Merlins Maidens - The Spy Wore Silk - Pickens, Andrea

by The Spy Wore Silk (v1. 1) (mobi)

He captured her chin and forced her to face him. “Then you would have preferred to have your brains splattered against yon oak?”

  “It is a matter of honor. I’m willing to take whatever risks are necessary.”

  “There is nothing honorable about being dead.”

  “That depends, sir. I feel there is a great deal of honor in dying in the line of duty. You, of all people, ought to understand that.”

  His look of initial surprise softened into a grudging glint of respect. “You speak like a soldier.”

  “You speak as if that amazes you. Do you think it impossible that a female might possess the same commitment to higher principle as a man?”

  Kirtland leaned closer, the heat of him prickling against her tensed body like points of steel. “I have ceased to be amazed by anything about you, madam.”

  She was saved from having to answer by Oban’s shout.

  “I am here,” she called back.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” The groom tore through a tangle of brambles, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I tried to give chase, but the brush is too thick. I never got close enough to see who fired the shot.”

  “Too late now.” Siena surveyed the silent woods. “You might as well gather the pistols and take the barrels back to the barn.”

  Oban nodded.

  She turned to Kirtland. “I would rather you didn’t say a word to anyone about this.”

  “I agree that would be best.” He brushed a bit of dirt from his sleeve. “The duke might well cancel the auction if he thought a madman was on the loose at Marquand Castle.”

  If there had been any question about the earl’s coolness under pressure, she thought wryly, it had been emphatically answered. “Good. Then we best hurry back to the others, before they begin to question what’s keeping us.”

  “Right.” Kirtland suddenly turned and retrieved the uncharged target pistol from the underbrush. “Just in case someone is counting,” he said, firing it heavenward.

  Siena bit her Up. She should have thought of that. Was she missing anything else?

  She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on Da Rimini’s rules of warfare rather than the musky scent of the earl’s cologne or the whisper-soft stirring of his breath on her cheek.

  “Don’t think to escape so easily, Madame Dove. We need to talk,” murmured Kirtland as he matched her hurried steps toward the clearing. “In private. The duke’s hunting lodge would provide the perfect opportunity.”

  “You are suggesting I announce you as the winner?”

  “Who else? You just said you wish to go on as if nothing untoward has happened. And you have to admit I would have bested the others by a handsome margin.”

  Kirtland had a point. The announcement would surprise no one. And he was still a prime suspect, she rationalized, along with Dunster, Jadwin,

  and Leveritt. However, logic and reason said she ought to choose one of the others. The earl had already received more than his fair share of attention.

  Sometimes you must take a bold gamble, Volpina. Was it Il Lupino’s exhortation she heard? Or that of her own inner voice.

  “Very well, sir. Meet me in the stables at six o’clock.”

  Dangerous.

  With the sound of the shot still loud in his ears, Kirtland shrugged out of his muddy shirt and splashed water over his shoulders and chest, the chill sluicing over the still tensed muscles, the old saber slashes. Getting close to the Black Dove was proving perilous to his person as well as his peace of mind. He shook away the drops. But it was not so easy to shrug off the fact that the game had just taken a deadly turn.

  And at stake were more than a pair of painted prayer books. It seemed that someone knew about the Dove’s plan to play the avenging angel. Someone who was determined to clip her wings.

  Gritting his teeth, he reached for a towel. What of it? It wasn’t his business if she wanted to get herself killed.

  She had chosen a risky profession. A courtesan invited intrigue and betrayals by virtue of seeking out gentlemen who were rich and powerful—and

  ruthless. She could have no illusions about the fact that some of them saw it as their right to take advantage of women like her.

  But whatever wrong she was seeking to redress, the Black Dove had proved that she could take care of herself.

  He had only to recall what had happened to Bantrock. I don’t need your help. Her words echoed in his ears. He ought to take them to heart.

  The earl stared in the looking glass, his gaze lingering on the faint scars of past conflicts. They should serve as a warning about the risks of charging headlong into the fray. He ought to distance himself from the Dove, and quickly. Allowing his life to become entangled with hers was putting himself in the line of fire. For a cause that had nothing to do with him.

  He had his own battles to fight. He had come here to win the St. Sebastian Psalters. Nothing else should matter.

  Certainly not some teasing temptress, some mysterious merlin who refused to reveal her true reasons for being at Marquand Castle. Other than her ultimate intention of selling herself to the best bidder.

  He reminded himself that she had initiated these dangerous challenges. There was an old adage—one who lives by the sword must be prepared to die by the sword.

  But even as he repeated the platitude, the earl could not quite dismiss her from his thoughts. Something about her inner fire—the flame gold flash of her eyes, the hints of her hellion courage—had kindled an answering spark inside him. That she had steadfastly refused all his offers

  of help made its burn even harder to stamp out.

  What had started as a challenge to his pride was now something far different, far deeper. At the beginning, he had been determined to prove her presence here was part of some sordid chicanery. But somewhere along the line, his own motivation had taken an unaccountable turn. He now found himself wanting above all else to believe her intentions were honorable.

  Guilty or innocent? Truth or lies? It all came back to one basic conundrum—who the devil was she?

  So many damn questions. Tonight he would not rest until he got some answers. Too unsettled to sit cooped in her room for the rest of the afternoon, Siena changed quickly out of her shooting attire and headed for the Central Tower. She needed a distraction to clear her thoughts for the coming confrontation with Kirtland.

  Dangerous.

  She didn’t need a bullet to warn her of the danger in getting too close to the earl.

  There was a fine line between seduction and being seduced. She couldn’t allow the slightest slip.

  Looking up, she found that her steps had brought her to the room where the St. Sebastian Psalters were on display.

  It was deserted, save for the two footmen standing guard at the doorway, so she decided to go inside. Art offered a temporary respite from war.

  As she leaned close to the glass case, Siena felt her tensions ease in light of the wondrous pages. It was impossible not to be captivated by their allure. She could not articulate the scholarly nuances of technique or style as well as the earl, but on a purely visceral level, she felt

  the power of their beauty. There was a purity of vision, a clarity of color and devotion that was evident in every exquisite detail.

  Entranced by her study, Siena was not aware of having company until a voice sounded close by her ear. “Pretty little things, aren’t they?”

  She did not look up. “Such a description hardly does them justice, Mr. Orlov. Aren’t you just a little bit interested in art?”

  “I am interested in accomplishing my mission here. What about you?”

  Was she only imagining the double meaning to his words?

  “I have had little opportunity to become acquainted with exquisite art, and the sensibility that inspires it,” she replied. “I think I should enjoy learning more about the subject.”

  “Really? And here I was under the impression that you were a very pragmatic person.”

  Siena met his mocking gaze, but no
t before noting the bits of mud still clinging to his Hessians and the tiny tear in the sleeve of his coat. “Who sent you here, Mr. Orlov?”

  He placed a careless elbow on the glass. “We all have our little secrets.”

  “Are you saying I have something to hide, sir?” She could almost hear the clash of steel as they parried each other’s advances.

  “I am merely offering a word to the wise—and you do strike me as a lady who is not lacking in intelligence. I would not get too close to the Earl of Kirtland. He is rumored to be a dangerous man.”

  “People are saying the same about you, sir.”

  “You see, there is some truth to rumors.”

  He had his hair tied back, and though some of the strands had escaped the ribbon, Siena saw he was wearing a gold earring. A wolf’s head. Was it grinning or growling? Like the Russian, it reflected well-chiseled lines and a polished patina, but its expression was impossible to discern.

  Despite her misgivings, she met his gaze with an unflinching show of calm. There was no denying that he was an extremely attractive man, radiating a whipcord grace and rampant masculinity. And yet his charms left her rather cold. Unlike the earl, who from the first moment, the first touch, had sent a sizzle of heat through her.

  Kirtland was fire, Orlov was ice. Elemental forces of nature. Both could be deadly.

  The Russian lifted a brow. “You seem pensive. I trust I have not frightened you.”

  “No. I was simply wondering …” Siena decided to test his reaction with a direct thrust. “Was it you who shot at me?”

  “Did a shot go astray this morning?” He contrived to look shocked and did not succeed.

  “A bullet came rather too close for comfort.”

  “What makes you think it was meant for you?” he said with a softness that belied the hard glint in his eye.

  Her gaze skimmed over the painted pages before she countered with her own question.

  “A bit of pigment and paper is worth killing for?”

  “That depends on the item, wouldn’t you say?”

  A leading question, if ever there was one.

  If Orlov were indeed the enemy, he was being very blatant about it. What game was he playing? He was far too skilled to give himself away by mistake. Siena felt her lips thin. Damn Lynsley for being so oblique in his warning. Damn herself for being unable to cut through the web of intrigue. Every way she turned, it seemed to be drawing her ever tighter within its strands.

  “You believe that the concept of right and wrong is not absolute?” she finally asked.

  “An interest in philosophy as well as art? You are an intriguing female, golub. But much as I would enjoy debating the fundamentals of morality with you, I must not be late for my interview with the duke.”

  Siena looked back at the Psalters as the Russian left the room, but the painted pages had suddenly lost a touch of their luster. Try as she might to focus on the brilliant colors of the illuminated letters, she could not help wondering whether she had a prayer of unraveling the truth from the tangle of lies and innuendo. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that Leveritt had to clear his throat before she noticed his presence in the doorway.

  “Might I enter? Or would you prefer a bit of privacy?”

  “I should be delighted to have you join me. We have had little chance to enjoy a moment alone together, sir.”

  He leered, but it was not lust she read in his eyes. Some deeper, darker emotion was at play beneath the swagger and smile. What was the man afraid of? “I admit to being curious as to what all you gentlemen see in these manuscripts,” she added. “Perhaps you might explain their significance to me.”

  The shadows seemed to lighten somewhat. “The St. Sebastian Psalters were created by an extraordinary monastery in Burgundy.” His voice was reverential, more like a caress than a simple commentary. Whatever else he was feigning, Leveritt was a true lover of art.

  “Are you as passionate about other things as you are about books and architecture?” she asked, recalling his equally erudite lecture on the decorative detailings of the castle.

  He smoothed a hand over the exquisite embroidery of his waistcoat. “I enjoy my pleasures as much as any man.”

  It seemed an odd reply, though she could not quite say why. Perhaps it was only her own overstretched nerves that had her imaging a certain shrillness to the words.

  “I am glad to hear it. Then let us see if we can contrive to have you win the next challenge. I should like that above all things.”

  “As would I.”

  A teasing stroke to his groin said otherwise. His first reaction was to shy away, but he covered his initial flinch with a low laugh. “Grasping little minx, aren’t you. But however much I’d like my pego in your hand, we had best not risk offending the duke with such a public display of lewdness.”

  Siena made a moue of disappointment. “Oh, very well.” She drew back. “Are you good at hide-and-seek?”

  Leveritt wet his lips. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Good. Tomorrow is a day of rest from the challenges, but when it’s time for the next game, be prepared to have some fun.”

  “I can’t wait.” And yet his tone had the same doleful ring as the tall case clock that suddenly began to chime out the hour.

  If she lingered any longer, she would be late for her meeting with the earl. Setting her skirts in a frothy swirl, she took her leave from Leveritt with a coy kiss and quickly crossed the carpet. But as she turned for a last, luring look, Siena came away with the impression that he was not sorry to see her go.

  The flint struck up a spark, and the wick flared to life. “It appears that the charms of the place have not been exaggerated.” As Kirtland held the oil lamp aloft, the first flicker of light illuminated the interior of the hunting lodge. A shingled cottage crowned with the thatched roof, it stood in a secluded grove of pine and spruce, several miles from the castle. But in contrast to its rustic exterior, the inside furnishings were obscenely opulent. “Nor has the collection of art.”

  He paused to look at a series of framed woodcuts that hung on the near wall.

  “Do you find them interesting?” The Black Dove, he saw, hardly gave them a glance.

  “Are you referring to the technique of the artist or the subjects?” he asked dryly.

  The brightly colored prints showed men with impossibly large phalluses performing a variety of highly graphic sexual acts with nubile young women. “To my eye, both are rather crude.”

  “I thought men found that sort of thing stimulating.”

  “Is that your experience?” he countered. “Do you always use such titillations to arouse your clients before you take them to bed?”

  Surprisingly, a faint blush came to her face. But she merely shrugged and turned to her coachman without answering. “You may put the hamper on the table, Oban. That is all for now.”

  The groom nodded, and after shooting the earl a hard look, took his leave from the lodge.

  “An unusual name,” murmured Kirtland as he lit the logs in the hearth.

  “Is it?” She uncorked a bottle of claret and began unpacking the contents of the picnic hamper.

  He leaned an elbow on the mantel, nudging aside a statue of a leering satyr with a monstrous erection. There was a strange sort of tension to her tonight. A maidenly reserve? His lips twitched at the notion. The juxtaposition of innocence and experience was no doubt part of her practiced allure.

  And it was a potent mix. He found himself unable to take his eyes off her as she poured the wine.

  “What is yours?” he asked abruptly, after accepting his share.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your name,” he replied.

  “Why do you ask?” The Black Dove looked at him over the rim of her wineglass. Despite the winking of the cut crystal, Kirtland thought he detected a flutter of surprise.

  “Because given the increasing intimacy of our acquaintance, it feels ridiculous to be calling you ‘madam.’” The earl
sipped at his claret. “Besides, I am curious.”

  She speared a slice of hothouse melon and put it on his plate.

  “Mary? Catherine? Elizabeth?” he prompted.

  Though she tried to hide it by fussing with the shaved ham, her cheeks turned a rather beguiling shade of pink.

  The Dove on the defensive? He kept up his probing. “Allegra? Constantina? Hecate?”

  “Not even close.” She calmly arranged the mushroom pastries on a silver platter. “You must try some of these. The duke’s chef is from Paris and has a sublime way with his sauces.”

  Kirtland refused to let the subject be submerged in a swirl of butter and minced morels. “Come, give me a hint.”

  Siena countered with a cool smile. “And what will you give me in return?”

  He leaned in a bit closer, watching the light flicker over her cheekbones. “What do you want?”

  She set out a plate on the side table before answering.

  “You are the only member of The Gilded Page Club who has not regaled me with an example of artistic expertise. Do you, perchance, know any poems by heart?”

  “A great many.” He knew she was trying to distract him, but for the moment was willing to play along with the game. After musing for a moment, he made his choice.

  “Twice or thrice had I loved thee

  Before I knew thy face or name;

  So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame

  Angels affect us oft, and worshipp’d be.

  Still when, to where thou wert, I came,

  Some lovely, glorious nothing did I see.

  But since my soul, whose child love is.

  Takes limbs of flesh and else could nothing do,

  More subtle than the parent is

  Love must not be, but take a body too,

  And therefore what thou wert, and who,

  I bid Love ask, and now,

  That it assume thy body, I allow,

  And fix itself in thy Up, eye and brow.”

  “It’s lovely,” she whispered after a second of silence.

  “It’s Donne.”

  She hesitated. “What about Blake?”

  Kirtland leaned back on the soft leather sofa, enjoying the dance of the flames inher fire gold eyes. “What do you know of William Blake?”