Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

But she didn’t finish her question. Instead, she asked, “Are we staying here for the night?”


Clayton nodded. He fashioned a crude bed for her as close to the peech as he dared. “In the morning, we’ll sail for England.”

She gritted her teeth, but settled on the bed, tucking her head on her arm. “This isn’t quite how I imagined spending the night with

you when I was younger.”

“Go to sleep.”

He waited until her eyes drifted closed, her long eyelashes nearly brushing her cheek. Only once her breaths were deep and even

did he grasp the edge of his black leather glove and begin working it down his right hand.

The glove had gotten damp from the night ride. If he let it dry any further, he might not be able to remove it.

Little did Olivia know that the manacle scars on his wrists were the tame ones. He edged the glove lower, revealing the long

horizontal scar at the heel of his palm from when his torturer had peeled back the flesh and then entertained himself by plucking at

the tendons, forcing Clayton’s fingers to twitch and curl.

The thought of Olivia’s face had kept him sane while being tortured. Only alone, in the darkest part of the night, would he admit that

humiliating fact to himself. Only a weak man would still cling to the memory of a woman who’d proven herself a traitor. Only a weak

man would revel in the sight of her now as she slept, his hands aching to brush that strand of hair from her cheek. Only a weak man

would break when she began to whimper in her sleep and go to her side, soothing her with soft words until she quieted.

Clayton stood abruptly and strode away. He wasn’t weak. When he swore he wouldn’t allow Olivia to play him like a puppet, it wasn’t

a vow he made lightly.

He pulled a dry set of gloves from the bag. The crude sheepskin was hardly fine English leather, but it would do.

He needed to find out who’d connected Clayton Campbell with Cipher and then used that to try to determine La Petit’s identity.

Madeline had just given birth to her first baby. A little girl, Susie. Madeline had earned her peace a dozen times over, and he

refused to let any harm come to her.

Arshun would have the answers he needed. Clayton would extract them from him.

And repay him for the marks on Olivia’s fair skin.

Arshun wasn’t there.

According to the frightened footman Clayton had pulled from his bed, Arshun and his associates had fled as soon as Olivia had

disappeared. Gone to ground like the vermin they were.

Arshun had most likely gone to St. Petersburg. If he planned to strike against the czar, the city would be his destination.

Clayton swore as he pulled the flint from his pocket. Olivia would get her trip to St. Petersburg after all. He had to know that

Madeline was safe. And he was willing to do just about anything to do that.

Destroy a group of revolutionaries.

Even save the blasted czar.

Clayton laid the line of gunpowder to the keg. At least the excursion wasn’t a total loss. Arshun had been frightened enough to leave

the weapons behind.

The few remaining servants scampered away to the village, not even bothering to try to stop Clayton. There were only about a

hundred rifles stored in this outbuilding. But Clayton was more than happy to deprive the count of these ones while he had the

chance.

He lit the black power.

There were a few benefits to the job, after all.





chapter Eight

Olivia watched as Clayton approached the old, swaybacked mountain pony in front of the cart. The creature was an odd mixture of

brown, gray, and white, the colors sprouting at uneven intervals on its shaggy coat.

The creature snorted in aggravation, its breath emerging in small white clouds.

Clayton slowly ran his gloved hand along the pony’s neck, all the time whispering in Russian. She thought she heard him explain

about coming snow. The horse’s ears twitched twice.

He soothed around the straps, then cleaned the bits of ice that had formed around the horse’s mouth. This was the boy she’d

known. Patient. Kind. That part of him did still exist. He might have buried it deep, but it was still there.

“Why did you change your mind about taking me to St. Petersburg?” she asked. She’d been delaying asking the question all

morning, but she had to know.

He tugged the crude sheepskin cap lower on his head. The peasant garb should have made him appear comical, like a poor serf,

which was what she supposed they were supposed to be. Instead, it emphasized the hard line of his jaw and the sharp angles of his

cheeks. “I need to know how Arshun tracked me down.”

She exhaled, the band about her chest finally loosening. “Then it wasn’t because I asked?”

“No.” He pulled a bit of carrot from his pocket.

“Thank heavens.”

That finally caught Clayton’s full attention. He paused with the carrot inches from the pony’s mouth. “I thought you preferred to be at

the center of attention.”

The pony snapped at the carrot and the cart inched forward.

“Not any longer.” Now she did the things that needed to be done even if no one knew she was the one behind it.

“I find that difficult to believe.” Clayton swung up into the cart next to her again. The old farm wagon had been designed for only a

single driver, so his thigh pressed tightly against hers. The fact that there must be half a dozen layers of cloth separating them

seemed to have no effect on the intimacy it created. At least on her side. He didn’t seem to notice at all.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to argue against that without proving your point. If I tell you the good things I’ve done that I haven’t

taken credit for, I would be taking the credit for them.”

Clayton tucked his right hand inside the folds of his coat. “Perhaps you can tell me the truth about why you want to go to St.

Petersburg.”

The truth? How could she when it would make him hate her all the more? She didn’t know if she could sink lower in his estimation,

but if it was possible, this would guarantee it.

The truth was that she’d begged to stay in Russia to keep him here. Far, far away from her mill. If she could stall him for just a little

while longer, the mill would have earned enough money to pay back the debts he held. She had secured enough contracts before

she’d been kidnapped—even excluding the ones that had been cancelled and the Bank of England—so things would continue to

run in her absence. And unlike her father, she had known the value of excellent clerks. They would keep things functioning until she

returned.

But she couldn’t tell him her plan. Not when he might change his mind and rush back to England to stop it.

It was mercenary. And calculated. But it was the only chance she’d seen to save the mill.

Instead, she said, “I told you before, I want to stay to try to save the czar.”