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the O’Malley clan, and would watch her every move.
    Her attack would instead depend on stealth.
    Satisfied that she had seen enough, Shannon crept down from her perch and returned to the hollow where she had hidden her horses. Her arsenal, supplemented from the supplies of the navy sloop that had brought her to Ireland, offered a choice of ways to attack the target. Flexibility was key, and she had spent the interminable hours aboard ship planning for every contingency.
    Lynsley would have no reason to fault her for making an impetuous move, she vowed.
    After watching the routine of the stronghold for several days, she had decided on the simplest strategy. O’Malley’s men had grown lax in their nightly patrols of the grounds, perhaps overconfident that the deep gorge and narrow stone bridge would deter any unwanted visitors. They spent most of the midnight hours drinking and playing cards in the kitchens. Shannon was certain she would have no trouble entering the castle unseen and completing her assignment in brutal silence.
    She ran a thumb over the edge of her knife.
In and out
. That was the plan. But in case anything went awry, she would have a few tricks up her sleeve.
    Nothing would be left to chance.
    Fog hung low over the battlements, softening the jagged silhouette of the ancient crenellations. Orlov took one more look around the castle grounds before inching through the bushes. The trap door, its hinges thick with rust, was just where his map had indicated. Hoping that the rest of his information was accurate, he brushed aside the moss and went to work on the lock.
    As the hasp yielded with a dull snick, Orlov shouldered a small canvas sack and slipped inside. By his sketch, the old root cellar led up to the pantries, and from there, a circular stairway gave access to the rooms where O’Malley was quartering his visitors. He felt his way through the pitch-black gloom, finding the passageway behind a stack of rotting crates.
    So far, so good.
    The smells of roasted beef and spilled ale wafted out from the kitchens. Orlov paused to cock an ear as several men finished off their meal and prepared to relieve the guards on patrol. A nugget of useful information could often be picked up from the muddle of rough laughter and crude curses.
    After listening for some moments, he edged back into the shelter of the stairway, swearing a silent oath of his own.
Time to improvise
. A mission of this nature rarely went like clockwork, he reminded himself. Which was why he had come prepared.
    The rope slithered over the roof slates, its loop tightening over one of the iron stanchions. Shannon tested her weight against its hold, then wrapped a turn around her hand. As if on wings, she rose noiselessly up the face of the wall and landed lightly on the library ledge. Her blade released the window latch, allowing her to crack open the casement.
    Once inside, she took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Between the scudding clouds and the waning moon, there was barely a glimmer of light filtering in through the mullioned glass. Just enough to show a massive oak desk, which looked to date back to Elizabethan times, bookcases crammed with mismatched tomes and…
    A slight scratching sounded from the far corner of the room.
    Crouching low behind a curio cabinet, she thumbed back the hammer of her pistol. A mouse, perhaps? Taking no chances, she loosened her knife in its sheath.
    The sound came again, louder this time, followed by a flicker of movement.
    No, it could not be.
    A stab of moonlight cut across the room, catching another glimmer of gold.
    “You!” she growled. There was no mistaking the lean, lithe form that materialized from the shadows.
The Russian scoundrel
. She would have recognized that distinctive blond hair and glittering wolf’s-head earring through the brimstone smoke and fire of hell.
    “You,” he echoed softly, sounding no more pleased than she was at the encounter.
    As they slowly lowered