Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

feet. It landed with a thud on the carpet, then rolled until coming to rest next to his boot. “There, you can start with that. You told me

you pulled it from Sergey’s body.” She prowled toward him. “You realize that coming here puts me and my household in danger from

the revolutionaries.”

He made no move to pick up the ring. “You can send us away.”

“You know I cannot, you bastard.”

No. Not with the information about her husband he held over her.

When Clayton had told Sergey of the plan to save him, the prince had fought against it, refusing to leave his wife. Clayton had

thought him foolish and overly sentimental. After all, a woman could hardly be worth one’s life.

Yet as Kate prowled toward him, he felt the first flicker of understanding. A slight stab of jealousy for the man who had someone in

his life so desperate to keep him.

He’d never had any woman want him that much. Not even his own mother. She was more than happy to run off with her lovers again

and again.

He’d once hoped Olivia would fight for him in such a way.

“Perhaps we should stay elsewhere.” Olivia pulled the robe tighter, the silk clinging to her rounded hips. Damnation, was she bare

under that robe?

He resumed his pacing to hide his body’s reaction to that thought. “Prazhdinyeh may try to glean information from Kate as well. If I’m

here, I can protect her.”

“Don’t make yourself sound noble,” the princess said.

No, he wasn’t noble, that was one delusion he didn’t have.

“It appears I must go to my attics.” Kate paused by Olivia. “Do you want me to ask a footman to toss him from your room?”

Olivia shook her head. As she lifted a hand to push back a strand of hair, her sleeve shifted, revealing the scabs on her wrist.

Kate gasped. “What happened? If Clayton—”

Olivia spoke before he could decide whether to defend himself. “Prazhdinyeh abducted me. That’s who Clayton rescued me from.

That’s why I’m here.”

Kate’s bluster and animosity vanished. “Did they— Would you prefer a woman tend you?”

Clayton halted, his hand gripping the door frame. If she wasn’t a revolutionary, then her captors might have . . .

He hadn’t even asked.

What if—

He stared at the straight lines of a candlestick until his gaze could focus. He’d cut Arshun’s bollocks from his body. That wasn’t an

empty threat.

Olivia shook her head, but her eyes were distant. “No, thankfully. One of the revolutionaries protected me from the others.”

Clayton’s hand fell to his side. Had she been telling the truth about the man at the market? The same man she’d risked everything to

inquire about as they escaped the count’s?

Kate caught her arm to look at the sores and Olivia’s sleeve slipped further, exposing a bruised, egg-sized lump on the back of her

forearm.

That had been his fault alone. Why the devil had she taken the blow? Most people would have flinched away from an attack. He

might not believe in apologies, but he did make restitution for his mistakes. “Have the maid fetch ice,” he ordered.

“I don’t need—”

“Fetch it.”

Kate was apparently less than intimidated. “Olivia?”

Olivia sighed. “A cold compress would be lovely.”

Kate left, with a frown.

“Let me see your arm.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He gently grasped her arm, trying not to notice the sweet honey smell of her clean skin. He felt along the bones in her arm and after

checking thoroughly, released her.

“Believe it or not, I do know my own body.”

He would like to as well. Every pale, silken inch. Holding her this afternoon had been heaven and hell. He’d been so angry at her

betrayal, and yet as soon as she was against him, that no longer mattered. His only thought had been the woman in his arms. Back

where she belonged.

But she didn’t. He couldn’t let himself believe that. No matter what his lust told him.

“I wouldn’t be so proud as to hide a broken arm. Not even from you.” Olivia smoothed the sleeve of her robe.

He forced himself to step away, returning to the window. Ordering his thoughts to settle like the heavy, wet flakes of snow that

obscured the sill. But they wouldn’t. They never did when she was around. “Why did you do it?”

“What?”

“Why did you take that blow meant for me?” Or defend him to Kate. She hadn’t known he was listening. He was certain of that.

She shrugged. “I didn’t really have time to think.”

“I don’t need you to protect or defend me.” Did she think him weak? “It will not alter my opinion of you.”

“And what is your opinion of me? That I am a traitor? That I am trying to get you captured?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

She planted her hands on her hips. Did she have any idea how that stance made her breasts jut against her robe? “That is it! I’m

finished letting you hold my actions ten years ago over me. Did I betray you? Yes. But I was fifteen years old. I was little more than a

child. I went to my father because I didn’t believe your accusations could be true. I never had any idea he would falsely accuse you

and have you arrested. I was a fool, yes, but I never meant for any of that to happen.”

“Neither did you make it right.”

“Make it right? How could I? I was a child. And do you have any idea how my father reacted to the news that I’d been involved with

one of his clerks? When I asked to go to your trial, he thrashed me with his cane.”

His stomach roiled at the image. But then why did she still give her father her loyalty?

“When I saw him next, he told me you’d already been hanged.”

“That must have been a relief.”

“I grieved for you. I thought you’d died, and part of me—” She swung away from him. “Kate is right about you. You are a coldhearted

bastard. You don’t care, do you?”

“You speak to me of caring? Do you have any idea what happened to my father after I was convicted of treason?”

She sucked in a breath, and guilt brought tight lines to the corners of her mouth.

“The bank my father had worked at for thirty years turned him out. No one would hire him. Not with a criminal for a son. My father

didn’t protest. He was never the type that would. He finally found a job six months later sweeping filth from the gutters.” The horror in

her gaze yielded no satisfaction to him. Only a sharp, stabbing grief that was as new and brilliant as the day he’d learned the news. “

He was struck by a carriage two weeks later. It took three days for his mangled body to die. At least, that is what his neighbors told

me. I don’t know if that’s the truth. I don’t know how much he suffered. I never got to see him. To explain—” He cut off, his breathing

heavy. Unable to put into words the depth of his regret.