Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

hands at all.

That really couldn’t be good.

Clayton swung down to the ground in a quick, graceful movement. He frowned when she didn’t follow. “We need to get inside.”

Inside? Inside, where?

Clayton gestured to the pile of logs, and for the first time she noticed a door in the center. It was some sort of crude hut. She hadn’t

realized she’d been staring stupidly until Clayton wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her from the horse.

He grabbed one of her hands and turned it over in his, swearing. “Where the devil’s your blanket?”

She shook her head. Words were too slippery to form on her tongue.

He ripped off his jacket and threw it over her shoulders. The sudden warmth buckled her knees. She tried to grab his hand to keep

from falling, but he yanked it away with a hiss. Yet before her hip had hit the ground, he scooped her into his arms. He kicked open

the door of the hut and brought her inside, setting her on some sort of rough stone bench.

Light flared as he lit a candle, illuminating the room. The inside of the place looked little better than the outside. The cracks between

the logs were stuffed with mud and moss. The windows were covered in some sort of hide.

Logs clattered as Clayton threw wood into a stove a little to her left. After a few moments, a blaze flickered. He moved a copper

kettle near the edge of it.

Clayton’s brow furrowed deeply as he caught her hand again. He sat next to her, then untucked his shirt with a few quick tugs. “Place

your hands on my torso.”

“What?”

“Unless you want to lose fingers to the cold.”

Her hands shook as she edged them under the hem of his shirt. Where was she supposed to put them? His stomach seemed far

too intimate, so she settled for his waist. He didn’t so much as flinch when she touched him.

But she did. Sorry, she intended to say, but couldn’t quite manage. All she could feel was warmth radiating from his skin. Glorious

heat trapped under the thin layer of his shirt.

But as her fingers warmed, she could also feel the firm muscles along his sides. The slight expansion of his chest with every inhale.

He was inches from her. So close that if she lowered her head slightly, she could rest against his chest. But she didn’t give in to

temptation.

He hadn’t escaped the cold, either. The tips of his nose and ears were bright red from the cold and wind. And here she was stealing

his warmth.

“You must be cold, too. You can—” She wasn’t entirely sure what she dared to offer. “Put your hands under my coat.” Well, his coat. “

I’d offer you my stomach, but women’s garments are far less accommodating about that sort of thing.”

He didn’t smile. Instead, he lifted a gloved hand. “I was better prepared. Can you feel your fingers yet?”

Unfortunately, yes. They stung as if she’d plunged her hand into a barrel of needles. She flexed them, then shifted experimentally, her

hands skimming up his ribs.

Clayton sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll fetch you another coat.” He untangled himself, then retrieved a neatly folded bundle from a pile

of supplies in the corner of the room. The pile reeked of a barnyard. He shook out a thick jacket of sheepskin and added it to her

shoulders. “The peech should be warm in a moment.” Her confusion must have shown because he continued, “The stove. It vents the

smoke through the space you’re sitting on to retain more warmth in the room.”

She nodded, finally noticing the barest traces of heat shimmering under her thighs.

“I think you’ve been spared frostbite, but it will be a close thing. There will likely be peeling at the very least.” He reached into his

waistcoat and pulled out her paper. “Now would you like to explain what this is?”

She exhaled slowly. “It is a code. Arshun plans to start a revolution but he needs the information on that paper to start it.”

“What does that paper say?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Arshun didn’t, either. The code belonged to some man named Vasin. But the count says there’s

a plan partially in place. Vasin placed an agent in a high-ranking imperial position. But Arshun doesn’t know who and he doesn’t

know how to contact him. But if he can figure out the code, they’ll set the plan in motion and the czar and his entire family will be

killed.” She couldn’t let that happen. “Do you think you could break the code?”

Clayton crossed his arms across his chest. “Ah.” Shadows clung to the planes of his face, making his expression impossible to

read. He prowled toward her. “Why did the revolutionaries kidnap you?”

“They thought I—or rather a spy named La Petit—could break the code. They said she’d done it before.”

“La Petit is horrible at codes.”

“What do you want me to say? That’s what they told me. I only know that she seduced information from their former leader.

Information they think she was able to decode.”

“Now you’re asking me to do it.” Tension hummed off him. Was he upset that she knew he’d been a spy? Or that she dared to ask

him a favor? But the favor wasn’t for her.

She nodded. “Yes. I looked at it, but I think it’s beyond me.”

“And what will you do with this code once I break it? Wouldn’t it be safer if I just burned it now?”

“No.” She jumped to her feet as the paper swung toward the stove. “La Petit was only one way he was trying to break the code.

There are other copies. He might be able to read it another way.”

“So you need me?” A strange undercurrent darkened his words, but she had no idea what he meant.

And she’d had enough of his pointed looks. “Yes. I’ve said that already.”

“Who will you go to if I break the code?”

Then it clicked. Of all the imbecilic, paranoid, ridiculous—

He couldn’t really think—

But he did. His eyes glittered with suspicion. Rage.

“You think I am working with Arshun. That my job is to, what? Trick you into reading the code for them?”

“It fits.”

Her palm met with his cheek with a crack. Her hand stung but she didn’t care. It had been worth it to knock that smug assurance off

his face for a moment.

And she did not feel bad that she’d left a perfect imprint of her hand on his cheek. “They took me because you led them to me. You.

They think I’m La Petit. She’s your friend, isn’t she?” Did he even care what she’d been through the past two weeks?

“Then why are you unharmed?”

Apparently not.

“Unharmed? This is from where Arshun held a knife at my throat tonight.” She ripped the coats off her shoulders and lifted her neck

high, showing the dried blood she could still feel there. Then she held up her arms, showing the mass of scabs and the dirty yellow

bruises on her wrists. “These are from where I was bound on a ship for over two weeks.”