Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

But that meant he did remember. He remembered everything. She hadn’t even intended to provoke him. It had just slipped out. An

old habit she didn’t even remember she had. Clayton had been so smart when they were younger that she’d begun to slip

outrageous comments into their conversations just to see if he’d catch them. Ninety percent of the time he had. But those other ten

percent had been enough to puncture his serious mien and free them both to laugh.

Bolstered by her small victory, she studied the paper.

The corner of his mouth edged up the slightest fraction, but when he glanced over at her, his expression was empty again. “When

we arrive at the city gates, remain silent. Can you manage that?”

She wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or annoyed. “Are we close, then?”

“More or less.”

“Which is it?”

“It depends on what you are comparing it to. It is much closer than England.”

She glared at him. “How far away are we?”

“About four miles.”

“What’s our plan once we arrive?” She’d tried to ask him before they’d left the hut, but he’d ignored her.

As he was doing again.

Olivia settled more deeply into the sheepskin coat, trying to ignore the smell while claiming the small amount of heat.

The cart lurched to the right, sending her tumbling again, but this time toward the edge. She tried to grab the bench, but her hands

were holding the paper.

Clayton’s arm snaked around her at the last minute, saving her from careening off the cart like the dozen cabbages that splatted into

the muck. For a moment, her back was tucked against an impossibly hard and broad chest, his fingers splayed across her

stomach. His breath warm on her ear.

“Mud.” Clayton climbed from the cart. The rear right wheel had sunk to its axle in the mud. The formerly staid pony pranced in

agitation, and Clayton stopped to soothe it before it hurt itself on the shafts.

Olivia gathered up her skirts and followed him. Stuck wagons were something she’d learned far too much about once she’d taken

over the control of the mill. So rather than sitting on the cart now, adding her weight, she began gathering sticks and branches to

wedge under the wheels.

She’d managed to place three of them before Clayton stopped her. His head tipped to the side. “What are you doing?”

“The sticks will provide traction for the wheel—”

“Why are you doing it?” He sounded suspicious.

“I keep trying to tell you that I’m truly not as worthless as I was when I was fifteen.”

“You weren’t—” He cut off. She wasn’t sure if it was because he realized what she said was true or because he’d been about to say

something nice. “If you lead the horse, I’ll lift.”

“It might be easier if we remove the cabbages first.”

Clayton shook his head. “Prazhdinyeh will be searching for you. I’d rather not give them more time to find us.”

That option didn’t appeal to her, either. “I’ll speak to the horse.”

The pony turned a panicked eye on her as she approached. She tried to speak to it as Clayton had done, in soft, soothing tones,

though she ended up speaking English. “We just need you to try to pull.” The horse nipped at her with yellow teeth and she skipped

back, switching to Russian. “I suppose being female you probably prefer Clayton, but he has to lift the cart—” The mare snapped at

her again. “What exactly do you say to this horse?”

Clayton left his position by the back. She thought his cheeks reddened slightly but it might have been from the cold. “I tell her what a

pretty girl she is.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “What a smart girl she is.” The horse’s ears stilled.

“I’ll give it a try,” Olivia said, and Clayton returned to his position by the wheel. But rather than use his words, she tried some of her

own. “I wouldn’t fall for his pretty flattery. I think he used the exact same words on me once.”

Clayton coughed.

It felt good to have it out in the open. Their past. That strange awkwardness that existed in the void between two people who had

once shared everything, but now shared nothing.

She continued speaking to the horse. “But I wouldn’t believe him. He might change his mind and decide that you’re involved with a

group of murderous Russians. And don’t let him kiss you. That won’t end well . . .”

Clayton coughed harder.

“On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.” She tugged on the mare’s bridle. After a dreadful pause, the cart lurched forward and

came free of the mud with a wet, sucking sound.

Clayton climbed back into the cart, and after a pat on the pony’s nose, Olivia followed. They rode in silence again for another hour,

but unlike before, the silence was no longer brittle.

Eventually, they rounded a corner in the forest and she gasped. The city was just . . . there. Spread out below them. Gently divided

by dark rivers and then more sharply sliced by straight roads and canals. The sun glinted off golden, onion-shaped spires, only to be

absorbed by granite façades that spanned entire blocks. Red and green metal roofs topped walls of pale blues, yellows, and pinks.

“Have you been to St. Petersburg before?” she asked.

Clayton flexed his right hand several times as if it pained him, but when he saw her watching, he tucked it beside him. “Three times.

The first time, I killed a man. The second time, I saved a friend. And the third time, the czar made me a baron.”





chapter Nine

“The baron said I was to bring the cabbages ruined or not.” Clayton gestured with a wide, careless motion, the normal stiffness

along his spine absent. He even managed to scrunch his face as he spoke, completely obliterating all traces of his keen

intelligence.

The policeman at the city gate nodded, the lower half of his face obscured behind a heavy knitted scarf and the collar of his gray felt

coat. “Papers.”

Clayton nudged Olivia. “You have the papers?”

What? Did he expect her to—

“Wait, my sweet. I have them.” Clayton pulled something out of his vest and handed it to the man.

Olivia held her breath. Clayton couldn’t really have orders to sell cabbages. Any moment the policeman would find something wrong

and expose them as frauds.

The policeman brushed a few flakes of snow off the paper Clayton had supplied him, then handed it back. “Make sure you have the

proper permits before you sell.”

“Always. Always.” Clayton flicked the reins and moved into the city.

He’d not only been a spy for the last ten years—he’d been a good one.

Olivia waited until they were out of sight before letting her shoulders relax. Their cart rattled down a street of shops, all of which had

written signs as well as pictures proclaiming what they sold. A loaf of bread. A woman’s shoe. “You are quite good at this, aren’t

you?”

“Not good enough. I should have grown the blasted, itchy beard.”

“A beard?”

“Look around at the peasants.”