Page 13 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Thirteen

D amn. What the devil was he doing here?

“Or should I say, Black Dove,” added Bantrock, drawing out the pause between the two words. “We both know you are no lady.”

“The Tower is not off limits.” Siena ignored the innuendo. “However, I confess that I am surprised to see you here. I thought all the gentlemen had been invited to hunt on the duke’s private moor.

“I’m not interested in grouse.”

“Really?” she replied coolly. “Then I fear you shall be deprived of any sport. There are no other game birds in season.”

“The English have such quaint rules. I am not averse to doing a little poaching.”

She tried to step around him, but his hand shot out to snare her arm. “Not so fast. You flew away this morning before I had a chance to test my weapon.

“Please let me go,” she said. “You are hurting me.”

The demand only seemed to make Bantrock squeeze tighter. His smile thinned to an ugly pinch, distorting the handsome features with anger and a far more primal passion.

“I shall scream?—”

He slapped a hand over her mouth. “No you won’t.” The weight of his body pinned her up against the stone. His other hand was clawing at her skirts.

Siena did not wish to betray her fighting skills. Twisting beneath his pawing attack, she used a few of the subtle moves she had learned from the Indian fakir to fend off his groping. If she could edge to the doorway, perhaps she could appear to effect a lucky escape. But her deft parries only seemed to goad him into a greater fury. Silk ripped, its jagged echo slurred against the rock and mortar. His hips slammed hard in a grinding thrust.

Left with no choice, she let fly a chop with the flat of her hand that caught him on the throat. His scream was cut short by a kick that knocked his legs out from under him.

Stunned, he took several moments to push up from the landing. “Bitch,” he panted, once the string of other profanities had run out. “I swear, you will be begging for mercy before I am done with you.”

“Don’t count on it, sir. Given my profession, I have taken great pains to learn how to defend myself.”

Bantrock spat out another curse. “As if a trollop is trained for aught but spreading her legs.” Arms outstretched, he launched himself at her neck.

She sidestepped the onslaught, and with a jab of her elbow sent him careening into the side wall. “You have fair warning, sir. Leave now or my next blow will break a bone.”

The Irishman fixed her with a murderous look. “We shall see who does the battering, you poxy slut.”

For all his broad bulk, he was lighter on his feet than she anticipated. Pushing off from the wall, he catapulted forward, and the force of his momentum trapped her again, pinning her hands between her body and his. She ducked a slap, and managed to regain a foothold on the smooth granite.

He hit her again, a hard blow to the side of the head.

Siena made a split second decision—she could no longer afford to be subtle. Bruises to her face would raise too many questions. Spinning into action, she jerked on his arm, using his own weight to overbalance his stance. An instant later, she pivoted back, and with a quick twist smashed his face into the mortared stone. Blood spurted from Bantrock’s broken nose, a slash of ugly crimson against the pale granite.

Dazed, the Irishman staggered back a step, clutching at his lacerated cheek.

Catching his wrist, she ducked low, then lifted her hip, the angle and momentum of her move forcing him head over heels. The snap of sinew separating from bone was overpowered by a howl of anguish. Then, as his head cracked on the landing, there was dead silence.

After a few moments, Bantrock began to moan softly. His legs twitched, but his arm lay limp by his side. “Sweet Jesus, I’m dying,” he whimpered.

“No, you’re not. Trust me, if I wanted you dead, you would be a corpse by now.” Lifting her ripped skirts, she prodded him with her slipper. “Get up, before I change my mind. And get out of my sight.” Given his character, the Irishman’s continued presence at Marquand Castle posed too great a risk to her mission. “If you aren’t gone for good by the morrow, there will be further hell to pay.”

Still moaning, Bantrock crawled to his knees.

“One last bit of advice,” she continued. “I suggest you keep quiet about this little encounter. Make up an excuse—something about the steep steps being treacherous would be in order.” In this instance, masculine hubris would work in her favor. “Unless you care to be the laughingstock of the other gentleman for allowing a woman to thrash you to a bloody pulp.”

The Irishman managed to get to his feet and slink away through the archway.

Siena let out deep breath, suddenly aware of her own aching muscles and disheveled dress. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes. She could taste blood from a cut on her lip.

“A bravura performance of hand- to-hand combat.”

Her lids flew open in time to catch Kirtland stepping out from the shadows, handkerchief in hand. He approached and pressed it lightly to the corner of her mouth. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate that all my limbs are still in one piece.”

“What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, he took her hand and slowly wiped off Bantrock’s blood. Before she could pull away, he slowly traced his fingers over her knuckles, her palm. In contrast to the Irish lord, his touch was gentle as the brush of a feather.

“A courtesan’s usual activities do not give rise to calluses such as these. But then, from our first encounter it has been quite obvious that you are no ordinary madam of the demimonde .”

The heat of him sent a tingle through her limbs. A warning, perhaps, of her precarious position? She had let herself be trapped between the unyielding stone and his broad bulk. Even more dangerous was the strength of his suspicions. He could destroy her cover and her mission if he made a public announcement of what he knew about her fighting skills.

“Who the devil are you?” he whispered.

Siena knew she would not escape this time without giving some sort of answer. She thought fast. Lynsley’s dossiers had implied that the earl had his own rigid notion of honor—a fact confirmed by their midnight encounter. An appeal to such higher principle might do the trick.

“Someone seeking to right a wrong.” As she answered, she watched his face very carefully. “A betrayal.”

The only show of emotion was a tic of his jaw. “One of the men here has hurt you in the past? Is that the reason you sought out The Gilded Page Club?”

She must move with unerring steps. A slip here and her chances of catching Lynsley’s traitor would be cut to shreds. “Yes. I used your club to gain invitation here,” she lied. “The villain is not necessarily one of your fellow members. He hurt . . . a friend. But I am the only one in a position to make him pay for it.”

“Which one of them?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “I cannot say.”

“Cannot or will not?”

Her silence deflected the question. Rather than press the offensive, he fixed her with a searching look.

Siena felt herself color under its emerald intensity . Damn . She must not let her body disobey her mind.

“No matter your considerable skills, what you propose is dangerous,” he said softly. “Perhaps I could help you in some way.”

“No.” The offer took her by surprise. It took an instant to steady her voice. “That is, this is a matter I must handle on my own.”

The earl was still holding her hand. His cravat had loosened, and she could see the throb of a pulse at his throat, hear the slight quickening of his breathing. “Is there a reason?” he asked

Not one that she could reveal.

Drawing on all her years of discipline, she quickly sought to turn the talk from her actions to his own. “I, too, have some questions, Lord Kirtland.” Siena forced her attention back to duty. “Again I ask, what are you doing here?”

“I saw you on the battlements. And when I caught a glimpse of Bantrock sneaking into the Tower, I thought there might be trouble.”

The irony of it drew a rueful smile. “So once again Fate intervenes and you ride to my rescue. Like a knight errant of old.”

“Mere chance.” He gave a cynical shrug. “You have studied all the members of the club well enough to know I am no storybook hero.”

“So I have. Yet how else to explain your chivalrous actions?”

“I don’t like it when a man misuses his strength.”

She saw the fine lines at the corner of his mouth stretch tauter. He, too, had secrets.

“Even on a whore?” she asked.

Pain seemed to pool in his eyes, and she felt his fist clench at his side.

It was then that Siena suddenly recalled his words from their wild ride.

My mother was a whore.

She touched his cheek. He flinched but did not pull away. The truth was etched there on his face. His words had not been a casual quip, a glib jest. “So you meant what you said in our first encounter.”

“Yes—my mother was a whore. Or so my father said. He never tired of screaming such an epithet at her.” There was a rasp to his voice. “But that was long ago. It doesn’t matter now.”

She, of all people, knew the past was not so easy to forget.

“How did you come to choose a courtesan’s life?” he asked abruptly.

“I was luckier than many girls who find themselves on the street. A kindly gentleman took me under his wing, so to speak. He saw I received a proper education.”

“I doubt it was all out of the charity of his heart.” The sardonic set was back on Kirtland’s face. “What did he ask for in return?”

Siena shrugged. “Services rendered.”

His expression seemed to grow even grimmer. “Do you enjoy what he requires of you?”

The question was so unexpected, she could not repress a laugh. “Some aspects of it.”

He looked about to speak again but instead leaned down to pick up the ribbon that had been ripped from her hair. The coil of blue looked achingly delicate against his palm.

“Thank you.”

Kirtland took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. It was only then that she noticed the torn silk had slipped low enough to show the small tattoo above her left breast.

His fingertips grazed her bare skin. “Was that his idea or yours?”

Siena did not trust herself to answer. The air around them was growing dangerously charged. Like lightning hidden in stormclouds, it threatened to explode at any moment.

“A lone peregrine, who journeys far and wide?” asked the earl. He slanted a sharper look. “No—it looks to be a merlin.”

“W—what makes you say that?”

“I have an eye for detail. And for art. Whoever wielded the needle got the shape of the wings just right.” He stared a moment longer. “The merlin was the mark of England’s ancient wizard,” he mused. “Perhaps that explains why it feels as if some mysterious magic is at play here. Some spell that defies rational explanation.”

So he sensed it too? For a moment, the crackling of heat was almost audible. Siena wished to deny the inexplicable attraction, but her words rang oddly hollow. “There is nothing magical about me, sir.”

“Then how do you explain this strange alchemy that seems to draw us together?”

“Would that I had the answer.” She drew the remnants of her bodice up over the black bird, determined to smother the urge to touch his face, taste his mouth. “It seems to me that we are more like steel and flint than the elements of any wizard’s brew.” Her mouth quirked. “Sparks seem to fly when we rub together.”

An odd light flared in his eyes, and for an instant Siena was sure he was going to kiss her. Then he pulled back abruptly, leaving her to wonder whether she had merely imagined it.

“Then let us have a care we don’t get burned.” Kirtland stepped aside, once again dropping into shadow. “If you turn to the right and ascend the first set of stairs, you should make it to your quarters without being seen.”

She was hiding something

Kirtland was sure of it. He raised the brandy to his lips and threw it back in one gulp, ignoring the singe of its liquid fire.

Everyone had secrets, including himself. He had never spoken to anyone, not even Osborne, about the terrible conflict of his childhood years. Yet somehow she had sensed his pain. A highstrung mother, an abusive father, a wild punch that had finally put an end to the fighting. Her fall down the stairs had been ruled an accident, brought on by too much wine, but he knew the truth. He had avoided any contact with his father after that. When the old earl died a few years later, he had not grieved.

His jaw clenched. In at least one thing, the lady had lied—she was a merlin, a mystical magician with the power to draw the darkest secrets from a man’s heart.

Had she told him the truth about her reasons for being at Marquand Castle? Unless his intuition had entirely deserted him, he felt he could believe at least part of her tale.

But maybe it was his body and not his brain that wished to think her innocent of mercenary intentions. A heroine out of a chanson de geste rather than an accomplice in a scheme for profit? The thought of her being here to avenge a wrong was rather . . . romantic.

Bloody hell. On recalling Osborne’s teasing about being a knight in shining armor he chided himself for a fool. And yet, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit protective. The Black Dove was clearly a hardened woman, unafraid of any man. So why did he sense that beneath all her armor there was something other than steely self-interest? Was it mere illusion to think that they might be . . . kindred spirits?

Cursing again, Kirtland took up the decanter and refilled his glass. That, too, he downed in a single swallow. Then followed it with another.

He rarely drank to excess. But the explosive encounter with the Black Dove had left him in a strange mood. He had not lingered over the after supper port and cigars with the other gentlemen, but had retreated to his bedchamber to brood over his brandy in solitude.

Lies. Lust. Fraternizing with this particular enemy was fraught with perils. He better have a care that he was not seduced by his own shift in strategy.

There was only a drop or two left of the spirits. He could either seek oblivion in a fresh bottle or clear his head with a midnight ride through the moors. His mouth twitched in a tight-lipped smile as he savored the irony of the idea. Perhaps he would encounter one of Devon’s legendary druids—a magician who might conjure up a counter spell to release him from the merlin’s talons.