Page 17 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)
Chapter Seventeen
D angerous.
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 proven 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 flamegold 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 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 not 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 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, and 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 deeper into 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?” asked his companion, though he noted that shehardly 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 oversized 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 leaning in a bit closer, watching the light flicker over her cheekbones. “What do you want?”
She set out a plate on the sidetable 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 lip, 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 in her firegold eyes. “What do you know of William Blake?”
“Only that you seem to enjoy his work.”
He straightened. “How do you know that?”
Siena ducked her head. “I know a great many fascinating details about you.”
“Go on.”
“You own a very spoiled cat named Lucifer, and a great hairy dog—or perhaps it is a pony or a basilisk.”
“Mephisto‘s great hairy nose would be out of joint to hear you cast aspersions on his pedigree. He is a Scottish deerhound, bred from Highland stock renowned for its fierce loyalty and tenacious strength. And if his bark is now worse than his bite, I would never have the heart to tell him so.” The earl shifted his weight. “Anything else?”
“You sleep in the nude.”
He was no longer feeling quite so amused. “Do you mean to say you were spying on me?”
“It seemed only fair. After all, you had seen me in a rather compromising position.”
“Only because you presented yourself on a proverbial platter.” He could not bite back a smile. “You were a feast for the eyes.”
“As were you. But do not get too swelled a head about my attraction to your physical charms. It was merely . . . business. You were not the only gentleman I observed. The five other members of The Gilded Page Club also received a midnight visit.”
Back to business.
It was just as well. He must not lose sight of his earlier resolve in the flame-kissed curve of her lips.
“So, you were not entirely forthcoming the other afternoon.” He edged forward in his seat, intent on finally forcing the truth from her. “One of us is, in fact, the dastard you seek?”
“I have yet to find the evidence I need to prove it, but yes, I am fairly certain.”
“What proof?”
“That is not your concern, sir.”
“The hell it isn’t. You can’t deny that I have been drawn into this dangerous game you are playing. I need to know who you are and where you have come from.”
“We did not come here to discuss me or my past.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to any such rules.” Seeing he had her on the defensive, the earl quickened the thrust of his questions. “As I nearly took a bullet to the brain this afternoon, I think I have a right to demand some answers from you. Let’s start with the real reason you are here.”
“I told you why I am here—to avenge a betrayal. And to be certain it never happens again.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you care so passionately?”
“I have a duty to care.”
“Duty?” He gave the word a mocking edge. “Being a courtesan is an odd choice of professions, given such noble sentiments.”
Her jaw clenched. “Go to hell.”
“You may join a long list of people who wish me to the devil.” Kirtland softened his sarcasm. “But whether you care to believe it or not, I do understand idealism.”
“Not many people do.”
“No. And even fewer have the heart to stand up for their beliefs. Because at times it hurts, and leaves you wondering whether it is worth the pain.”
Her hands clenched into fists.
Sensing that he had touched a raw nerve, Kirtland kept up the attack. “So, is there actually a chink in your armor?”
Siena rose abruptly and turned for the door. “We have nothing more to discuss, Lord Kirtland. Enjoy the fruits of your victory for as long as you wish, but I am returning to the castle.”
“Not so fast.” His hand caught her wrist.
Siena spun around. A physical confrontation? Somehow she had let the earl get the best of her in their verbal duel. She had been distracted, her edge dulled by his personal questions—and by the play of the light upon his face. It wouldn’t happen again.
Anger gave added force to the twist of her shoulder, the flip of her wrist.
“Damn.” Kirtland stared up at her from the floor. ”Gentleman Jackson himself has never knocked me to the canvas.”
“Because boxing is too crude a sport,” she replied. “There are far more effective disciplines. I could easily put you on your arse again.”
The earl was upright in an instant, a martial light in his eye. “You think so?” It appeared that he, too, could not resist rising to a challenge. “I have a few tricks of my own.”
“Feel free to try them. No holds barred.”
The gleam of his gaze dimmed slightly as he surveyed her skirts and slim form. “I’m afraid I might hurt you. Superior size and weight give me an unfair advantage were I to fight dirty.”
Siena made a rude sound. “You should know better than that by now. It’s you who will be dusting the seat of your breeches. Come, try to overpower me.”
“You asked for it.” He circled warily, feinting several times before rushing in low and hard.
Her own limbs were a blur of motion. Block. Spin. Twist.
THUMP .
“How the devil did you do that?” asked the earl admiringly as he rubbed his bruised elbow.
“By employing an ancient Eastern discipline called Tai Chi. The principle is actually quite simple. It uses an enemy’s strength against him.”
Kirtland rose, this time a bit more gingerly. “Show me.”
“Very well. Come at me again, but this time very slowly.” Siena demonstrated the footwork and technique she had used to knock him down. “Now, say you were to grab me from behind . . .”
He obliged.
“It’s a matter of timing, but if I shift my weight like this, and like this, I could easily flip you into the coals.”
He practiced a few of the moves. “I think I grasp the essence of it.” His hand suddenly shot out, and with a deft lunge, he knocked her back on to the sofa.
Bloody hell. She should have known he would prove a quick study. “That was an underhanded trick, sir.”
“There is an old saying—all is fair in love and war.”
“This is neither,” she retorted quickly.
“No? Yet you are waging a deadly battle. Perhaps to the death, if what happened this afternoon is any indication.”
His tumbled locks softened the harsh planes of his face. Candlelight caught the flicker of concern in his gaze. She closed her eyes, willing herself to ignore the curve of his cheek, his lips as he crouched down beside her.
“I am aware of that.” She tried to pull free but he kept his hands on her shoulders.
“Stop fighting me, if only for a moment,” he began
“I have been fighting my whole life,” she whispered. “It is . . . a part of who I am. I don’t expect you to know what I mean.”
And yet, Siena saw from his face that he did. “You are up against a dangerous man.”
“I am willing to accept the risk.”
Kirtland swore under his breath. The stirring of air tickled her lashes. “You are too brave for your own good, my bold Valkyrie.” She was suddenly aware of a warmth on her brow. His lips, light as a whisper of poetry. “Tell me your enemy. And let me help you beat him.”
Speaking of risk.
“Please,” she managed a ragged reply. “You have no idea what you are asking.”
His mouth moved down to the hollow of her throat. Her pulse began to pound wildly.
“Trust,” he said softly.
Tai Chi was no defense against this. Nor were any of her other finely honed skills. The only thing that might save her now was?—
A brusque knock sounded on the door.
Siena seized the moment to slip free of his embrace. “Oban has returned.” She shook out her tangled skirts and grabbed for the candle. “It is time to go.”
“Trust,” repeated Kirtland as she hurried away. “What I am asking for is your trust, paloma. How many times must I say it—you have nothing to fear from me.”