Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Page 4

  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.

  “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-m
outhed 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.”