Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

He lifted his hand away from her mouth, loving the way that her laughter still escaped even through her tightly pressed lips. As if

nothing could contain the joy within her. The exuberance with which she lived. She grabbed his hand and pulled him behind a rack of

drying paper.

“We should go outside so no one finds—”

But she didn’t want to wait. Her mouth found his. It tasted of berries and tea. He captured her small sigh of pleasure with his lips,

feeling warmer, more alive for just holding her. He wondered at how she—

No kisses would occur tonight. If they were lucky, they’d escape with their lives.

He kept his gaze away from her mouth as he lowered his hand, instead searching for some sign of treachery, but could find nothing

in her shuttered gaze.

“I sent him on an errand.” He brought his lips next to her ear. “If you make another noise, I’ll leave you to your captors.”

She nodded, a shiver shaking her. Her hand tightened on the thin blanket she clutched under her chin.

But he simply motioned for her to follow him again as he walked, slowing only to ensure the next corridor was still clear. They’d

navigated one entire floor before a guard walked into their path.

Clayton grabbed Olivia by the arm and marched her toward the slightly confused man, neither acknowledging him nor speaking. In

an organization as varied and unstructured as the revolutionaries now appeared to be, it was far better to act like he was following

orders.

“The count sent for me,” Olivia said, her voice rushed, trying to fill the silence.

The guard’s gaze sharpened. “The count’s rooms—”

Clayton silenced him with a blow to the head before he could finish putting together his thoughts.

He released Olivia and dragged the man out of sight into one of the empty rooms. “I asked for silence.”

Her wide blue eyes stared at his hands. He pushed her in front of him before she noticed the awkward shape of his right hand.

Although perhaps he should let her look her fill at what she and her father had wrought.

Clayton continued marching Olivia like a prisoner in front of him. They passed a maid on the stairs, but she didn’t give them a

second glance. He steered Olivia toward the room he had prepared with an unlocked window, but she froze two doors down. She

pointed back the way they’d come.

Clayton shook his head and tried to lead her farther, but she refused to budge.

She would get them captured.

Was that her intention? The first two incidents could have been innocent, but a third?

He never ignored his instincts. Never second-guessed himself. He should stride through the door and leave her to her own

machinations.

But she looked so earnest. “I have to go back. They’re planning terrible things. There’s a paper in my room that might help us find a

way to stop them.”

“No.”

Her jaw set. “Then I’ll go by myself.”

“Is it worth dying over?”

She hesitated. “It might be.”

“I’ll wait for you in there.” He pointed to his exit point. “I leave in five minutes with or without you.” He fully expected her to stop this

foolishness. Instead, she whirled away.

Accursed, stubborn woman. She always did like to have her own way.

Clayton waited a moment, then followed.

Because this might be part of her trap. Not because he was concerned about her safety.

The blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders did little to disguise the soft flare of her hips. Or the distinctive way she moved. As

if she couldn’t stand to be still for even a single moment.

But that didn’t translate well into stealth. Her motions were too furtive. Too darting.

Yet she did exactly as she said, returning to her frozen attic room.

When he heard her start to emerge, he hurried ahead, returning to the parlor and opening the window before she returned.

When she entered, she was alone, a small paper held against her chest.

She’d come back. And without a contingent of guards on her heels. She hadn’t betrayed him.

Yet. The night was still young.

At the window, he took the paper from her and tucked it into his jacket. He’d find out why it was so important later. Ignoring the pain

in his right hand, he lowered her to the plants below. She was warm through the blanket, far too light, and a dozen other things he

refused to think about as he leaped out behind her.

He’d taken only two steps when a shout sounded inside the house. Olivia had been missed.

She lunged and would have bolted, but he held her elbow. If they had a repeat of her actions in the corridor, they’d be found for sure.

“Stay low and slow.”

She nodded with a quick jerk and then fell into step behind him. Her unquestioning compliance discomfited him, sparking the desire

to tuck her under his arm as he might have done in a different time.

Instead, he wove through the bushes; the bare branches jabbed at him even through his coat. With a silent curse, he wrapped his

arm around Olivia to shield her from scratches. She had lost weight since he’d last held her. He would have denied possessing the

memory if asked, but he could remember precisely how his hands had fit the curve at her waist. The soft slope of her shoulder.

And now when they parted ways, he’d forever remember the way she fit perfectly under his arm.

No good deed went unpunished, it seemed.

Light flared behind them as the front door was thrown open. Heavy boots crashed through the woods behind them.

She glanced up at him, her gasp condensing into fog. He tightened his hold, ignoring the way it melded her form to his. He kept their

escape steady and silent until they reached the clearing where he’d tethered the horses.

He tossed Olivia into a saddle. “Ride!”





chapter Seven

Olivia blinked, trying to focus on Clayton’s back as he galloped in front of her. Her hair whipped around, tangling in a knotted mess

in front of her face, and her eyes watered in the cold. She desperately wanted to wipe the moisture away, but if she let go of the

strange pommel in front of her, she’d be thrown to the ground. She’d never ridden astride and never even seen a high-backed

saddle like this.

Besides, she wasn’t even sure if she could move her fingers. Her thin blanket was long gone, torn away by the wind. For the first few

minutes of the ride, she hadn’t noticed the cold, but now it occupied every thought. She kept herself awake by trying to rank the most

sweltering heat she’d ever experienced. Under the steam engine’s boilers last August was in contention for first place with the

summer afternoon she’d been trapped in the traveling coach in Bath while a flock of sheep passed by.

The ride had settled into bone-jarring tedium. She had no idea if they’d been riding twenty minutes or an hour.

Finally, Clayton reined in his horse beside a pile of timber. Olivia pried her hand off the saddle. Her tears had crystallized into brittle,

frozen flakes on her cheeks. She tried to scrub them off with the back of her hand, but it shook too badly. In fact, she couldn’t feel her