Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

She lifted a hand to his cheek. “Clayton—” Her voice contained the promise of comfort that he’d never allowed himself.

He knocked it away. “Damn it. Don’t just stand there and take this guilt. Call me a hypocrite. After all, I was too bloody ashamed to

go back and see him.” His hands gripped her shoulders, his chest felt like it had been pried open and rearranged by an angry child.

Olivia’s hands were laced so tightly her fingertips had turned white.

Yes, he was a coldhearted bastard. He strode to the window, suddenly needing something to keep him upright. As if that tight

bundle of anguish had been the fuel for some internal fire. Now it was gone. Extinguished.

Olivia was silent for several moments. “Will you let me apologize for my part in this?”

He spun away from the window. How dare she assume a simple apology would—

But she held up her hand. “I didn’t expect you to.” The color hadn’t returned to her face, but the determination had again tilted her

jaw. “I understand about your mother, why you refuse to allow apologies. But that means you’ve left me no choice but to stand here

as you flay me with guilt.” Her hands trembled, but she clasped them harder until the trembling stopped. “That I will not bear. If I

cannot apologize for my errors, then you aren’t allowed to keep bringing them up.”

Damnation, but she was glorious.

And she was right. He might not trust her, but she did have a point.

The thought was like a kick to the side of the head. A much needed one.

He released a slow breath. He’d relied on his own judgment for too long, both as leader of the Trio and in his investments. He wasn’t

infallible, he knew that, but often only after the fact.

He might not like to be questioned on his decisions and opinions, but he needed to be.

Strangely, it was a bit of a relief to be challenged. To be forced to change his way of thinking. His view of the world was so

entrenched, it was refreshing to be lifted up enough to see that there were other views.

And it took a rare person to dare it. “Agreed. I won’t mention it again.”

Olivia’s mouth parted in surprise. “You won’t?”

“No.”

It would be more humane if he snuffed out the hope in her gaze before it was allowed to flourish. She would no doubt attribute his

agreement to some softer emotions he refused to possess.

Clayton would not go back to the boy she’d known. Poor, gullible, and foolish. He wouldn’t be like his father, hoping for a wife to stay

who never would. Waiting for friends to pay back loans they never intended to. “My plans for the mill haven’t changed.”

The corners of her mouth slowly lowered.

He felt as if he’d taken a flower and stomped on it with his muddy boots. But if he was a bastard now, at least no one took

advantage of him.

“Yet,” she said.

“Nothing will change my decision.”

“We’ll see.”

“I—” He glared at the determined gleam in her eye, the slight tilt of her lips. Minx. “You won’t pull me into a pointless argument over

this.”

“Yes, I will.”

He grabbed her shoulders, only to freeze. He had no damned idea what he intended to do now. Shake sense into her? But now that

his hands were on her, far different images presented themselves. Her body writhing under his as he pressed her against the wall.

The moment when her surprise and anger had sparked to arousal.

A strand of her damp hair clung to his gloves. He cursed them. He hated that they kept him from feeling her sleek tresses. And from

feeling the silken fabric that separated him from her skin.

The silence stretched. Clayton normally liked silence. He knew the power of it, knew how to use it. He’d never been bothered by the

weight of it before.

But now it pressed down on him, threatening to bury him.

“Baron Komarov.”

Clayton glanced at the servant at the door.

“Soldiers are here to escort you and Miss Swift to see the emperor. The princess says to tell you that they’re armed.”





chapter Twelve

The maid tried to tighten Olivia’s borrowed stays, but despite all their fidgeting, Olivia would never be able to match Kate’s more

buxom figure.

The young maid frowned, tugging at the bottom. Iryna was an upstairs maid, but she’d proven apt as a lady’s maid. “I hadn’t thought

we’d have to use so many pins on the bosom. I’ll need to fetch more for the dress.”

“No, this will have to do.” Olivia didn’t want to keep armed soldiers waiting.

But the maid was already hurrying from the room. “No. No. I’ll fetch some. The dress won’t fit right.”

Olivia paced to the window and cleared a small section in the foggy glass with her hand. Below, two closed sleighs waited by the

entryway. The poor groom tending the horses slogged in snow up to his knees.

“The emperor cannot know about La Petit.”

Olivia whirled, grabbing the curtain and pulling it in front to hide her barely covered bosoms. Clayton stood by the adjoining door.

“I thought that was locked.”

“It was.”

“You could have used the main door.” Olivia dropped the curtain. He’d technically seen more of her when she was in the robe a few

minutes ago, and it was rather difficult to avoid feeling ridiculous when cowering behind a curtain.

“I would rather avoid having the servants see us conversing. The less they know, the better.”

She hadn’t considered that. “You could have knocked.”

For a brief moment, his gaze slid from her face and across the display of bosom visible above the cups of her stays.

Her skin heated as if he’d caressed it.

She jerked her hands up to cover herself, but the pressure of her hands against her too warm flesh was even more disturbing than

his gaze.

He cleared his throat. “And I brought fresh bandages for your arms.”

The last thing she needed was for him to touch her again. She could still feel the weight of his hands on her shoulders from a few

moments ago.

She held out her arms and he bandaged them. His attention was quick and impersonal; he was even wearing gloves, for pity’s

sake, but that didn’t stop her heart from skipping every time he touched her.

“How did the czar find out we were here so quickly?” she asked.

“That was why I made a scene with you in the market. I wanted the minister of police and the czar to know I am here.” She could

have sworn Clayton’s cheeks had reddened slightly, but his lips remained in a firm line, unapologetic.

Ah. That piece of the afternoon finally made sense.

“I need your word that you won’t mention La Petit.”

Another loop of the fabric. Another brush of his leather-encased finger.

Her breath quickened. “Then how will I explain—”

“I’ll speak for us. All I need is your word that you won’t contradict me.”

Another layer. Another touch. She would be mad by the end of this.

Focus. “What will you say?”

“I’ll stay as close to the truth as possible.”