Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Page 5

  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 wor
ry 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.

  Damn. He had yet another bone to pick with the prince. After his last mission, he had been counting on a well-deserved interlude of rest and recreation in Stockholm, rather than another difficult assignment. Frustrated, Orlov gave a baleful sigh. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed the intimate pleasures of the opposite sex.

  As for combat…

  He grudgingly admitted that Lynsley’s winged warriors were a match for any man.

  Lithe, lovely, lethal.

  It was a potent combination. No wonder that the few people who knew of Merlin’s Maidens waxed poetic on their unique talents.

  He, on the other hand, was far too jaded to indulge in soulful stanzas. His world was crafted of steel and shadows, not sonnets. To yield a fraction to softer sentiment was a grave mistake for someone in his profession. As was now painfully clear.

  Bloody hell. What momentary madness had prompted him to risk his own skin for the female Fury? “Every man for himself” was the creed he had lived by for as long as he could remember. It was a little late for a change of heart.

  Wincing, Orlov turned his face to the bulwark and sank deeper into a haze of fitful dreams.

  Shannon looked down at the sleeping Russian. His fair hair was matted with salt and sweat, his jaw stubbled with whiskers that gleamed gold in the lamplight. Like points of fire. How could a man appear so devilishly handsome in a disheveled state, while she…

  A reflection in the polished brass showed that she looked like hell.

  Her lips curled in mocking irony. He, on the other hand, looked artistically pale, perfect. A gilded icon. Though she knew all too well that he was hardly a saint.

  Indeed, he was Lucifer incarnate, she reminded herself sharply. A brimstone beast from the netherworld, breathing smoke and lies. It would be a cardinal sin to see him in any brighter light.

  Orlov opened his eyes.

  Embarrassed to be caught staring, Shannon forced a frown. “Finally awake, are you?” She fumbled with the flask of water. “Here, you must be thirsty.”

  He accepted a draught with a murmur of thanks. “How kind. However, I would prefer port. A ten-year-old tawny, if possible, served with a selection of Stilton.”

  “Hmmph.” She tried not to dwell on the supremely sensuous shape of his mouth, or the thick lashes fringing his eyes. “Swallow your sarcasm, sir.” She brushed a bedraggled lock from her cheek, reluctant to admit that his dry humor was rather amusing. “I’m not much in the mood for it.”

  Orlov looked around the cramped confines of the cabin. “Forgive me. It appears my unexpected presence aboard this ship has created an uncomfortable situation for you.”

  “You keep turning up where you are least wanted, Mr. Orlov. Which begs the question of how you came to pick such an isolated fortress as the target for your thievery.”

  His gaze shuttered. “I had heard that O’Malley was hiding some special treasures. As you see, I wasn’t wrong.”

  “You nearly paid dearly for them.”

  “Great reward does not come without great risk.”

  She was not about to let his glib parry deflect her probing for answers. “True. Nonetheless, it is quite strange that you somehow appear, as if by magic, at places whose treasures are not common knowledge.”

  He turned to the shadows. “Not really. I make it my business to know about such opportunities.”

  “What business is that, Mr. Orlov?”

  “Like you, golub, I have my secrets.”

  “It’s no secret that you are a thief. And word has it you make an obscene profit selling your ill-gotten gains.”

  Orlov contrived to look injured. “The Earl of Kirtland got a bargain. He would have paid a great deal more had the books you speak of actually come up for auction.”

  “They were not yours to sell.”

  “Let us not haggle over the fine points of morality. I could have sold them for far more money to another collector.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Am I being subjected to an interrogation?” His eyes followed her movements as she took up a small knife. “Or perhaps an Inquisition.”

  “The bandage must be changed regularly to avoid infection.” Shannon started to cut away the linen, trying hard not to touch his bare flesh. That his pithy retorts were every bit as appealing as his sculpted muscles was a fact she wished to keep under wraps.

  He seemed to sense her discomfort and smiled. “How churlish of me to make light of your patience and kindness. You are truly an angel of mercy, golub. I pray that at some point, I may return the favor.”

  “God, I devoutly hope not.” Lapsing into a surly silence, Shannon hurriedly applied a fresh dusting of basilicum powder and snugged a new length of linen around the wound.

  Whether or not the Almighty heard her implied prayer, a soft rap on the door signaled that her daily reprieve from the cramped quarters—and the Russian’s company—was at hand.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air.”

  Chapter Five

  “Stop squirming, sir. You are not strong enough to sit up.”

  His fever had broken during the night, and Orlov was already chafing to escape his sickbed. “Care to test that assumption, golub?”

  “It would hardly be a fair fight,” she snapped. “Perhaps when you are at full strength.”

  “Is that a challenge?” He couldn’t resist provoking her. With her color up and her eyes ablaze, she looked even more alluring.

  “Take it as you will…” Shannon looked away. “With any luck, we won’t have any more of these chance encounters. It is not healthy.” She flexed her wrist. “For either of us.”

  “I did apologize for our past encounter,” he murmured.

  “Quite handsomely,” she conceded. “But be that as it may, you can’t deny that sparks fly when we rub together.” Turning back to small chart table, she resumed her writing.

  The lamplight moved in a rhythmic dance across her profile. Though his head w
as still muzzy and his shoulder ached abominably, he held off from closing his eyes in order to study her features. It was, he realized, the first time he had had the chance to observe her at any leisure. Up until now, he had only seen her in violent action—a blur of spinning limbs and flashing steel.

  In studious repose, her features were sharp cut, strong, yet surprisingly delicate. Like fine porcelain, her face had a luminous glow, highlighted by sultry green eyes that appeared an intriguing shade of smoky jade. Her nose was straight, in contrast to lushly full lips, whose soft curves invited the imagination to think of how they would taste, how they would feel.

  Orlov felt his mouth go dry. There was something fascinating about her fierceness. She was quite unlike any female he had ever known. Which, given the swath he had cut through the boudoirs of Europe and England, was a number he did not care to count up. In truth, none had been very memorable. Women seemed to tumble so easily into his bed.

  At that thought, his expression hovered between a grin and a grimace. She—when the devil would she tell him her name?—would put up an admirable fight on that score. Was that part of the challenge, the allure? God knows, he didn’t desire anything deeper from a woman than a fleeting coupling. Flesh entwined, then parting. Passion flaring hot, then cooling just as quickly to the ashes of memory.

  Emotional entanglements? That was only asking for trouble.

  Distance, detachment. Adhering to hard-and-fast rules was how one stayed out of danger.

  Still, he could not help but remark, “Speaking of unfair advantage, golub, You know my name, but have yet to reveal your own.”

  The faint scratch of her pen was the only answer.

  “Perhaps, as Bonaparte did with his Creole bride, I shall simply christen you with a name of my own choosing.”

  She snorted at the suggestion. “You are implying there is an intimacy between us? Hah!”

  Stung by her scorn, Orlov frowned. “More a mutual respect, forged in the heat of combat. There is always a certain camaraderie between soldiers, even if they are on opposing sides.”

  Shannon refused to look up from her paper. “There is nothing between us, Mr. Orlov.”