Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Olivia didn’t need to look to know that Thomas, the mill’s chief machinist, was standing behind her. But while she might resent the

instant respect the huge, bald man received, she wasn’t fool enough to reject it. After all, finding a skilled vatsman like Grimmon at

the wages she could afford had proved nearly impossible. She had to at least give this man a chance to come to terms with the

unusual arrangements at the paper mill before she threw him out on his offensive, smirking face.

But one chance was all he’d get. “You’d best handle it. It might be difficult to find another mill owner willing to overlook your fondness

for the bottle.”

Grimmon tugged once at his limp neck cloth and nodded.

After he’d walked away, she finally turned to Thomas. “You shouldn’t do that. I need to know the men will follow my orders when you’

re not around.”

Thomas shrugged, the stiff motion tugging at the scar tissue that covered half of his face and neck. “Doubt that time will ever come.

They don’t have to take orders from you for much longer.” He had that warning look in his eye again. Thomas was one of the few

men who’d remained at the mill all along, even during the rough years before she’d become involved. Even when the mill had been

reduced to making paper by hand and its only customers had been a handful of dry goods stores in neighboring towns. As quick as

he was to support her, he’d made it clear that as soon as the mill was capable of fulfilling its contracts, he’d hold her to her promise

to hire a manager to run the mill.

Olivia wanted to rub the ache at the base of her skull but refrained. He was right. Her presence complicated things for the men.

Raised too many questions about her father’s health. Yet she couldn’t turn the mill over to a foreman. Not yet. Not when success was

still uncertain. “I will remain until the contract with the Bank of England is secured again.”

Olivia strode past the hissing, clanking machines. She paused for a moment at the huge metal cylinders that slowly carried the

drying paper to the end of the line. Each fresh, white inch was a pound in the pocket of the town. Proof that she’d succeeded in

restoring the mill.

“Miss Swift! Miss Swift!” Colin, the junior clerk, scurried toward her. His spectacles had fogged in the perpetual damp from the

steam engines and slurry vats. He yanked them off and scrubbed them against his sleeve, then replaced them with practiced ease. “

I just received a missive from the Treadmine Stationers. They’ve canceled their order.”

“All of it?” Olivia rested her hands on the pipe that carried water to the boiler. “Did they say why?”

Colin shoved his spectacles back up his nose. “No, just that they had no desire to do business with us any longer.”

That made the second cancellation today. She took a deep breath. All businesses were plagued by setbacks. She’d been

expecting difficulties. She didn’t fear them. And she wouldn’t let them stop her. But perhaps she should cancel her plans to attend

the town festival and go to London instead. “I’ll visit them this afternoon—”

“Miss Swift!” Her lead vatsman ran to her side. “The headbox is near empty, and the rags haven’t arrived.”

“None of the shipments?” Without the rags, it didn’t matter whether they had contracts or not. If they lacked the cloth to break down

for fibers, they wouldn’t be able to make paper at all.

The vatsman shook his shaggy head of red hair. “Nae a single solitary thread.”

“This has to be a simple mix-up,” she said. “Or they met with an accident along the road. Colin, send one of the ragboys out to see

—”

A well-dressed man stepped between her and Colin. Not now. She didn’t need any stationers arriving unannounced to examine the

quality of the mill’s stock. Or worse, someone from the Bank of England. She’d answered all their questions perfectly last week.

But she pasted a bright smile on her face. Looming disaster or no, she couldn’t afford to offend potential customers. Her eyes slid

up a gray waistcoat, across a surprisingly broad chest, and fixed on a set of piercing, steel blue eyes.

Eyes that belonged to a dead man.

She stumbled back a step. Only Colin’s awkward grab kept her on her feet.

The dead man took her other arm with his strong fingers. And even though he wore black leather gloves, his hand was definitely

warm. “Miss Swift has been overcome by the heat. She’ll recover in her office.”

Colin shifted, clearing his throat. “Who exactly might you be?”

The deep voice that had haunted her nightmares for the past ten years spoke. “Clayton Campbell. I used to work here.”

And with that simple statement, her madness was assured. Her vision blurred and grew dark around the edges, but she couldn’t

afford to let her employees see her weak—not twice in one day—and so she managed to remain upright. “It’s fine, Colin. I’ll be in my

office.”

She let Clayton escort her inside. As soon as the door shut, she lifted her hand to his face. The tall, angular boy she remembered

was gone, replaced by a lean, hardened man. His cheekbones were more chiseled.

He’s alive.

The slight shadow of stubble on his jaw, dark. She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine how he might look as a grown man. But even if

she had, she wouldn’t have imagined this. He was at once more flawed and yet utter perfection.

He’s alive.

She traced the line of his nose. The shell of his ear. She wanted to explore every change and remember a hundred details she’d

forgotten. Examine him closely enough to convince herself this wasn’t a dream.

He. Is. Alive.

The man she’d condemned to the gallows.

Clayton hadn’t moved. Not once since she’d touched him. She finally met his gaze. His eyes were dark, cold. “Remove your hand

from my person.”

She stumbled to a hard wooden chair and sat, staring up at him. “Clayton, where have you been? I thought you were—”

“Dead?”

And with that one icy word, she knew she shouldn’t have sat down. He’d towered over her when they were young, but now he

dominated. His face twisted in disdain.

This might be a miracle, but it wasn’t a joyous one.

“Where have you been?” She clutched edges of her gray woolen skirt in her fists.

Clayton lifted a brow, the look that had been quizzical and endearing on him as a young man now condescending. Cruel. “Hell.”

“But they hung you. My father saw it.”

“Did he?”

The lead in her stomach expanded until it also encased her heart. Her father had lied about that, too. Another lie. Another— Sweet

mercy. “Have you been in prison all this time? Or”—her words seemed to stick in her throat—“transported?” Could she have done

something to help him? Gone to the authorities and told them the truth?

“I didn’t come for a reunion.”

But that didn’t mean she could let the question go. She’d loved him once with everything she’d possessed. She had to know.