Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

wool of her scarf itched unbearably. His lips would be hot, soothing.

“The message isn’t for you.”

A man in a gray felt coat appeared out of the press of people. Another policeman.

As she opened her mouth to warn Clayton, the man lifted a baton and swung hard at Clayton’s back.

Clayton knew from the panic in Olivia’s eyes that someone was behind him. Hell, he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be distracted

by her response to—

But he didn’t have time to finish the thought. His body twisted into action.

A policeman with his arm in motion. Olivia’s face contorting with pain as she cried out.

Clayton caught the baton before he’d even realized what it was and pulled it from the other man.

But the policeman didn’t resist, his face pale.

Olivia sucked in gasps behind him, and Clayton risked a glance over his shoulder. She’d clutched her arm protectively to her chest.

He’d meant to draw the police’s attention after his switch from peasant to baron, but he’d thought to catch any blow himself.

Olivia had taken the hit for him. “You struck her?” What the devil had she been thinking? Why had she chosen now to protect him?

She always stepped aside.

But that wasn’t true. A memory rose unbidden of restraining her from hunting down his mother when she’d come home, then run off

again a month later.

“She’s the one who put her arm out. I was just going to tell you to move along . . . sir?” The young man rubbed his clean-shaven jaw,

and studied Clayton a little more closely.

Clayton had forgotten to switch completely from coarse Russian. When was the last time he’d broken character while on a mission?

Madeline and Ian would have mocked him for days.

Clayton cursed his arrogance. He should have let the original policeman relay his message, but no, he hadn’t been able to resist

baffling the minister of police by appearing to materialize in St. Petersburg out of nowhere.

He sharpened his accent and lifted his chin. “Baron Dimitri Komarov. I don’t appreciate you abusing my servant.” He held out the

baton with a scowl.

The policeman rubbed at his neck. “This is a public space. There are certain rules—”

Clayton lifted a brow.

“Perhaps if you speak with—”

“No. If the minister of police wishes to speak to me, he can find me at the home of Princess Katya Petrovna.”

The man flinched. “I don’t think the minister needs to be involved.”

“Trust me. He’ll want to know.” Clayton tucked his arm around Olivia’s shoulders and led her away.

“Ow!” She lurched into him.

Clayton couldn’t see past the edge of her scarf. “How badly are you injured?” He needed to see her face.

“You put a marble in my shoe?”

He’d forgotten. “It changes your gait. So we won’t be recognized.”

“Couldn’t you have asked me to limp?” Her voice was tight.

“Not consistent enough.” He reached out and brushed the edge of her scarf back so he could see her. Somehow, the slight invasion

was far more intimate than their previous position against the wall. That had been the spy keeping his disguise. This was Clayton

wanting to know about Olivia. “Your arm?”

She turned away. “More bruises to add to my collection.”

Why did that admission sit so ill? He and Madeline had taken many blows for each other over the years. And Madeline had been his

comrade-in-arms. His friend. Olivia was neither of those things.

But she moaned at his touch and tasted of honey and roses. She refused to cower. And she had the damnable habit of tempting

him to smile.

He led her through a different entrance onto a street and hailed a droskie. The driver’s enormous overcoat made him seem like part

of the ramshackle cart. Clayton haggled for several minutes before dropping two silver coins in the man’s blackened fingers. “To

Princess Katya Petrovna’s,” he ordered.

The cart’s wheels spun in the deepening snow, then finally lurched forward. Olivia gripped the narrow wooden seat to keep from

being thrown. “We are truly going there? I thought that was a ruse.”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“I killed her husband. I doubt it’s something she’s forgiven.”





chapter Eleven

Olivia wasn’t entirely sure what she expected of Princess Katya. A regal dowager. Or a delicate young girl with blond ringlets.

The woman who sailed down the corridor was dainty, but she was only a few years older than Olivia. Sunset red curls hung down her

back. She was dressed in buff breeches with a flowing white shirt and a long emerald vest over the top.

She also spoke with a crisp English accent. “Baron Komarov.” She lifted her arm, revealing a pistol. She aimed it directly at Clayton

’s heart.

“Clayton!” Olivia cried.

He pushed her backward as the pistol fired. Smoke, sulfur, and bits of plaster drifted through the air. Plaster. The princess had fired

into the ceiling at the last moment.

“Pleasure to see you, too, Kate.”

The princess planted her free hand on her hip, glaring at Clayton. She glanced briefly at Olivia. “I apologize for startling you, my

dear. But you—” She jabbed the gun at Clayton. “Six months. Six months—”

Clayton held up his hand. “This discussion should be held in private.” He motioned toward the servants who’d gathered in the

corridor.

Princess Katya’s lips thinned, but she led them into a nearby parlor. She motioned for Olivia to take a seat. “Can I offer you tea?

Coffee?”

Olivia shook her head.

The princess shut the door with an ominous click, then rounded again on Clayton. “You soulless monster. You let me think he was

dead. I mourned him. Mourned. Not that you’d have any idea what an emotion like that would feel like.”

Clayton simply stood there, his hands behind his back. As emotionless as the princess claimed.

Olivia wasn’t. “He isn’t a monster.”

Both of the other occupants turned to her with eyebrows raised.

Olivia was a touch surprised herself. Apparently, old habits still lingered. But she wouldn’t let anyone speak of Clayton like that.

“Perhaps we should be introduced now,” the princess said, her face tense.

Olivia stood again. “Olivia Swift,” she replied before it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t use her real name.

Kate folded her arms. “I don’t know what you are doing with this man. But let me warn you, I trusted him once, then he lied to me and

robbed me of what I cherished most.”

Clayton’s gaze finally moved to the princess. “His uncle and the minister of police had to believe he was dead. Your pain was a

means to bolster that image.”

The princess’s hand clenched at her sides.

“I trusted you.”

“Unfortunate. You said you only mourned him six months. How did you discover he was alive?”