Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

“You’ll let them die?”


“They aren’t what I came for.”

“What did you come for?”

A dozen answers vied for his tongue, but finally, the truth won out. “You.”

She swept her fingers under her eyes, only serving to highlight the smudges darkening them. “Why? When you don’t want me?”

Part of him wanted to deny her words. To apologize for his harshness. To tell her of his determination to see her safe. But he didn’t

believe in apologies. His mother had filled an entire lifetime with them.

Instead, he said, “We need to clean your injuries.” Perhaps once he had her warm and clean, his brain would finally be able to return

to some sort of logical function. He retrieved some bandages and salve he’d stored in the hut earlier in the afternoon, then poured

water from the kettle into a clay bowl.

He pulled his glove from his left hand and squeezed the extra water from the cloth as best he could. He wasn’t about to remove his

right glove in front of Olivia. It would be an excruciating, slow process that would be best done long after she was asleep. He didn’t

want her to see what a twisted monstrosity his hand had become.

Because he couldn’t risk her realizing the advantage the knowledge would give an enemy.

Nothing else.

Olivia held out her hand for the cloth. “I’ll see to them myself.”

He found himself loath to give up the cloth. He wanted a reason to approach her again. “I’ll do it.”

“I would rather not have you touch me.”

He couldn’t argue against that. He handed over the cloth.

She dabbed at her neck, her jaw tightening as the rough material touched the wound. Her eyes flashed to him, then she turned

away.

Her back was stiff as she worked, but that was all he knew. He had no right to expect her to allow him to witness her vulnerability. He

went to the bag and pulled out a small flask of vodka. It might eat straight through a man’s gut, but it would also ease the pain and

help her sleep. “Drink this.”

She glanced over her shoulder only briefly. “If I did this to myself, don’t I deserve to suffer?” Her voice was too brave. Too bright.

“No.” He needed that tension to leave her spine. The trembling in her arms to stop. Damnation, why didn’t she take the flask

already?

“Will it kill me?”

“Probably not. But it will help the pain.” He stood there like a fool proffering the flask.

“Mine or yours?”

“Both.”

She finally turned and met his eyes, and for a moment, something like amusement chased away the pain. “Are you going to keep

holding that until I take it?”

“Or my arm falls off.” He’d just made a jest. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. “Take the bloody thing.”

Finally, she did. And when her deep swallow ended with choked sputters, he took the flask from her and pounded her on the back by

reflex. But he didn’t know why he then softened his motions to slow circles until her breathing returned to normal.

When she lifted her head, her neck was clean. The wound there was even more visible. More damning. He held out the tin of salve. “

Put this on your neck and on your wrists.”

She traded him the wet rag for the medicine.

She again moved away as she applied the salve. But this time she couldn’t hide a sharp inhale from the touch of the pungent

ointment.

If she was trying to cozen him—lure him into breaking the code—why did she move away? She had to have spotted his moment of

weakness. Why wasn’t she trying to wring all the sympathy she could from him? He knew from Madeline that sympathy was one of a

female agent’s greatest tools.

Indeed, he’d never understood just how great until this moment, as each flinch of her body splintered some part inside him.

As she started to treat her wrists, her head dipped forward and bared a small piece of skin above the collar of the coat.

He’d skimmed his fingers across that skin before. Slipped them into the silken hair at the nape of her neck to draw her mouth to his.

He tried to breathe to clear the memory, but the air was thick with the scent of the herbal liniment and wet with the steam from the

kettle on the peech, refusing to free him.

The air had been steamy then, too.

He’d pulled her behind one of the vats in the mill. “What is it, Clayton?” Her eyes were wide with surprise, her lips soft. He couldn’t

look away from them.

“Did you mean what you said in the letter?”

“That I dream of kissing you—”

He cupped the back of her head and covered her lips with his own, drinking in her confession of desire.

He’d known they’d have only a few seconds before her father missed her, so he’d stolen his first kiss.

It had been awkward and fumbling. But he’d never tasted anything so sweet.

“Clayton?”

He blinked. Olivia was holding out the salve. He took it and picked up the bandages.

“I will—” He cleared his throat. “It will be easier if I bandage your wrists.”

She glanced away but nodded, lifting her arms.

He gently but firmly wound the cloth around her sores. He tried to keep from touching her as much as possible, but even the

occasional brush of hand against her skin was enough to send the blood pooling in his groin. He should have kept his damned

glove on his left hand.

The silence in the room was awkward. Their earlier interaction ensured it could be nothing else. But awkwardness alone he could

have ignored. There was something more crackling between them. Something fueled by the way her tongue moistened her lower lip

once, then again. By the way his gaze couldn’t lift from that soft, rosy flesh.

Her eyes lifted, her expression aching with the very torment he refused to let her see. He tied the knot with a quick tug and turned

away.

“Thank you. For this and for saving me.” Her words were soft and tentative. An attempt to pass beyond the bitterness between them.

Like a hand reaching to pull him from the darkness.

One he wouldn’t take. “If you apply this salve morning and night, it should heal with less scarring.”

“How much is less?”

He pulled up his right sleeve, where only faint parallel lines remained from the three weeks he’d spent secured in manacles.

He flinched when her finger brushed where the scars disappeared inside his glove. Why had he shown her that arm? He jerked the

hand behind his back.

“Are these from when you were in Newgate?”

“No. These were a gift from the French.” He forced himself to look at her. To look at her and not care about the compassion she

offered. The concern.

His mother had been concerned about him, too, when she’d bothered to come home. It lasted until she ran off with another lover.

“Were you a spy the entire time you were gone?” Olivia asked.

“Yes.”

“Was it . . .”

Thrilling? Cruel? Worthwhile? What would she call it? Why did he care?