Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

A droskie swished on the snow behind him, the driver slowing hopefully as he approached.

But movement had cleared Clayton’s head for a blessed moment. He couldn’t think about the revolutionaries or the count or Olivia,

without risking slipping on the snow and ending up in the nearest snowbank.

He waved the driver on and took a breath so deep his lungs stung with a hundred icy pinpricks.

Soon the princess’s house appeared ahead. The sweat on his cheeks chilled, but residual heat from the exercise lingered, allowing

him to check the perimeter of the house.

Olivia would be there waiting for him, her delicate neck bent over a desk as she studied the code.

He stared up at her window and caught a flicker of movement.

Not at a desk, then. Perhaps she paced back and forth, her lower lip trapped by her teeth as she thought.

Another flicker at the window confirmed his suspicion.

There would be a slight wrinkle in her nose. Occasionally, she’d tug at her ear. Her steps would be small and graceful, yet quick

enough to be purposeful.

He found himself holding his breath until she passed by the window again.

What was it about her that blinded him to better judgment? She was like a spark in the flash pan. Deceptively small, bright, beautiful

—yet capable of creating many an explosion.

He hadn’t meant to fall for her all those years ago. She had been his employer’s daughter. Rich, a touch spoiled, unattainable. And

he’d had no plans to become serious with a woman ever. He’d been too angry and bitter at his mother. But something had drawn

him to her like a drunkard to a tavern.

And apparently, he still had the heart of a sot, because here he was staring up at her window in weather cold enough to freeze hell.

He ordered his gaze to trace the perimeter of the house instead, searching for any oddities, any hint of danger or—

There was a circle of compacted snow by the west wall.

Precisely like the one he’d just concealed at the count’s house.

Clayton kept his gait casual as he approached the area, but he silenced his breathing, listened for the slightest creak of snow or

crunch of ice.

Most of the house was hidden from that vantage point by the thick woven branches of a larch tree.

Except for Olivia’s window.

His fists tightened until the seams of his gloves bit into his skin. Someone had been watching her.

Footprints led away from the spot. Clayton followed them, his hand finding the hilt of his knife. The prints were fresh, the edges hadn’

t yet hardened with ice. He reached the end of the wall.

There.

The scraping of snow against snow.

He spun around the corner, his training making his adjustments instantaneous as he sighted his target, just standing there, waiting.

He was huge. He caught the man’s lapels as best he could with his right hand to keep him from fleeing.

Although with as much pain as his hand was giving him, he hoped the man didn’t try.

Clayton had to raise his knife five inches to be even with the gap between the man’s sheepskin collar and his scarf. The man’s head

was covered in a rough hat. His arms swung as he stumbled back in the snow. But when Clayton pressed the tip of his knife harder

against the man’s throat, the fellow stilled. He closed his eyes tightly, like a child hiding from a monster.

With the man’s height and girth, he could be only one person. The man Olivia claimed was her protector. What in the blazes was he

doing here? Had he come to pass information to Olivia?

Or take her news to Arshun?

The man opened a single brown eye. “Aren’t you going to do it then?”

“Kill you?” Clayton’s voice was low and threatening.

The man’s throat convulsed under the knife. The sliver of face visible over the top of his rough woolen scarf would have blended with

the snow. “Just don’t hurt her. She thinks you are good.” The other eye opened, both now soft and pleading, a deer caught in a

hunter’s snare.

That wasn’t the plea Clayton had been expecting. He—

The big man knocked the knife out of Clayton’s hand.

Damnation. He’d been distracted like a raw recruit. He dodged a fist that hammered toward his head, but when he reached for his

other dagger, his foot slipped in the snow.

A vise clamped around his neck, cutting off air. The man’s gloved hands were so wide he could fit only three fingers around Clayton’

s neck.

But three fingers were effective.

Black dots pulsed at the edge of Clayton’s vision, and he found it rather depressing that he might die staring at a limp, muddy scarf.

The man’s eyes were hesitant. And his fingers were loose enough that Clayton could still draw a tiny amount of air. “You’re a killer

like Nicolai said. You must have fooled her.”

“Don’t . . . kill . . . innocent . . . women.” Each word cost precious oxygen, but the fact that he wasn’t dead yet renewed his hope.

Desperation gave him a spurt of energy. He kicked out. His foot connected with the side of the man’s knee, sending them both

falling tangled into the snow.

The mountain made no attempt to grab him again. Instead, he sat up and dusted snow from his coat and his gloves. The scarf had

fallen away from his face, revealing a thick mustache and a coarse, matted beard. “You don’t kill innocents?”

Clayton drew his knife from his boot, but kept it by his side. “Never.”

“Oh.” A pause followed. “Then why didn’t you take her home?” The man’s words were the opposite of his fighting. Slow. Deliberate.

As if he feared stumbling over them.

He reminded Clayton much of one of the other inmates in gaol. A simple but kind boy who’d taken up with a gang of thieves. But he’

d given Clayton a piece of bread to clear the vile flavor of vomit from his mouth.

The memory made Clayton soften his tone. “She didn’t want to go yet. What is your name?”

“Blin.”

Clayton climbed to his feet, but when Blin would have followed, Clayton stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Why were you

watching her in her bedroom?”

Blin’s face turned crimson around his beard. But his eyes were earnest. “I wasn’t looking at her like that. I was just watching to make

sure she was safe.”

“From what?”

He poked at the snow with a finger. “You and Arshun.”

Clayton didn’t like that he’d been lumped with the count. And cold began to gnaw on his intestines at the thought of Arshun coming

after Olivia.

Because if she wasn’t a revolutionary, the count might. Arshun wouldn’t like being thwarted. He’d be humiliated and hurting, ready to

strike out to regain some sense of power.

And Clayton had left her alone.

His gaze flashed to her window, but it couldn’t be seen from here. He’d seen her in the window, he reassured himself.

That also meant his best chance of finding Arshun was to catch whoever came for her.

He discounted Blin. The man hadn’t killed Olivia when he had her alone in the market. Or when Clayton had left her in the house.