Seduced by a Spy

by Andrea Pickens

  “Scottie, come hold this flame aloft,” he called.

  Shannon handed over the candle to the lad and moved awkwardly to Orlov’s side. Together they shifted the barrels of ale away from the wall. The grate was thick with rust and the tunnel entrance was covered in cobwebs and mouse droppings. Peering closer, she saw the passageway was barely more than a crawl space.

  “When was the last time this was used?”

  “A number of years ago,” admitted the dowager.

  “I don’t like the looks of it,” she said slowly. “In a wet climate such as this, the earth is likely to be unstable. The smallest bump could cause it to collapse.”

  Orlov loosened the last screw and set the metal covering aside. “It looks to be carved out of rock,” he called as he dropped to his belly and slithered inside. His voice sounded strangely muffled, as if swathed in silk rather than stone. “An easy traverse. The distance can’t be very great.”

  “Alex, come out of there,” she snapped. It was, she knew, unreasonable to feel so uneasy. “At once.”

  He reappeared a moment later, his hair matted with mud and several substances she did not care to identify. “What’s amiss?”

  “I—I am not sure.” She shifted her stance, feeling a fool. Lud, her nerves were so jumpy that it seemed the earth was moving under her feet. She eased the weight off her injured leg, hoping to steady her thoughts. But the tremors grew more pronounced. An ominous rumbling, like the thunder of fast-approaching stormclouds, reverberated off the walls.

  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 watchin
g 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.