Seduced by a Spy (26 page)

Her knee buckled as the force of a deafening explosion pitched her forward. Orlov caught her and took the brunt of the blow as they fell against the iron gate. Smoke and ash billowed from the tunnel, the acrid smell of burnt chemicals mixing with the earthier scent of decayed leaves. The sound deadened to a dull roaring in her ears.

“Lady Octavia!” It took a moment for the gun-gray swirls to dissipate.

“Here!” Her silvery head bobbed up from under the workbench. “And all in one piece.”

“We all are, thanks to Shannon,” said Orlov. “How did you know?”

She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself. “I sensed you were in danger.”

“A magical Merlin,” he murmured. His fingers twined in the delicate chain around her throat, caressing the silver hawk. “It seems you are my lucky charm.”

Her pulse thudded against his palm. The thought of how close she had come to losing him made her shudder.

“D’Etienne obviously had a chance to make a careful survey of the terraces while we were otherwise engaged,” said Orlov in a louder voice. “His eye doesn’t miss much.”

The reminder sent a shiver down her spine.

“Sit down,” murmured Orlov. “Your leg needs a rest.” He dusted a corner of the workbench.

“I don’t need to—”

“Sit!” he commanded. “Or must I sweep you off your feet?”

Shannon perched a hip on the scarred wood.

Orlov leaned in, his hand resting lightly on her thigh. His touch had come to feel like a part of her. When this mission was over…

She would worry about that when the time came.
If
the time came. Despite the bantering humor, she had seen in Orlov’s eyes that he, too, recognized the seriousness of the situation. It seemed that D’Etienne had switched tactics. He was no longer concerned with taking the children alive.

Her hands fisted in frustration. Their own expertise had come back to haunt them. With the tunnel sealed off, they had no way out.

D’Etienne could break his way in. But why would he bother to risk a hand-to-hand confrontation? It would be hours before any help could be mustered from the village. Given his deadly skill with explosives, he could take his time in setting a number of charges that would bring this part of the castle crashing down on their heads.

Dismay must have shown on her face, for Orlov began to whistle a spirited tune.
Handel. Music for Royal Fireworks
.

She felt her eyes light with silent laughter.

“Don’t be alarmed, Lady Octavia,” he said in between stanzas. “We shall find a way out of here, if I have to dig our way to China with a teaspoon.” He took a turn around the perimeter of the workroom, pausing at the door leading out to the firewood shed.

“Alarmed? Hmmph.” The dowager had lost her stick but not her doughty resolve. “If he imagines he can frighten the mother of Angus McAllister with a paltry display of fireworks, he can think again.”

Emma shook the soot from her braid. “Uncle’s pyrotechnics make a much louder bang,” she said with some pride.

“That’s because he takes special care preparing the ingredients,” added Prescott. “He says it is an art as well as a science.”

An all-too-lethal art.
Shannon watched as Orlov probed at the latch and the thick doorframe with his knife.

“No use,” he said without looking up. “It would take a strong explosion to knock the door off its hinges.” He shook his head before she could ask. “I have only a small bit of powder for the pistol. Not even enough to make a dent in the oak.”

Prescott cleared his throat. “Mr. Oliver?”

“Yes, lad?”

“Would it help if we could make up a batch of our own gunpowder?”

“It would help a great deal.”

“I’ve seen where Uncle Angus keeps a supply of saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal.”

“And where he hides the key to the lockbox,” chimed in Emma. “Though we’re not supposed to know he has such things in the castle.” She bit her lip. “I know we were wrong to peek. Will Uncle birch us?”

“Don’t make a habit of spying,” said Shannon. McAllister had obviously taken a great deal of trouble to hide the hazardous material from his nephew and niece. However, he ought to have remembered from his own hair-raising exploits that children had an uncanny knack for uncovering secrets. “But in this case, I think we may show a little leniency.”

The siblings looked greatly relieved.

“The case is stored in the crate marked ‘Wool.’” Prescott pointed to a workbench piled high with assorted boxes and baskets. “The key is tucked inside the glove on the wall.”

Orlov dug a large iron box out from its sheepskin wrappings while Shannon took the old hawking gauntlet from its hook. It was stiff with age, but sure enough, when she turned it upside down and shook it, a small brass key fell out.

The oiled lock on the box opened with a soft snick. A marble mortar and pestle, much blackened from use, lay beside three brass canisters.

Saltpeter. Sulfur. Charcoal.
The Chinese called their invention “firedrug,” a potent elixir of
ying
and
yang
—the cool essence of the female mixed with the hot spark of the male.
Fire and ice.
Shannon felt a bit giddy with hope that such alchemy would be their salvation.

“I’ve never actually made my own powder,” murmured Orlov. “Have you?”

“It was a basic requirement in my school,” she replied. “We were put through a rigorous course of study.”

“I should like to attend
that
school,” said Emma from her seat in the shadows. “Rather than the horrid places that Mrs. Kelso describes, where young ladies must learn things like how to curtsey to a duke.”

Shannon smiled as she broke up a piece of charred willowbark and began to grind it to a fine powder. “Mr. Oliver and I will talk to your father about what school would be best for you, elf, if ever he feels you should be sent to a boarding school.”

“Is there a school for pirates?” asked Prescott hopefully. “The curate says all lords must go to Eton for their education, but it sounds very boring.”

“I have some other recommendations I shall discuss with your Papa, lad,” replied Orlov. He watched her open the sulfur canister and add several pinches of the pungent yellow substance to the pestle. His tone turned a bit more tentative. “I trust you received a passing grade.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I had failed.” Shannon looked up to find the children had crept closer to the table and were watching the procedure with great interest. Giving silent thanks for their eccentric upbringing, she decided that a lesson might be the best way to keep their attention occupied. They were, after all, a captive audience, so to speak.

“What I’m doing here is combining these three ingredients—charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur—in just the right proportions to make an explosion strong enough to blow the shed door from its hinges.”

The children nodded solemnly.

“It was the Chinese who invented gunpowder, you know,” she continued. “For centuries it was used for magic tricks and celebrations.”

“While Western civilization decided to put it to a more practical use,” said Orlov dryly.

“The Chinese experimented with its use in warfare, too,” replied Shannon. “They created fire arrows, rockets, and incendiary bombs for their catapults.” She took a moment to make an inventory of the other items in the lockbox. Fuses, a wad of sticky pine resin, an oval corning screen—all the basics were there.

“And cannons,” said Prescott. “Uncle Angus said one of the very first ones was called the ‘Nine-Arrow-Heart-Piercing-Magic-Poison Thunderous Fire Erupter.’”

“But it was quite crude,” commented Emma.

“Quite,” repeated Shannon. Molding the pine resin into a squat cylinder, she lit it with the guttering stub of the candle. The substance would burn brighter and longer than wax. “Will you pass me the saltpeter, elf?” She reached for a measuring spoon. “One of the first great European battles won with the help of gunpowder was Crecy, where King Edward III used his new firepower to rout the French knights.”

Prescott mustered a martial scowl. “We will beat them this time, too. Though Uncle Angus says Napoleon is a very clever general, because he was first an artillery officer.”

“He’s not nearly as clever as your uncle,” said Orlov. “Or Miss Sloane. As you see, Scottie, females are every bit as capable of military prowess as men.” Leaning back on his elbows, he waggled a brow. “Perhaps we ought to retreat to the wine cellar and uncork a fine claret, seeing as the ladies are doing all the hard work.”

The lad’s eyes lit up. “Or a bottle of rum?”

Shannon rolled her eyes at Orlov. “Be grateful I did not order you to drain McAllister’s brandy collection and then piss in a pot.”

His arms nearly slipped out from under him. “
What
!”

“I’m deadly serious.” She kept up her grinding. “The best gunpowder is said to be made from the chamberpots of bishops who imbibe brandy. The contents were boiled down for the nitrates and then… never mind the rest of the details.”

“Thank god,” he muttered. “If celibacy is part of the mix, we would have been doomed.”

“What’s celerbercy?” asked Emma. “Does Uncle put it in his powder?”

“I would rather you didn’t ask him,” said Shannon quickly, slanting a reproving look at Orlov. His look of unholy amusement had returned.

“Forgive me for raising another uncomfortable question, but ought we try to stop the smoke that is coming in under the door?” Lady Octavia, who had been unnaturally quiet for the last little while, pointed to the thick white fingers of vapor that were creeping in from under the doorway to the woodshed terrace. “It has a most unpleasant smell.”

“Damn.” Wiping the smile from his face, Orlov pulled off his coat and stuffed it in around the crack. “
Sal ammoniac
,” he muttered after a tentative sniff set him to coughing.

A powerful poison, used in early smoke bombs. Shannon’s lips set in a grim line as she hurried her final preparations. So D’Etienne was also well-schooled in the alchemy of death.

“Find a metal container and cover,” she said to Orlov. “Something heavy.”

“Are you going to blast the bastard to Kingdom Come?” demanded Prescott in a muffled voice. The dowager had gathered the children and covered their faces with the silk skirting of her gown.

“First we are going to try to blow this door open, Scottie.” Deciding to overlook the lad’s bad language, Shannon scooped out a small indentation in the earthen floor by the outer door. “Then we will deal with the, er, bad—”

“The bastard won’t stand a chance against Miss Sloane. She will gut him like a lake trout if she gets her hands on him,” said Lady Octavia through the lace of her handkerchief. “I hope you will allow me to hand you the fillet knife.”

“For now, would you mind tossing me the coil of matchfuse by your elbow? And Scottie, will you please fetch the crossbow I left by the foot of the secret steps?”

“Would that you had grabbed a blunderbuss from the wall,” quipped Lady Octavia. “I fear that old-fashioned arrows aren’t going to be much good against the Frenchman’s firepower.”

Shannon kept up her grinding. “One never knows.”

“Speaking of firepower, have we a plan, once we blow the door open?” asked the dowager.

“Our original idea still seems the safest bet. Mr. Oliver will help you and the children to the shelter of the root cellar, while I create a diversion to draw D’Etienne’s attention.”

“I was beginning to think I was considered quite superfluous here,” drawled Orlov. His tone was nonchalant but his movements were swift, sure.

“Men have some useful purposes.” She grinned, in spite of the fact that her lips were so encrusted in cordite they felt about to crack.

Orlov grinned back, a half-moon sliver of pearly white against the blackness of the cellar walls.

“I am glad to see you have finally discovered that, Miss Sloane.” Lady Octavia chortled. “I was beginning to worry about you.”

She hoped the coating of black powder on her face was thick enough to hide her blush. Did the dowager know of their new intimacy? Or was it merely a shot in the dark?

Shifting the light closer to her work, Shannon ducked down to examine the texture. Not perfect, but it would do. “Any luck with a container?”

A cast-off cooking pot thunked down upon the worktable. The handle was broken but the walls were over a quarter-inch in thickness. “I found a roll of baling wire as well,” added Orlov. “Once everything is ready, I’ll make sure the lid is tied on tight as a drum.”

“Excellent.”

He cut off a length of the fuse. “Thirty seconds?”

“More than enough time.” She emptied the contents of the mortar into the pot. “Lady Octavia, kindly take the children into the wine cellar and take cover behind the ale casks. We shall join you momentarily.”

Moving to the doorway, Orlov made a few quick measurements. “I’ve moved your hole slightly to the left and added an inch of depth,” he said as he returned to wire the lid in place.

After a few mental calculations, she nodded.

He carried it over and positioned it in place, carefully patting the dirt around the base. The fuse lay like a languid snake upon the earthen floor, waiting for a spark to ignite its strike.

“Ready when you are.”

Shannon drew in a deep breath, and set the flame to the tail.

Chapter Twenty-three

The silence seemed to go on forever.

Orlov held his breath, trying to hear the hiss of burning cordite above the pounding of his heart. Was the air too damp? The fuse too old? A myriad of things could go wrong.

His palms flattened against the rough wood as he ventured a peek around the barrels.
Fifteen… sixteen… seventeen…
Shannon shifted, too, her shoulder tensed against his.

“Damn, perhaps the spark did not catch.”

He held her back, still mouthing the silent count.

She tried to wiggle free. Limned in the light of the burning resin, her profile had a Mars-like glow. A Warrior Queen, unflinching, unafraid of anything but her own imagined weaknesses. “The fuse may have fallen—”

The
BOOM
threw them back against the wall. Above their heads, bottles shattered, filling the air with flying glass and spattered wine.

“A pity to waste such a lovely Moselle,” muttered Orlov as he shielded his pistol from the drops. Shoving Shannon aside, he sprang up and raced for the gap in the wall. He had a plan of his own for dealing with the Frenchman.

He forced his pace to slow as he edged through the smoking remains of the doorway and up the stone stairs. Red-hot embers crunched underfoot, in stark contrast to the ice-cold fury he felt for the man who would murder innocent women and children.

No misstep now, he warned himself. Sliding out from the archway, he crept along the weathered retaining wall cut into the sloping ground. Ahead was a small, steep-roofed storage shed for firewood, set in the shadows of the narrow scullery terrace. Granite stairs led up to the yet another expanse of stone.

Cat-and-mouse.
Time to see who was the predator and who was the prey.

Picking his way around the smoldering debris, Orlov paused to look back. No sign of the others. As he had hoped, Shannon was slowed by the need to sort out the confusion and assist the elderly dowager and the children. It would likely take her several more minutes to emerge from the cloudy chaos. By which time he was determined to engage the enemy alone.

No more need for stealth. Orlov gauged the numbers of steps to the far set of stairs, then decided on a direct challenge to draw D’Etienne into the open.

“As you see, your cowardly way of murder did not succeed,
mon vieux
,” he called. “Do you dare meet me man to man, or are you only capable of fighting women and children from afar?”

His words echoed dully off the sooty stones.

“Ah, well, I suppose I, too, would be afraid to show my face if I had been bested in hand-to-hand combat by a female.” He paused. “Perhaps you are losing your edge.”

A laugh floated down from mist-shrouded terraces above. “I am sharp enough to send you to
le diable
, monsieur. And mademoiselle as well. A pity I must do it quickly, rather than make you suffer for all the trouble you have caused me.”

Orlov strained to see any sign of movement in the swirl of smoke and shadows. It was nearly nightfall and the fading twilight had blanketed the moors with a purpled haze. The fires burning in the castle tower added a scudding of charcoal clouds that deadened any sound of footfalls.

“Rather, it is
you
who have been most annoying. You have made me chase you across Ireland and now Scotland. It’s grown most tiresome.”

The scrape of a boot, almost lost in the crackle of burning wood, sounded from overhead. Orlov allowed an inward smile as he crept a step closer to the shed. From behind its shelter, he could gain an angle—

A pattering behind him caused him to whirl around.

“Mr. Oliver!” He watched in dismay as Emma bolted past Shannon, her little fists outstretched. “You forgot your knife!”

“Go back, elf!” But he saw his shout was too late—a wink of steel flashed at the terrace railing.

Flinging himself at the racing child, he caught her in a rolling hug. One turn, two. A bullet whizzed by his ear, cutting a furrow through the slate tile. All was a blur of flailing limbs and flapping skirts. Somehow he managed to push Emma clear, into the sheltering safety of the shed wall.

In making the desperate lunge, he had lost hold of his pistol. It lay not far away, scant inches from his reach, but as he stretched out to grab it, everything went black.

“Emma!”

Between lighting the way for Lady Octavia and loosening the cord of the crossbow, Shannon had momentarily let her grip on the little girl’s hand slip.

Orlov reacted in a flash, shielding Emma’s skinny form with his own body. They hit the ground at the same instant that a shot rang out. The flare from the muzzle illuminated a lean face—a high forehead, aquiline nose, and full lips pulled taut—before darkness swallowed the feral smile.

“Stay back, Scottie.” Shannon caught the boy’s collar and thrust him back into the dowager’s grasp. “Guard your grandmother.”

Cursing her limp, she hurried up the last step. The reddish glow from the tower windows showed D’Etienne as a slim black shape, moving with hellish precision as he took aim with one of the marble urns and launched it at Orlov.

It hit with a sickening thud and shattered just inches from his head. He appeared stunned by the shards of flying rock, for after a spasm of his fist, he lay unmoving on the terrace.

Emma cried out, her high-pitched voice punctuated by the Frenchman’s deep laugh.

“It’s
you
who have grown too dull for this sort of work,
mon ami
.” D’Etienne was taking his time in reloading his pistol for the
coup de grace
. He had his back angled to her, and in the swirl of mist and moonlight she could just make out the heavy rucksack slung over his shoulders.

Damn.
Setting down the makeshift resin candle, Shannon sighted along the stock of the ancient crossbow, desperately searching for a clear shot. But the thick canvas—bulging with enough explosives to blow half the Highlands into the North Sea—served as a shield.

“Having a heart is a fatal weakness,” called D’Etienne. Still gloating, the Frenchman rammed a fresh bullet down the barrel. “
Moi
, I don’t dwell on the fine points of morality. A skilled banker or artist is paid for his expertise—why should I not profit from my god-given talents as well, eh? The Emperor is extremely generous in rewarding merit over rank or privilege.” In another moment, he would curl his finger around the trigger.

Though her own hands were shaking, Shannon fought off despair. Surely there was some strategy from all her training. Sun-Tzu, the Chinese military master—

Chinese.
Something from her earlier history lecture suddenly sparked an idea. She grabbed the flaming pine resin, jabbed it onto the point of her arrow, and let fly.

The small dart barely made a sound as it bit into the canvas. The Frenchman must have felt a quiver, for he whirled around.

Shannon dropped the crossbow and backed up a step.

D’Etienne laughed again. He took up a deliberate stance atop the terrace railing. “English archers may have won the Battle of Agincourt. But this is a new age, a new dawn…” A flicker of light, white then pink, rose from behind his head.

Shannon held her breath.

Suddenly aware of the danger, D’Etienne spun round and round, arms flailing, dancing a macabre ballet as he tried to peel off the rucksack and its deadly contents.

A last pirouette exploded in an ear-splitting boom, followed by a burst of brilliant light. Flames shot up, red and orange streaks against the black velvet sky. A shower of white-hot gold sparks, glittering like a myriad lethal little stars, hung for a moment in silent splendor before slowly drifting back down to earth.

“Bravo!” From the ruins of the stairwell came Lady Octavia’s applause. “Bravo, gel! I’ve witnessed countless pyrotechnics over the years, but none so deserving of accolades as that one.”

Orlov stirred and sat up. “High praise indeed, coming from the mother of Angus McAllister.” His face was streaked with blood from the cut on his brow, but through the grime and the gunpowder he flashed a lopsided grin. “Perhaps the military ought to enlist your unique expertise as well as his. That was certainly a highly unusual strategy. But highly effective.”

“Wellesley and his generals don’t need my help. They have only to read their history books—the Chinese have been using fire arrows for centuries.” Shannon sat heavily on the stone wall, overcome by a sudden weariness. “It was a lucky shot. And not one I would want to try again.”

From down in the valley, the tolling of the village church bells rose up in counterpoint to the dying thunder of the blast. The flames from the castle must have been visible for miles. Help would soon be on the way.

Hardly daring to believe it was over, she closed her eyes.

Things had not gone exactly as planned, but she had accomplished all that Lord Lynsley had asked of her. Would he see the mission as a success? Or would he find fault with the decisions she had made in the field?

Too exhausted in body and spirit to contemplate the future, Shannon lifted her face to the cooling night breeze. Consequences be damned. For now, she would savor the light lilt of the children’s voices, the soft “Hmmph” of the dowager’s cough, and feathery warmth of…

As her lashes fluttered opened, she was surprised to find them pearled with tears. “Warriors aren’t supposed to be watering pots,” she whispered against Orlov’s lips. He tasted of salt, of sweat, of fire. She drank in his warmth.

“Do you recall the illustrious list of Warrior Queens we discussed?”

His touch was making it impossible for her to think clearly.

“Your name ought to be added to their ranks.”

“I am merely an anonymous foot soldier,” she managed to reply. “My exploits can never be written down.”

Orlov framed her face with his strong, capable hands. “My brave and bold Valkyrie, you and your exploits will always be etched on my heart.” His kiss tickled at the corner of her mouth. “Though I confess it’s becoming rather a sore point that you keep on having to save my skin. A blow to my manhood, you see.”

She hugged him closer, reveling in the contours of their closeness. “There doesn’t appear to be grievous injury to your manhood, Alex.”

“I am sure with a bit of nursing, it can be coaxed into making a full recovery.” His chuckle was echoed by Emma’s giggle.

“Mr. Oliver, are you
kissing
Miss Sloane?”

Loath though she was to leave his arms, Shannon stepped out of his embrace.

“I was, elf,” answered Orlov. “But I have one for all my brave ladies. Here is yours.” He lifted the little girl against his chest and planted a noisy smack on her forehead, earning a peal of delight. “And yours, milady.”

“Hmmph.” The dowager touched her wrinkled cheek and tried to disguise a sniff with a snort. “If I were half a century younger, Miss Sloane might have to watch
her
back. But let us save any further display of sentiment for later. We had better take shelter in the stable before we catch our death of cold. I daresay Squire Urquhart and the villagers will be along shortly.”

“Just as long as
I
do not have to kiss anyone,” muttered Prescott.

“I shall remind you of that statement in several years,” said Orlov dryly. Arm in arm with Lady Octavia, he started across the terrace.

Sighing, Shannon flexed her aching leg and made to bring up the rear. The sight of his broad shoulders and tapered waist was a rueful reminder that in a few days they would turn their backs on this job and head off to new missions, new challenges, new dangers.

Surely nothing was as dangerous as ice-blue eyes and a devilish smile. The man was indeed a master thief, for he had stolen her heart…

She looked up abruptly to find he had sent the others along and was waiting for her.

“You didn’t really think I was going to leave you on your own, did you?”

Her mouth quivered. “Every man for himself.”

“Those rules went up in smoke the first time around.” His stone-roughened fingers caught hers, pressing their palms tight. “Come Hell or Lucifer himself, we face the fire together, Shannon.”