The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  “It is a fair match, sir, for I am no proper lady.”

  “Then let us both be on guard.”

  The click of wood was not quite as same as the ring of steel, yet Siena felt the familiar thrill of anticipation as she squared off for another bout. Kirtland was as skilled as Da Rimini, but the sexual tension between them added an extra edge to the competition. She would take more pleasure in besting the earl. This time around, she intended to try a Sicilian maneuver…

  “Fie, sir!” she cried as her first cut struck home. “You did not even attempt a defense.”

  He contrived to look innocent, without much success. “You wound me, madam, by adding insult to injury.” First one boot, then the other came off. “There, now we are on equal footing.”

  “Then perhaps we should call it a draw.”

  “Surely you are not feeling fatigued?” He cut a lightning flourish through the air.

  Several fig leaves fell to the ground. “You look to be in splendid shape.”

  “Oh, that I am.” And indeed, she won the next exchange with little trouble. “That is quite enough,” she grumbled as the earl removed his breeches. “You are making a mockery of the competition.”

  “It would be most unfair to quit while you are ahead.” A single stride brought him within an arm’s length. The scent of brandy and a distinctly masculine musk filled her lungs. “What have you got to lose, my Dark Dove?”

  Everything, if she was not very careful. Did she dare continue this dangerous game with Kirtland? She had just witnessed that the difference between victory and defeat was often too slight to be seen with the naked eye.

  “Nothing,” she replied. A Merlin did not back down.

  “We shall see.” He ducked under a low-hanging ficus branch, and for an instant Siena was left wondering whether his words had a sinister shade to them. But then, there was no time to muse on nuances. His next attack was swift, sure, striking at her one weakness on the left side.

  She stumbled, and still would have dodged his debole if not for the terra-cotta pots blocking her retreat.

  “It appears as if the match is all square, madam. That is, once you shed your loss.”

  Siena assessed her options—which didn’t amount to much. She had dressed in a hurry, not bothering with more than the bare necessities.

  “Take your time,” drawled Kirtland. “I’m in no hurry.”

  Damn the man. He was clearly enjoying this. Brushing an errant strand from her cheek, she reached back to retie her hair. As her fingers caught the curl of ribbon, her scowl took an upward bend. “You wish your forfeit?”

  Light as a feather, the black silk swirled in a puff of air before floating down to earth. “Voila.”

  “Protecting your maidenly modesty?” The earl flashed a devilish smile. “There is precious little I haven’t already seen, if you recall.” He jabbed at the scrap of fabric. “That seems to be stretching the definition of clothing. As would be the sheath you have strapped to your calf.”

  She might have known he would not miss the knife, however well its flesh-colored leather fitted against her own skin.

  “Very clever,” he finished. “Bantrock is lucky that his cock is still attached to his ballocks.”

  The last thing Siena wanted was for him to dwell on her hidden blade and her reasons for wearing it. He was far too sharp at cutting through her best defenses. “I should hate to be accused of cheating, sir,” she said quickly. Unknotting its tails, she whipped her shirt off and flung it at his feet. A gauntlet of linen, not leather, but holding the same elemental challenge.

  “Come, let us have at it,” she added. “Mano a mano. Winner take all.”

  “Mano a mano,” repeated Kirtland. Amusement warred with arousal as he stared at her bared breasts. “An interesting figure of speech.” Like the rest of her lithe body, they were taut and perfectly formed, the rosy aureoles tipped with peaks that quickly darkened to a deeper red. Like points of fire. He suddenly burned to know what they would feel like beneath his palm. Siena seized on his silence to press the offensive. “Defend yourself, sir.” A loping leap carried her to the top of the potting bench. Dancing around the tiny seedlings, she dropped to the other side and came at him from behind.

  He whirled. The sticks clashed.

  “Quick, my high-flying merlin, but not quick enough.”

  She cut between two orange trees, one step ahead of his lunge. With a low laugh, Kirtland gave chase, vaulting over a row of orchids.

  In the heat of battle, the drawstring of his drawers worked loose. He glanced down to see that gentlemanly propriety was hanging on by a thread. The only thing holding the garment up were his hip bones.

  And his growing arousal.

  “Combat stimulates the most primal of urges in men,” he said, seeing her gaze drawn to his groin.

  “So it would seem,” she replied with dry humor, but he thought he detected a swirl of liquid heat in her eyes.

  “In war there is life and death,” he continued. Their weapons beat a staccato tattoo. “And very little in between.”

  She hesitated, which was very nearly her undoing. His rod darted in below hers, and only a whip of her hips and an arching spin saved her.

  The point kissed only lace.

  “Bravo,” he murmured, though in the same breath he sidestepped to cut off her retreat, forcing her back against the workbench.

  She tossed aside the wooden sword and grabbed hold of its edge. Impossible. With her back to the slatted top, not even the Black Dove could manage the acrobatics needed to fly over its width. The lady appeared to agree. She swore and slid to her left.

  Grinning, the earl raised his arm and stepped in for the coup de grace. She waited under the last instant to lash out. The kick nearly took his legs out from under him, but the earl had anticipated that she might not fight fair. Matching her lightning quickness, he dodged its full impact.

  “Hellion.” Capturing her ankle, Kirtland twisted and pinned her up against the unyielding wood. He stepped in between her legs, crushing his heat hard against her. “Burned once, think twice, my dear merlin. This time I came ready to fight fire with fire.”

  Steel and flint. Tonight the clash had ignited not just sparks but a conflagration. Its crackle was perilously close to consuming the last

  vestiges of his self-control.

  “I’m afraid you have no choice but to concede defeat, madam.” The feel of her long legs was exquisitely enticing, like steel sheathed in velvet. He must try to remember that all he wanted from her was a confession. But that was proving damnably difficult. He ran his hands along the length of her thighs, savoring the sensation.

  She suddenly stilled beneath his touch. The blaze in her eyes took on a different glow. It was not the flicker of surrender, but some light he could not begin to define.

  “I am in no position to argue.” Her lips pursed, and he swallowed a groan, recalling how sweet they had tasted, cool and beaded with wind-whipped rain. “Though you must admit, sir, that the match could have gone either way. There is very little difference between us.”

  “On the contrary, paloma.” Her loosened tresses were tumbled over her shoulders, ebony against ivory. Rare and exotic. He reached up and buried his fingers in the silky strands. “There is a world of difference between us.”

  She touched his chest, grazing the curls of dark hair. “Yes, you are a lord and I am … no one.”

  “I am a man, and you are a woman.” Hell’s fire, she was undeniably feminine. Up close, her face had a fine-boned beauty, her cheeks strong yet delicate, her chin tapering to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He tilted it up so that he could gaze into her eyes. She looked somehow…

  innocent. Vulnerable. As if she hadn’t taken countless men inside her.

  He nearly laughed aloud at the thought, but the breath had caught in his throat.

  He had to force himself to exhale. “Sweet Jesus,” he rasped. “At this moment I don’t give a damn who you are.”

&nbs
p; Her lashes fluttered, her voice wavered. “A—are you going to claim your forfeit?”

  Surely no innocent could sound so sinfully seductive. Kirtland took her earlobe between his teeth. “Oh, I mean to savor my hard-fought victory before seizing the prize.”

  He felt her shiver as he pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat. Her skin was warm and salty with exertion, and her pulse pounded against his lips. A hunger flared deep within. Only sliding his tongue inside her warmth might slake it. “Though God help me,” he whispered, “I’m not sure whether I have won or lost.”

  At that moment, all his carefully planned battle tactics seemed to lose their edge. Somehow, victory no longer seemed so clear-cut.

  Her hands were threaded in his hair, and, as she drew him closer, he saw the same uncertainty mirrored in her expression.

  “Perhaps we might, for a moment, not think of war.”

  Kirtland traced the line of her jaw, wondering whether he had only imagined the flicker in her eyes. Or could it be that this magnificent Valkyrie was not as certain of her own strength as she wished to seem? The thought of it sent another surge through his limbs. Not of lust, but of a longing to keep her shielded in his arms, safe from what ever enemy she was fighting.

  “Cry pax, you mean?” Kirtland watched her carefully as he spoke, trying to discern whether he could trust this vulnerable side of the Black Dove. Was she truly offering an olive branch? Or was it the hidden hawk luring him closer with a tangle of thorns in its talons?

  “Touche.” She sighed, her breath feathery soft on his cheek. Then her lips were at the corner of his mouth, a gossamer touch that drew a groan. “Kiss me.”

  Suddenly it no longer mattered what dangers lay ahead. He had survived the slashing sabers of opposing armies. He would risk the far more subtle wounds of dueling with this mysterious merlin.

  Siena felt more than naked beneath his rapier gaze. She felt stripped of all her defenses.

  Yet at the same time, some primal instinct told her that the earl was not her real enemy. He did not feel… threatening. She had survived in the slums by trusting in her primal reactions. Did she dare go on with this dangerous seduction? As his hands skimmed down over her thighs and wrapped her legs around his hips, Siena assured herself she was equal to the challenge. She could remain detached, her mission paramount in her mind, no matter what was demanded of her body.

  The earl rocked forward, his chest grazing her breasts. She felt her flesh peak, aroused by his touch. As if sensing an unspoken need, his fingers closed around her, thumbs teasing her tips to hard little sword points.

  She cried out, but whether it was duty or desire speaking, she dared not say. “Kiss me.”

  His mouth came down on hers, expressing the same urgent need. She opened to him, drinking in the heat of brandy and male desire. It was a far more potent mix than she had ever imagined. No classroom lectures, no bedroom lessons had prepared her for the realities of real passion.

  Or the jolt of fire that lanced through her as he suddenly turned his tongue to caressing her breast.

  “Do you like that, paloma?”

  Her nails scraped across his shoulders as he teased at her nipple. Her words were now just a flutter of air.

  His hand reached between them, molding to her feminine mound. As he teased a finger through her wet curls, she found her voice again. “Julian.” His given name came unbidden to her tongue.

  He answered with a hoarse whisper. “Say it again.”

  “Julian.” This was all about the mission, she told herself. Seducing the earl would bring her closer to learning what secrets he might be hiding. Yet who was seducing whom? Limbs entangled, tongues entwined, the edge was blurred between their strengths.

  “I cannot fight this damnable attraction,” he groaned. “Not now.”

  “Nor can I.” Siena lifted herself to meet his thrust. There was naught but a thin scrim of silk and linen between them. His ridged muscles were taut with need, his steeling shaft straining to cut through the last barrier to their coupling.

  He reached for the delicate twist of silk. One finger hooked in the lace, then another.

  “Yes,” she urged. Was it the warrior or the woman speaking? For a moment, she wasn’t quite sure.

  His palm flattened on her flesh …

  A shadow, dark against the moonlight, flickered outside the glass.

  Kirtland’s hand suddenly shot down the length of her leg. Snatching the knife from its sheath, he rolled to one side and landed lightly on his feet.

  “Spawn of Satan.” His oath was left hovering in the air as he turned and raced through the screen of palms toward the rear of the conservatory.

  It took a moment for Siena to gather her wits; then she, too, pushed up from the bench. Snatching her shirt, she followed the sound of rustling leaves and running steps to the glass door that faced the rolling lawns. It was ajar, and the chill night breeze had knocked over several specimen pots.

  Outside, at the far bend of the boxwood hedges, she could just make out the shape of a figure, but it quickly elded into the shadows. Turning to Rutland, she asked, “Did you see who it was?”

  “Yes.” The earl’s voice was no longer gentle.

  She slipped on her shirt, though it did nothing to ward off the goose bumps prickling down her spine. “Who?”

  “Orlov.”

  “Damn.” The oath slipped out before she could catch herself.

  “Are you upset that he was spying on us?” The curl of his lip looked carved of ice. “Or upset that I moved fast enough to recognize him?”

  “What do you mean?” The dueling of duty and desire still had her off-balance.

  “Let us stop beating around the bushPcucI have suspected for some time that you and he are in league. I commend you, madam. Whether your plan is to steal the manuscripts outright or to foment enough dissension among the bidders to win the auction, your plan is diabolically clever.”

  “No!” The breath caught in her throat. “I am not in league with him. I swear it.”

  Her obvious surprise seemed to soften his cynicism. “Yet you reacted with heat when you learned he was lurking nearby. Why?”

  “There is something unsettling about his presence here,” she replied in all honesty.

  “I cannot help but wonder whether it is books that have brought him to Marquand Castle, or something else.”

  “I have been asking myself much the same question. But answers seem as elusive as our Russian friend.”

  The earl stood still as a statue, his bare flesh pale as marble in the moonglow.

  Stern and unyielding, like a Greek god. Siena looked heavenward, and through the high glass ceiling she saw the faint glimmer of Venus among the stars. But there was nothing of the lover about Kirtland now. He looked like Mars, a warrior expression carved on his features.

  “And then there is you,” he added. “Your own words have been equally evasive.” She said nothing.

  He latched the door and moved away from the mullioned panes. Raising her knife to the scudding light, he turned it once in his fingers before handing it over. “So, we are back to being at daggers drawn?”

  The earl spun around so quickly that Siena could no longer see anything of him but a lean shadow. But his next words echoed clearly off the glass.

  “Be warned that the next time we have it, the duel will not end in a stalemate.”

  “A rather windy day for an exhibition of marksmanship, wouldn’t you say, Lord Kirtland?”

  The earl turned from his brooding contemplation of the distant moors to meet Orlov’s sly smile.

  The morning had indeed dawned cold and blustery. Hardly ideal conditions for the Black Dove’s second challenge, which was a test of shooting skills. In spite of the chill, Kirtland had taken his coffee out to the stone terrace overlooking the gardens, hoping to avoid the idle chatter of the breakfast room.

  But the Russian seemed to have a knack of turning up where he was least wanted.

  “Let us
hope there is not another unfortunate accident, like the one that befell poor Bantrock. He left for Dublin at first light, in case you had not heard.” Orlov exaggerated a sigh. “Imagine, suffering such a nasty slip. The fellow’s face looked like a slab of raw beefsteak.”

  Much as Kirtland would have enjoyed smashing the Russian’s nose to a bloody pulp, he kept his temper in check. “Apparently the Irishman was clumsy. He should have been more careful. With all its twists and turns, Marquand Castle can be a treacherous place.”

  “True, but there are so many cozy nooks and crannies as well.” Orlov took a seat on the stone railing and crossed one booted leg over the other. “Did you sleep well? Or do you find the chambers here a trifle overheated?”

  The earl was in no mood for verbal fencing. Ignoring the other man’s blatant jab, he took a sip from his cup and resumed his silent pacing around the perimeter of the slate tiles.

  His thoughts about the Black Dove and the previous day were going in circles as well. On one hand, the rational part of his brain was warning him away from any emotional entanglement. In the past, it had always been easy to keep a distance between himself and those around him. Even Osborne was allowed only so close.

  The problem was, the rational part of his brain was only a very small portion of his anatomy. The rest of him was, against all reason, enjoying her company. Her fiery courage, her sharp wit, her physical grace, her exotic beauty—everything about her was undeniably unique. Undeniably alluring.

  Undeniably dangerous.

  Yet danger often sharpened the sense of being alive …

  A well-trained courtesan would, of course, know how to enflame a man’s senses so that his better judgment went up in smoke. In the army, he had never been fooled by an enemy ambush, no matter how skillfully planned. Was he now falling prey to the oldest trap known to mankind?

  Kirtland lifted his face to the cooling breeze. He had assured Osborne that his eyes were open to her game. So why did he wish to see an innocence in the glint of her olden gaze, despite all signs to the contrary?

  Was he an idealist? Or an idiot?

  Given his recent past, maybe there wasn’t much difference between the two. Still, he was inclined to believe she was not working with Orlov. Her surprise at his accusation had been too real. Indeed, now that his anger—and his lust—had cooled down, he admitted that perhaps he had overreacted in declaring they were back to being at daggers drawn. Strangely enough, he found he did not want to break the fragile friendship that had formed between them. At least, not just yet.