Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea Page 6

  “Methinks the lady protests too much,” he murmured under his breath.

  “Do not misquote Shakespeare.” She kept up her furious scribbling, pausing only long enough to slap a fresh page atop her pile.

  “I assure you, the words are quite accurate. I studied English literature at Oxford.”

  “I assure you, the sentiments are not. Though the fact may be a grievous blow to your vanity, not every female in Creation is longing to toss her skirts up for you.”

  “Indeed. I have never seen you wearing aught but breeches.”

  She flushed and fell silent. But not before muttering something that included the words “odious” and “ass.”

  Still scowling, Shannon finished writing her report and read over the pages. Lynsley ought to be satisfied with the account. She had been thorough in recording all the details of the mission. Perhaps too thorough. It was a pity that Orlov’s presence had to be mentioned. Some things were best left unsaid.

  Such as an inexplicable attraction to a rogue.

  Was his allure yet another indication of her unsteady temperament? By all rational measure, it made no sense. She fought for noble principles while he scavenged for personal gain. She should, by all rights, loathe him. And yet…

  A groan, hardly more than a breath of air, gave her a guilty start. To be fair, the Russian was not all bad. He possessed a stoic courage and an ironic sense of humor. Not once had he complained of the pain, or the quirk of fate that had caused the bullet to rip through his flesh rather than hers.

  Luck? As Shannon fingered the silver charm beneath her shirt, she found herself wondering about that moment. What had moved Orlov to leap to her rescue? A code of honor? By his own admission, he had none. She made a face. Perhaps he had simply tripped in his haste to save his own skin.

  But there was no point dwelling on uncomfortable abstractions when there were more practical matters to deal with. Setting aside her pen, she rose and reached for her knife. “This pains me more than it does you, Mr. Orlov. But it’s time to change your bandages.”

  “I am always ready to rouse myself to your touch.”

  “While I cannot wait to be done with the onerous task, duty demands I set personal feeling aside. Let us try to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

  Catching her hand, Orlov turned it and kissed the inside of her wrist. “You wound me anew with your scorn, golub. Come, let us agree to be friends, at least for this fleeting interlude.”

  Shannon was suddenly aware of a heat shooting through her. A strange fire, that threatened to melt her defenses. For a flickering instant, she found herself tempted to surrender to his suggestion. Then, coming to her senses, she yanked her fingers free. “You are wasting your charms, Mr. Orlov.”

  Her skittishness provoked a smile from him. “Am I?” he murmured with a smoky seductiveness. His accent added an exotic edge that made her itch to touch the golden stubbling on his jaw. “I wager I could make you ask me to conquer you, golub,” he added, fixing her with a lazy, lidded gaze. The gleam of his pirate earring added a rakish wink.

  “You are very sure of yourself,” she snapped.

  “I know my desires. Do you?”

  She didn’t answer. What a ridiculous question. Of course she knew what she wanted. Not him—that was for sure. The last thing she needed in her life was an arrogant, infuriating male.

  Yet beneath the show of acerbic wit, was there a glimmer of some deeper emotion in his eyes? At certain moments, an odd sort of stirring seemed to peek through the cocksure banter.

  Longing? For what?

  “If we are to be sequestered in each other’s company, we could at least try to converse.” His sardonic drawl cut short her musing. “Tell me something of yourself. What brought you to join Lord Lynsley’s flock?”

  Shannon set her teeth. “I am not about to share the intimate details of my life with you, Mr. Orlov.”

  “If I were seeking intimacies, I would know just where to find them, golub.”

  “What you would find, sirrah, was your head handed to you on a platter.” Cutting through the twist of linen, she set it aside and reached for the jar of salve. “And stop calling me by that ridiculous name. It means ‘pigeon,’ does it not?”

  “In Russian, it also means ‘dove.’” The low lamplight limned the nuanced curves of his mouth. A pliant, playful humor curled at its corners, at odds with the arctic chill that sometimes hardened his eyes to slivers of ice. That was a look that sent shivers down her spine. At the moment, however, there was naught but a faint twinkle. “It was meant as a peace offering of sorts. What would you prefer that I call you? Olive?”

  Shannon bit back a snort, hoping she sounded angry, rather than amused. She did not wish him to know she found his irreverent teasings entertaining.

  “I don’t imagine Olivia would be any more acceptable.”

  “Indeed not. It reminds me of a spinster aunt, who makes herself useful by darning stockings.”

  Orlov exaggerated a shudder. “I can imagine you engaged in many activities involving a pointed implement, but darning is not one of them.”

  “Do you never tire of making sexual innuendoes?” she challenged. “If you are hoping to put me to blush, you are wasting your time. My sensibilities are not those of an innocent maiden.”

  “And yet…” Steepling his fingers, Orlov ran his gaze the length of her body. “You are innocent.”

  To her dismay, she felt her cheeks begin to burn. “You don’t know anything about me,” she replied. Even to her own ears, the retort sounded shrill. Covering her confusion, she turned away and took a book from her bag of supplies.

  “Not your name, perhaps. But there are other elemental things that a woman expresses without words. They are in the way she moves, the way she smiles—”

  “Bollocks,” she swore. “You see what you want to see, Mr. Orlov. And your vision is colored by your own hubris.” She snapped open the travelworn cover. “Don’t think for an instant that I will ever be impaled on your conceit.”

  After a stretch of silence, he shifted in the narrow bunk. “If we can’t converse, then might I at least ask you to read aloud?”

  “I doubt you would like the story. It offers a scathing satire on male pride.”

  He angled a glance at the title. “And female prejudice, for in truth both sexes are skewered with the same ruthless wit.”

  Surprised, Shannon looked up. “You are familiar with Miss Austen’s works.”

  “As a matter of fact I find her observations on society immensely entertaining.”

  She wondered if he was merely making sport of her as he added, “Miss Elizabeth Bennett reminds me a little of you. A bold young lady, unbowed by conventional expectations, unafraid of standing her ground.”

  Shannon felt an odd fluttering in her fingertips.

  “Would you agree that her one fault may be her tendency to rush to judgment?”

  Her gaze fell back to the book. “I—I should not wish to venture an opinion until I have finished.”

  “Ah. A wise strategy.” Lacing his hands behind his head, Orlov closed his eyes. “Then let me not keep you from enjoying the story.”

  Shannon turned the page. “Oh, very well,” she muttered. “‘There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well . . .’”

  Orlov settled back against his pillow, enjoying the play of light over her face as she read. Like the story, her features offered a compelling play of nuanced emotions. He found himself even more intrigued by her expressions than by Miss Austen’s words. For all her beguiling character, Elizabeth Bennett was no match for the flesh-and-blood female who was sharing his cramped quarters. He was acutely aware of her, though she edged her stool as far away from his berth as possible. Heat prickled across the narrow sliver of space.

  She was still angry. He had come to recognize the subtle signs of her ire—the tilt of her chin, the flare of her gaze, the exact crimson shade of her flush. However ungentlemanly it was
to admit it, he had gone out of his way to provoke her. He liked her show of fighting spirit. He imagined she would not back down from a duel with Satan himself, if the devil dared to displease her.

  “Am I boring you?” Shannon looked up abruptly.

  “You are a great many things, but never boring, my dear.”

  Her eyes flashed like daggerpoints.

  “Before you take offense, allow me to say that I meant it as a compliment.”

  “I would rather you keep your flirtations to yourself,” she replied. “Along with your hands.”

  He cocked his head. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Not you,” she shot back. “Nor any man.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I would guess that your own inner demons are a far more dangerous opponent.”

  Shannon laughed, but its echo sounded a bit hollow against the oak planking. “The opium has addled your wits, sir. You are talking nonsense.”

  “Then why are your cheeks turning such a delightful shade of pink?”

  “Because you would test the patience of a saint. And God knows, I have little heavenly tolerance. I am not known for suffering fools gladly.”

  “I can well imagine that you have a temper,” he murmured. “And a short fuse to setting it off.”

  His comment sparked a snort. “Bloody hell.” She kicked back from the chart table, but could not stalk more than several strides before coming up against the door. Spinning around in frustration, she flung herself onto her own berth. “Imagine what you wish. Since you seem to prefer your own fantasies to Miss Austen’s fiction, I won’t bother to keep on reading aloud.”

  Orlov immediately regretted that his teasing had caused her to lapse into an angry silence. He had been enjoying the melody of her voice more than he cared to admit. It had a lushness to it—like her hair, it reminded him of sun-dappled honey, rich with a nuanced texture and hue.

  Swallowing a sardonic reply, he said softly, “Forgive me. I should not vent my own foul temper on you. If I promise to refrain from further interruption, might I ask you to continue, golub?”

  Shannon hesitated, but after a long moment sighed. “Very well. And I suppose I might as well tell you my name, if only to avoid being called golub for the entire trip. It is Shannon.”

  As he let the words wash over him, Orlov could not helping thinking that perhaps she was right. The narcotic was doing strange things to his brain. Not only had it dulled the pain of his wound, but it had also affected his usual sense of detachment. How else to account for the inexplicable allure of a feisty female Fury? One who would rather slice out his liver than read him a novel.

  He turned to the bulkhead, but even with his eyes closed, he could not put her out of his mind.

  Fire and ice. By all conventional rules of chemistry, the combination should fizzle, rather than ignite an explosive attraction. Damn. As soon as the drug wore off, he would be back to his normal self.

  He wasn’t aware that he had drifted into a fitful half sleep, but when next he looked up, he found Shannon sitting on the edge of his berth, a glass in hand.

  “Drink this.” Her tone had softened to a note of concern. “You’ve been thrashing about for the last half hour.”

  “I’ve had enough of laudanum,” he growled. “I would rather leave off its use.”

  “Yet you are still in a great deal of pain.”

  “I’ve seen too many men become dependent on it. I would rather suffer through a bit of discomfort than become a slave to its power.”

  There appeared a brief flash of respect in her gaze as Shannon nodded. “I think I would make the same choice. But I imagine you will be in for a rough night.” Setting the medicine aside, she started to rise.

  He caught her sleeve. “There are other ways of taking one’s mind off of pain.”

  She was no longer looking quite so sympathetic. “Mr. Orlov—”

  “I was not referring to anything physical,” he hastened to add.

  “Hmmph.”

  He couldn’t resist. “Though I daresay a certain activity might relieve the tension between us, Shannon.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “But enough of my ill-advised humor. I see you are not amused.” Orlov shifted beneath his blanket. Sweat was beginning to bead on his brow, and his shoulder ached like the devil. “What I meant was, perhaps we might talk for a bit,” he continued. “About…”

  “About what?” she asked slowly. “Are you going to suggest again that we reveal something of ourselves?”

  “For a start.”

  “And what are you going to tell me? That you are a thief and a murderer?”

  He nodded. “That goes without saying.”

  “Indeed it does. You took my dagger, which I won…” She bit her lip. “And god knows what other crimes you are guilty of.”

  “You, of all people, are in a position to know the sordid secrets of the shadowy world in which we both work,” he replied. He meant to sound sardonic, but his voice had an odd edge to it that took him by surprise. “It’s one thing for a scoundrel like me to indulge in a life of skullduggery. But Lord Lynsley strikes me as a rather honorable chap. I wonder what possessed him to draw innocent females into such a dirty game as espionage.”

  “You have no right to criticize him,” she snapped, quick to come to the marquess’s defense. “In truth, he offered us a life far better than the ones we had.”

  He frowned. “You mean to say your families were unkind?”

  “None of us have families—” She bit her lip, looking aghast that she had let such a detail slip out.

  “Orphans.” It was more a musing than a question.

  “Yes, bloody orphans,” she said. The shadows rocked, light and dark playing over her fine-boned features.

  Orlov watched the flicker of coppery highlights in her hair. “Your parents were Irish?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “The name of Shannon must have some significance—”

  A harsh laugh cut him off. “None whatsoever. It was a mere spin of serendipity. A rite of passage. Our Academy has a large globe, a beautiful orb of varnished wood and lacquered paper showing all the wonders of a world outside the slums of St. Giles. On my first day, our headmistress bade me choose a new name for a new life. So I set the sphere in motion and watched the cities turn slowly.” She shrugged. “Shannon had a nice ring to childish ears.”

  “That it does.” He leaned closer and murmured in her ear. “Sionainn.”

  “What—”

  “It sounds even lovelier in Gaelic.”

  She swore, but there was little force behind it.

  “And far more interesting than Alexandr.” He gave the name a distinct Russian inflection. “No doubt it was yet another compromise of conflicting cultures—my father would likely have chosen Rurik or Yaroslav while my mother would have favored John or George.”

  Shannon could not quite hide a smile. “You settling for any sort of compromise? I am surprised you did not pop out pronouncing your own wish in the matter.”

  “I was a very well-behaved child. Or so I am told.”

  “Ha! More likely you terrorized your nursemaid and sent your mother into permanent decline.”

  “No, that deed I left to my father.”

  She regarded him thoughtfully before speaking. “Did I strike a raw nerve?”

  Damn. He should have known she was too sharp to miss his tiny slip. “Not at all. There is precious little that can penetrate my hide, save for the stray piece of lead or steel.” Orlov blotted his brow on his sleeve. The tiny cabin seemed to be rocking more wildly than before. “Speaking of which, is there any brandy left in your flask?”

  Shannon fetched it without comment and waited while he downed its contents in two quick gulps. Turning away, she extinguished the lamp. He heard the creak of wood as she lay down in her berth.

  “Sweet dreams, Alexandr.”

  His lips twitched. In one way, at least, she was a typical female. It was just
like a woman to feel she had to have the last word.

  Chapter Six

  “What is taking so damnably long?” demanded Orlov. “We should have reached Southampton long before now.”

  Shannon took her cloak down from its peg. “The captain heard rumors of a French corsair cruising off Land’s End. He was forced to head north around the Scilly Islands to avoid any chance of an encounter. And now…” She paused, listening to the crack of canvas and the thud of footsteps on the deck above. “The weatherglass shows a storm approaching. I imagine it will mean further delay.”

  He muttered an oath.

  “If I were you. I would not be quite so eager to set foot on English soil.”

  “Newgate would be preferable to this cursed hellhole. At least its floors do not dance around like a damned dervish.” Orlov drew in a breath and let it out in disgust. “And surely the stench could be no worse than this god-awful bilge water.”

  Shannon couldn’t blame him for being in a foul temper. She, too, would be swearing if she were confined in such a dark, damp space. A sidelong glance showed that the Russian was looking pale as the underbelly of a dead fish beneath the stubbling of fair whiskers.

  Their eyes met and she saw his jaw tighten. “Let me come with you.”

  “The captain’s orders…” she began.

  “To hell with his orders.” Defiance flashed in his eyes, along with an unspoken plea. “Bloody hell, it is like being trapped in a coffin down here. I am not used to such inaction. Surely you can appreciate what I mean.”

  A knock on the door signaled the appointed time for her exercise on deck. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and slipped out. But in a few minutes she returned with an extra oilskin. “Here—and be quick about it, before he changes his mind.”

  Though his movements were stiff, Orlov managed to navigate the steep ladder and hatchway without a slip. Crossing the deck, he leaned on the ship’s rail, and lifted his face to the salty breeze. “Thank you,” he murmured, after drawing in a deep breath. There was no trace of his usual sarcasm.

  She took up a position by his side, ready to steady his footing against the pitch of the deck. They stood silent for some time, a strange harmony flowing between them as they listened to the wind sing through the rigging and the waves drum against the hull.