Seduced by a Spy (4 page)

“Drink this.” Whiskey from her flask splashed over his lips. “Be prepared for a long ride,” she warned. “Over rough ground.”

“Where to?” grunted the Russian.

“Kenmare.”

He nodded, his face pinched in pain.

Wasting no more time in words, she helped him into the saddle.

The rocky trail dipped into a narrow valley and threaded through a tangle of live oak and thick ferns. The hide-and-seek moonlight gave the gnarled branches an even more forbidding twist. They rode in grim silence, the splash of water over the granite outcroppings and the soft thud of hooves the only sounds stirring the damp air.

Shannon strained to hear any signs of pursuit. Nothing so far. The castle was likely still reeling from the first impact of the assault, but she couldn’t count on confusion reigning for too much longer. The clansmen would be out for blood. She had to keep moving.

Once again, she gave thanks that Lynsley’s network of agents was trained to provide the very best. Her horses were two blooded hunters, thick-chested beasts bred for strength and stamina. She had brought along an extra mount for her supplies, and for any unforeseen emergency…

Slowing to a walk, Shannon looked over her shoulder. Orlov was slumped in the saddle, but managing to keep his seat. For how much longer she didn’t dare hazard a guess.

She turned and stood in stirrups, praying she hadn’t passed the telltale landmarks. Gorse scraped against her boots, a prickling reminder that she could not afford a misstep. As she rounded the tangle of thorns and thistle, she spotted the pale cairn and heaved a sigh of relief.

But now, a decision had to be made. The stones marked a shortcut, but the way was steep, with even less of a trail to follow. She had no doubt of her own ability, but the Russian looked shaky.

Reining to a halt, she dismounted and uncorked her flask. “Here, let me help you to another swallow.” Her hand grazed Orlov’s cheek. It was already warm, and up close she could see his lips were parched and his flesh was taking on a feverish flush.

Damn.

That decided her. She shook out a length of rope and knotted it around his waist. “Going up and over the moors will cut several hours off the trip. I know the way, and the horses are game. But it will hurt.”

He managed a gurgle of laughter. “Then you will, no doubt, enjoy every step of the way.”

Her lips quirked. “I’m not a sadist, Mr. Orlov. Though I am going to have to lash you to the saddle.”

“A pity I am not in any condition to appreciate such interesting ministrations.”

“Save your strength for…” Shannon left off her retort as he fell unconscious in her arms. “A maidenly swoon, sir?” she murmured. “Be assured I shall never let you hear the end of it.”

A glance across the valley showed no signs of O’Malley’s men. Swinging up onto her own mount, she took a small sip of the whiskey and started up the long climb.

Chapter Four

“My information said there was to be only one person,” said the man who opened the barn door.

“Change of plans,” replied Shannon curtly as she slid the wooden bar back in place.

“The risk is twice as great.”

“So charge me double.” A shake of her purse silenced the complaint. “I need a doctor as well.”

At that, her contact—a wiry little crofter with a shock of silver hair—snorted and shook his head. “Too dangerous.”

Shannon flashed a glimpse of gold. “I shall make it worth the risk.”

The man rubbed at his jaw. “There’s one who may be willing to help. But it will cost you dear.”

“Get him,” she ordered. “Quickly. I will unsaddle the horses and rub them down.”

Orlov did no more than groan as she lowered him into the straw. The bandage was soaked with blood.
Hell and damnation
. The man might be a thief and a rogue but she did not wish him to the devil just yet.

She checked her pocketwatch. Not much time before the tide changed. Kenmare was only a mile away, but she couldn’t afford to cut it too close.

Her contact was back within a quarter hour. “No luck,” he muttered. “One of the peat cutters suffered a severed toe. Enniscrone won’t be returning before midnight.”

She looked at Orlov’s feverish face. “And if I leave him here to be cared for?”

The man drew a finger across his throat. “I don’t know what your business was in the area. Nor do I want to know. But strangers are not much welcome in these moors. Especially if there’s a chance they have stirred any trouble with the O’Malleys.”

Her jaw set. Lynsley’s lecture on misplaced loyalty echoed in her ears. As did her training. Duty often called for dispassionate decisions.

Still, the damn fellow had saved her life by risking his own.

“Help me get him to the docks.”

Her contact gave her a hard look. “Nay. No amount o‘ gold is worth tha’ sort of risk. O’Malley would have me head on a pike if I’m seen.”

“At the moment, O’Malley is the lesser of two evils.” She drew her pistol. “He is dead, while I am quite alive.”

He cursed under his breath, a foul-mouthed imprecation on plaguey females.

Shannon responded with a tirade that would have blistered the ears of a dockyard stevedore.

The man blinked, then gave a rueful smile. “Ye must be Irish yerself, missy.” Threading a hand through his hair, he pursed his lips in thought. “Look, if I don’t get these horses back to Mulligan’s stables by the appointed hour, I’ll be no further use te yer people. But I have an idea. Take the gig and pony yerself. There’s a cart track that skirts the village, and at this hour ye won’t have any trouble making it down to the harbor unseen.” He described the outer dock where the unmarked naval cutter was moored. “O’Malley’s men will assume ye stole it, and I’ll be free o‘ suspicion.”

She nodded. It was a fair enough suggestion. And Orlov’s unconscious form would be a fact in their favor should anyone observe their progress from afar—slumped against her shoulder, he would look to be just another drunk, in need of assistance home.

“Help me harness the pony.”

The directions proved accurate enough, and Shannon made it to the docks without mishap. The sailor on watch looked surprised at finding two cloaked figures seeking to board the vessel, but helped her maneuver the Russian up the gangplank without comment.

The captain, a flinty Scot with a burr as rough as the rocks of Islay, was quick to take command of the situation. “I’ve a cabin cleared for your use,” he murmured, shouldering aside his subordinate and assuming most of Orlov’s weight as they headed below deck. He was the only one who knew that the special passenger was a female, and sounded none too pleased at a further complication. “But we are cramped as it is. I can’t afford to allot any more room.”

“Not necessary,” she assured him.

Down in spartan space, they laid Orlov on one of the narrow berths.

“We need to get a bullet out of his shoulder,” whispered Shannon.

The captain looked grim. “Cast off,” he called up to the crew. He struck a flint to the oil lamp. “He will have to hold on a bit longer. The tides are damn tricky here. I can’t spare a hand until we have navigated through the channels and are well out to sea.”

Left alone, Shannon made her companion as comfortable as she could. The bunk was not built for someone of Orlov’s height, but somehow she managed to strip off the layers of wet wool and linen, and pillow his head against the bulwark with her folded cloak. His boots hit the floorboard with a soft squish, reminding her that she, too, was soaked to the bone from the squalling rain showers. However, her own discomforts dimmed as she peeled away the bandage and looked at the jagged flesh.

Her lips pressed tight.

Finding the flask of brandy in her bag, she shredded a tail of his shirt and set to cleaning the wound.

Orlov muttered something in Russian. An oath, no doubt, for it was followed by several English curses.

“Stop complaining,” she growled. “You are damn lucky to be alive.”

His golden lashes fluttered, and a glimmer of his usual arrogance shone through his pain. “Luck is said to be a lady—and females find my charms hard to resist.”

“More likely you are bedfellows with the devil.” Shannon frowned on seeing his inflamed flesh, a raw red that sparked a fresh stab of concern. “You had better pray he does not decide to seek closer company with you.”

The Russian winced, yet somehow managed to maintain a show of cocky humor. “You wish me to hell, I know. I am usually happy to oblige a lady, however…” His words segued into a sharp sigh as she probed at the jagged hole in his shoulder.

“Sorry,” muttered Shannon. The bone did not appear broken, but the risk of infection was a real danger. Despite the chill of the salt air, he felt hot, clammy to the touch.

Smoothing the tangle of hair from his brow, she wiped away the beading sweat. Orlov’s manners might be abrasive, and his motives a mystery, but she was not quite so callous as to be able to ignore his suffering. A quick search of the surroundings turned up a basin, blankets, and a flask of water. When at last she had sponged the worst of the grime from the wound and applied a cold compress to his brow, she leaned back against the hull, feeling a wave of exhaustion roll over her.

Bloody hell.
This was a complication she did not need. Not when her mission had, quite literally, blown up in her face. Lynsley would be disappointed enough that she was returning with naught to show for her efforts. To appear with an unexpected companion…

Her gaze strayed to the Russian’s pinched profile. On the other hand, there were still a great many unanswered questions about Orlov’s involvement in the earlier mission involving her roommate Siena. Two English peers had been found with their throats cut. Traitors, to be sure, but the confusion had nearly cost the lives of her fellow agent and an innocent earl.

Not to speak of her own.

So perhaps Lynsley would welcome the opportunity to have a leisurely chat with Orlov, seeing as the fellow had slipped through the marquess’s capable fingers that night. Her hands fisted. The elusive Russian had certainly gotten the better of her as well. Feeling the fool at how easily he had manhandled her, she had sworn to herself that one day he would pay for the damage done to her wrist. Not to speak of how he had added insult to injury by stealing her prized dagger, a silver-handled Andalusian blade that she had won for being at the top of her class in weaponry.

The encounter had been a blow to her pride as much as to her person, Shannon admitted. Which stirred a slight twinge of conscience as she wet his lips with a touch of water. Perhaps it was petty to seek revenge for personal reasons, rather than affairs of state.

She found herself fighting down a flush. It was
not
pique but professionalism that colored her thinking. If she could not bring D’Etienne’s head on a platter…

The captain ducked through the doorway, putting an end to her musings. He untied a canvas roll of surgical instruments and laid them out on the empty berth.

“I take it you have some experience with gunshot wounds,” said Shannon, eyeing the razor blades and probes with a sinking stomach. She had received some rudimentary training in tending to battle wounds, but hoped he didn’t expect her to handle the job. Much as she would have relished the chance to needle Orlov under other circumstances, the Russian was too vulnerable now. An unfair advantage, if ever there was one. She wished to best him on equal terms.

And she couldn’t quite dismiss the fact that he had saved her life.

“Commanding a small vessel in wartime, one becomes adept at a great many tasks,” replied the captain. “I’ve ordered hot water from the galley. However, I must ask that you serve as my assistant. Even though the crew is hand-picked, Whitehall feels that the less they know of the particulars of this mission, the better.” He rolled up his sleeves and cut her a sidelong glance. “You aren’t one of those females who faints at the sight of blood, are you?”

“I think you can count on me not to fall into a swoon,” she said dryly.

The captain rose to answer the knock on the cabin door. A pot was quickly passed over and the latch set back in place. “Then we had best begin,” he said, handing her the battered iron without further ado. “The weather looks to be taking a turn for the worse, and I would rather not slice off the fellow’s arm by mistake.”

In the binnacled lamplight, Orlov looked pale as death. Swallowing a strange surge of regret, Shannon braced herself against the roll of the hull and nodded, thankful that he was still unconscious.

Cutting away the bandages, the captain made the first probe.

The Russian’s eyes slitted open, their arctic blue color dulled to a gunmetal gray.

Shannon held up the small roll of leather used to bite back pain.

He managed to shake his head slightly. Teeth gritted, he pressed his lids closed again, enduring the probing with stoic silence.

“Bloody hell, can’t you go any faster,” she blurted out. Orlov’s face was sheened in sweat. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, curling her fingers with his.

“I am trying not to do any permanent damage.” A wave nearly knocked the instrument from the captain’s hand. “A slip of the scalpel could cut through the muscle, leaving the arm useless.”

“Take your time.” Orlov’s white-lipped whisper held a hint of dry humor, despite his obvious pain. “I’m not going anywhere… I hope.”

“Brandy?” asked Shannon.

“Thank you.” He managed a small swallow before lapsing back into oblivion.

It seemed like an age before the captain gave a low grunt. “I think I have it.” Digging in with the tips of the tweezers, he managed to extract a misshapen ball of lead.

“Thank God.” Shannon realized her hands were shaking.

“Aye, and it looks to have come out cleanly,” observed the captain with some satisfaction. Holding it up to the light, he made a closer examination. “Leaving any fragments behind would be dangerous, but I think we need not worry.” The bullet made a dull
thunk
as it dropped into the bloodied basin. “The worst is over.”

Shannon was not quite sure she agreed as she watched him pick up a gargantuan needle and thread it with black silk. “You are stitching flesh, not canvas, captain.”

He shrugged. “Can’t leave it flapping loose, can I?” He finished the job with blessed quickness and leaned back to admire his handiwork. “Not bad, under the circumstances.” Flexing his bloodstained fingers, he reached for a towel. “Can I leave it to you to handle it from here?”

She nodded.

“Excellent.” He, too, looked relieved. “Again, I apologize for the cramped quarters. But given ship’s size and the need for secrecy, I have no choice but to ask that you share this cabin. And keep to it for the duration of the journey. My orders stressed that we don’t wish to call attention to the fact that a female is aboard, correct?”

“Correct,” replied Shannon.

He gave her a fishy stare, clearly wondering what sort of woman was under his hatches. “I shall clear the quarterdeck each evening and escort you topside for a short stroll. Other than that, you are not to stir from here.”

“Understood.” She matched his clipped tone. “You need not worry about me. I am used to far worse conditions than these.”

Though the idea of being cooped up with Alexandr Orlov for the duration of the journey might test the limits of her endurance, she added to herself. If the rascal didn’t die of his gunshot wound, there was always the chance that she might murder him with her bare hands.

Tossing, turning…
no matter which way he moved, he could not seem to escape the hellish pain. Red-hot pitchforks stabbed at his shoulder, while fire singed his brow…

Orlov drifted in and out of disorienting dreams for a moment longer before he slowly opened his eyes. Though it was black as Hades, the creaking timbers and rocking motion told him that he was aboard a ship. He lay still, wrestling with vague recollections, disjointed images of what had brought him here.
Smoke. Blinding pain. A shower of sparks. A golden Valkyrie
.

The events of the ill-fated sortie suddenly exploded in his brain.

Ah, yes, the lady
. He remembered her all too well. An oath slipped through his cracked lips. Of all the cursed coincidences. But now that he thought on it, he should have realized that the British government would be even more anxious than his own to put a period to the French assassin’s existence. Or, more precisely, Yussapov should have considered the possibility.

The deadly dance of espionage was dangerous enough without worrying about tripping over an ally’s foot.

Or other, more shapely limbs. Even in his muzzy state of mind, he had no trouble imagining every last inch, every subtle curve of his fair-haired adversary. She was, in a word, magnificent.

He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the bitter residue of laudanum. Maybe it was the effect of the narcotic, but he had to admit that he had fantasized about her quite a lot in the past few weeks since their first encounter.
Naked in his bed, her glorious limbs entwined with his, her spitfire passions heating his blood to a fever pitch
. Hot and cold, a shiver spiraled through his veins. He wasn’t sure whether the image eased his pain, or simply stirred an entirely new physical discomfort.