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Deception and duplicity were far more useful. Lying had become second nature…
    Pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples, Orlov sought to hold such disquieting musings at bay. It wasn’t often that he gave a second thought to the morality of what he did.
Right and wrong? Good and evil
? Perhaps a true gentleman would believe in absolutes. But it seemed to him that the world was not black and white, but rather shaded in an infinite range of grays.
    And yet, he did have
some
principles. Though he would be loath to admit it aloud, he did care—if his actions helped stop the spread of tyranny and injustice, then perhaps his benighted soul would not roast in damnation for eternity.
    He made a face. The Almighty might be forgiving, but there was a young lady who would like to see his soul—or more likely his liver—fried over the hottest coals of Hell. Not that he could blame her. He had made several uncharacteristic mistakes during his last mission, a fact that might very well be exacerbating his present malaise.
    Was he losing his touch?
    Damn Yussapov. And damn the sudden stirrings of his English sense of honor. Somehow the tumultuous seas had churned up the oddest mix of sensations. In his mind’s eye, he suddenly saw the prince’s beaded face, melting into visions of a blond Valkyrie, and then a soaring hawk. From high in the heavens came a cry, cursing him roundly for his misdeeds.
    That it echoed some of his own recent musings amplified its accusations. However, the Russian part of him knew how to drown such melancholy brooding.
    Growling an oath, Orlov reached for the flask of spirits.

Chapter Three
    T
his godforsaken part of Ireland was not for the faint of heart.
    Shannon surveyed the forbidding stones. Lynsley had not exaggerated the isolation of the McGuillicuddy Reeks.
Desolation
, she corrected. Famine had left the hardscrabble moors deserted, and although there was a bleak beauty to the landscape, she knew it was a harsh, hostile environment for anyone trying to eke out a living.
    Returning her attention to the wind-chiseled walls of the O’Malley stronghold, she trained her spyglass on one of the outer towers. A primitive garden cut between its base and a copse of stunted live oaks. The tangle of branches would cover her approach, and the turreted roof would afford an excellent anchor for her climbing rope. Lynsley’s spy had informed her that the second-floor library was rarely used. From there, she would find a short corridor and connecting stairs to the chambers where the French assassin was quartered.
    Her own surveillance had confirmed that the library was deserted at night. And while she would have liked to double-check every detail on the informant’s sketch of the castle layout, she had seen enough of the actual interior to feel she could trust the basics.
    She shifted her position behind the outcropping of granite and gorse. Lynsley had also been correct in figuring that a female would have a distinct advantage in completing this mission successfully. A male stranger in the area would have raised suspicions, but a mere woman…
    Disguised in rags and greasepaint, she had approached the castle on foot, timidly asking if there might be an opening for a scullery maid. None of the armed guards had viewed a haggard crone as any threat. Allowed to pass through the gates, she had been shown to the kitchens and offered a bowl of gruel before being told there was no position open and sent on her way.
    Irish hospitality was legendary—as was their low opinion of a woman’s ability to do aught but bear children.
    A grave miscalculation on their part.
    The inside glimpse of the fortress had been quite helpful. But even before her inquiries, Shannon had decided that using seduction as a strategy against D’Etienne was too risky. Given the isolated location, a flirtatious young stranger would draw too much attention from the other men. As for the other serving women, they were likely all members of