Seduced by a Spy by Andrea Pickens Page A

brow…
    Orlov drifted in and out of disorienting dreams for a moment longer before he slowly opened his eyes. Though it was black as Hades, the creaking timbers and rocking motion told him that he was aboard a ship. He lay still, wrestling with vague recollections, disjointed images of what had brought him here.
Smoke. Blinding pain. A shower of sparks. A golden Valkyrie
.
    The events of the ill-fated sortie suddenly exploded in his brain.
    Ah, yes, the lady
. He remembered her all too well. An oath slipped through his cracked lips. Of all the cursed coincidences. But now that he thought on it, he should have realized that the British government would be even more anxious than his own to put a period to the French assassin’s existence. Or, more precisely, Yussapov should have considered the possibility.
    The deadly dance of espionage was dangerous enough without worrying about tripping over an ally’s foot.
    Or other, more shapely limbs. Even in his muzzy state of mind, he had no trouble imagining every last inch, every subtle curve of his fair-haired adversary. She was, in a word, magnificent.
    He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the bitter residue of laudanum. Maybe it was the effect of the narcotic, but he had to admit that he had fantasized about her quite a lot in the past few weeks since their first encounter.
Naked in his bed, her glorious limbs entwined with his, her spitfire passions heating his blood to a fever pitch
. Hot and cold, a shiver spiraled through his veins. He wasn’t sure whether the image eased his pain, or simply stirred an entirely new physical discomfort.
    Damn.
He had yet another bone to pick with the prince. After his last mission, he had been counting on a well-deserved interlude of rest and recreation in Stockholm, rather than another difficult assignment. Frustrated, Orlov gave a baleful sigh. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed the intimate pleasures of the opposite sex.
    As for combat…
    He grudgingly admitted that Lynsley’s winged warriors were a match for any man.
    Lithe, lovely, lethal.
    It was a potent combination. No wonder that the few people who knew of Merlin’s Maidens waxed poetic on their unique talents.
    He, on the other hand, was far too jaded to indulge in soulful stanzas. His world was crafted of steel and shadows, not sonnets. To yield a fraction to softer sentiment was a grave mistake for someone in his profession. As was now painfully clear.
    Bloody hell.
What momentary madness had prompted him to risk his own skin for the female Fury? “Every man for himself” was the creed he had lived by for as long as he could remember. It was a little late for a change of heart.
    Wincing, Orlov turned his face to the bulwark and sank deeper into a haze of fitful dreams.
    Shannon looked down at the sleeping Russian. His fair hair was matted with salt and sweat, his jaw stubbled with whiskers that gleamed gold in the lamplight. Like points of fire. How could a man appear so devilishly handsome in a disheveled state, while she…
    A reflection in the polished brass showed that she looked like hell.
    Her lips curled in mocking irony. He, on the other hand, looked artistically pale, perfect. A gilded icon. Though she knew all too well that he was hardly a saint.
    Indeed, he was Lucifer incarnate, she reminded herself sharply. A brimstone beast from the netherworld, breathing smoke and lies. It would be a cardinal sin to see him in any brighter light.
    Orlov opened his eyes.
    Embarrassed to be caught staring, Shannon forced a frown. “Finally awake, are you?” She fumbled with the flask of water. “Here, you must be thirsty.”
    He accepted a draught with a murmur of thanks. “How kind. However, I would prefer port. A ten-year-old tawny, if possible, served with a selection of Stilton.”
    “Hmmph.” She tried not to dwell on the supremely sensuous shape of his mouth, or the thick lashes fringing his eyes. “Swallow your sarcasm, sir.” She brushed a