Page 15 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Fifteen

“ M ano 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, thought Kirtland . 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 . . . nobody.”

“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.”

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 whatever 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?

“ Pax .” 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 earl was not her real enemy. He did not feel . . . threatening. She had survived in the slums by trusting in her gut 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 swordpoints.

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. “James.” His given name came unbidden to her tongue.

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

“James.” 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 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 melded into the shadows. Turning to Kirtland, 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 goosebumps 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 bush—I 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 dissention 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.”