking no chances, she loosened her knife in its sheath.

The sound came again, louder this time, followed by a flicker of movement.

No, it could not be.

A stab of moonlight cut across the room, catching another glimmer of gold.

“You!” she growled. There was no mistaking the lean, lithe form that materialized from the shadows.
The Russian scoundrel
. She would have recognized that distinctive blond hair and glittering wolf’s-head earring through the brimstone smoke and fire of hell.

“You,” he echoed softly, sounding no more pleased than she was at the encounter.

As they slowly lowered their weapons, Shannon saw he had a gold snuffbox in his other hand. “You have chosen an extremely dangerous place for petty thievery, Mr. Orlov. Get out, before you pay for your hubris with your life this time.”

The Russian flashed an infuriating smile. “Hardly petty,
golub
. This is a Renaissance work of art crafted by Cellini. And worth a fortune.” He pocketed the tiny treasure. “As for taking a leave of this place, I was just going to advise you to do the same.” He cocked a glance at the case clock. “Now.”

“Thank you, but I’ve come for more than a golden bauble.”

“D’Etienne is not here. He moved on to Tralee two days ago.”

“How—” she began.

“Trust me.”

“
You
? I’d rather trust a snake.”

“There are no snakes in Ireland, thanks to St. Patrick.” Orlov looked again at the clock.

“Afraid you are going to be late for an assignation?” she hissed. “I’m sure the lady won’t quibble if you are a moment or two late.”

“What I am afraid of,
golub
, is that if we linger here much longer, there won’t be any body parts big enough to identify, much less pleasure.” He took her arm and pulled her none too gently up onto the window ledge. “Let’s go.”

“What the devil do you mean?” Shannon wrenched free, her pistol coming up to take dead aim again.

“I’ve set a charge of explosives in the room where O’Malley has stored his shipment of French gold. Its loss will have serious repercussions on his ability to foment trouble in these parts, at least for a while.” He shrugged and stepped up to the lintel. “But suit yourself. If you would rather blow yourself to Kingdom Come for no reason, that’s your choice. I shall send my condolences to Lord Lynsley and tell him you died bravely. Foolishly, but bravely.”

Shannon hesitated, wondering whether to believe him.

“Need a hand?” he asked. “Perhaps yours is still a trifle weak.”

Her cheeks reddened at the reminder of their last encounter, when he had nearly broken her wrist. “Keep your paws to yourself,” she warned as she joined him out on the stone ledge. “I don’t need—”

Further retort was cut off by the sound of a key turning in the lock.

“Damn,” muttered Orlov.

They quickly separated, and took cover on either side of the window. Shannon flattened against the outer wall just as the door opened and a half dozen men trooped into the library.

“You see, there’s nothing amiss, Frenchie,” said one of them, holding a lantern aloft. “You saw naught but a shadow.”

“Or a castle ghost,” said another. “O’Malley’s ancestors have more than enough evil deeds to lament.”

Laughter greeted the quip.

From her vantage point, Shannon could see they were all armed, their weapons primed and cocked. She swore a silent oath. Whether the Russian was lying or not, any hope of completing her mission had just gone up in smoke. The only option was retreat. Still, she didn’t dare move quite yet. The slightest sound and all hell would break loose.

With luck, they would move off in a moment.

“It was no shadow, or stirring of the dead,” insisted a weasel-faced man with a heavy Gallic accent. “I tell you,
mon vieux
, someone has slipped through your guard.”

“Impossible,” scoffed the man with the lantern. Angling its beam into every nook and cranny, he swept the light in a slow circle over the bookshelves. “What say you, O’Malley? See anything amiss?”

The Irish leader, a red-headed giant with a massive face half covered by a bristling beard, slanted one last glance around the room. “Nay. All looks to be—” His words gave way to a roar of rage. “The Cellini!”

Whipping around, he broke for the window, but got no more than a stride before a bullet slammed into his chest.

“Jump!” cried Orlov. “I’ll hold them off.”

“With what—your bare hands?” Shannon’s shot cut down the man with the lantern, as a bullet whizzed by her head.

That left four men, and three shots…

Two,
she corrected, throwing herself back against the castle wall in the nick of time. Lead ricocheted off the stone, the chips cutting a gash on her cheek.

Orlov pulled a second pistol and dropped the man by the desk before he could reload. But the Frenchman dodged through the smoke and took cover behind the curio case, gaining a perfect angle on the window opening.

Shannon saw his weapon rise. Off balance and pinned against the stone, she had nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide…

“Jump, damn it!”

Orlov flung himself forward and pulled her down just as a shot exploded. His second shove pushed her over the ledge. The drop was short and the damp turf cushioned the impact. Rolling over, Shannon was on her feet in an instant. The Russian fell awkwardly by her side. He was not so quick to rise.

“Run,” he gasped.

She saw blood seeping through the rent in his jacket. Already his shoulder was dark with the spreading stain. Reaching down, she caught hold of his uninjured arm.

“Every man for himself,” he snarled, trying to shake her off.

“I work by different rules.” She hauled him to his feet.

“Go, damn you. They will be quick to reload.”

Shannon had already turned and lobbed a small silk sack through the open casement.

Whoomph!

Flames shot up in a shattering of glass and black smoke belched through the broken mullions. From inside came a bloodcurdling scream.

“How the devil…” Orlov’s eyes narrowed. “You had no lucifer, no flint—”

“Mercury fulminate. A sharp concussion sets it off.” She spun around. “That will cover our retreat for the moment.” She pushed him toward the footpath cutting between the boxwood hedges. “This way.”

Setting a bruising pace, Shannon led the way over the loose gravel. The Russian kept slipping, and his breathing grew more ragged, but somehow he managed to keep up. A last twist brought them down to a narrow stone bridge, where finally his step faltered.

“They will soon be in hot pursuit. I’ll only slow you down.” Leaning back against the railing, he waved her on. “Go. I’ll take my chances.”

“Which are nil.” Without waiting for further argument, she took hold of his coat and hustled him across the divide.

“
Now
what are you waiting for?” he said through gritted teeth as she knelt down. “A band of angels to strike up a funeral dirge?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she scraped a flint to steel, setting a spark to a length of fuse snaking down to the base of the bridge. “You are not the only one who came prepared for pyrotechnics.”

“It’s wet out here—” he began.

“I’ve accounted for that. The gunpowder is corned to a special grain, with an extra measure of saltpeter.” She edged back. “The charge will fire.”

A loud explosion punctuated her words. Flames flared up from one of the castle towers, lighting the shower of roof slates and flying stone with an unearthly glow. “It appears your handiwork will slow them somewhat. As will the destruction of the bridge.” Shannon peered down into the deep ravine. “Amid the confusion, rigging a makeshift one will take some time.”

The Russian started to speak, but his words were sucked up in a harsh intake of air.

“This way.” Steadying his stumble, she led him down to her horses. “Here, I had better have a look at that wound.”

He made no protest. No doubt, she thought, because he was having trouble enough trying to catch his breath.

Opening his shirt, Shannon saw the bullet was still lodged deep in his flesh. Her expression turned grim as she gingerly probed around the jagged hole. He would need a surgeon, and soon. For now, all she could do was try to stanch the bleeding.

Reaching into her saddlebags, she located a roll of linen. Once she had wiped away the worst of the cloth fragments and burnt powder, she tied a makeshift bandage in place.