Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Neither had he killed Clayton moments ago.

But there would be other revolutionaries. “Have you seen the count?”

Blin’s head shook from side to side. “Not since you blew up his h-h-house.” The man was shivering so badly it took him three tries to

say the final word. He buried his hands in his beard, fingers tangling in the curly mess.

“How long have you been out here?” Clayton asked.

The man’s shoulder lifted. It was wide enough to hold a sack of flour. Maybe a sack and a half. “Since you left with the soldiers and

came back.”

Over four hours. “When did you plan to contact her again?”

“I didn’t. She told me to go home.”

Devil take it. The more time Clayton spent with this fellow, the more he believed his claim.

But if he believed Blin, then he’d have to believe Olivia wasn’t one of the revolutionaries.

He wasn’t quite certain of that.

But he was certain this man was going to lose his toes if he kept standing in the snow in those felt boots.

“Come.” Clayton pulled Blin to his feet.

“Come where?”

“Into the house. I will find you a place in the kitchen to keep warm.”

The man’s shaggy brows scrunched together, and his eyes were wary. “Why?”

Because if he was innocent as Olivia claimed, Clayton owed him a deep debt for keeping Olivia safe. Dark horror at what could

have happened to her without this man slithered up his spine, coiling tight around his ribs.

Perhaps she had been quick enough to keep herself alive with Blin’s help.

“Because Olivia would want me to.”





chapter Fourteen

Not being a particularly religious man, Clayton had never thought to be divinely punished for his past sins.

He was fast altering his opinion.

He’d heard voices in Olivia’s room when he’d come upstairs. So he did what he’d been trained to do—spy. He’d meant to crack

open the adjoining door to get a visual on the occupants, then ease it closed again and simply listen for anything interesting.

He had a dozen things he hoped to glean. Ensuring she was safe. Making sure she wasn’t passing information. Watching her

interact with others to see if her interaction with him was false.

Now he just wanted to remember how to breathe.

The modiste stripped another gown from Olivia with a click of her tongue. “The alterations would take much too long.”

Every bit of Olivia—from her lush lower lip to the honey and cream of her skin—made his body ache as it hadn’t in years.

Today in the market he’d thought he’d lose control like a green youth at the feel of her. But that interaction had been clouded with

anger, suspicion.

Now there was nothing to distract him from the thud of his heart against his rib cage or the swell of her bosom that peeked over the

cups of her stays. The sudden itchiness on his palms or the sweet curve of her waist. The pressure in his groin or the brush of a curl

across her cheek.

“ . . . quite chilly. I expect the port to freeze over completely in a matter of days.” Kate and Olivia chatted nonstop about everything

from books to ancient tribal customs. Now they’d moved on to St. Petersburg.

“The ocean freezes?” Olivia asked.

“Entirely. People take sleighs across the ocean from St. Petersburg to Cronstadt. Although once a count waited too long and . . .”

The talk was quick and witty. Both women were relaxed and constantly doubled over with laughter.

Because he wasn’t there.

The door jerked under Clayton’s hand and he forced his grip on the handle to soften. He was being a fool. There was no reason to

be watching. The women could be heard perfectly well through the closed door.

The modiste slipped another dress over Olivia’s head.

Clayton stilled.

All three women sucked in a breath.

The high-waisted ivory silk skimmed over her form like she’d been dipped in cream. The bodice drew the eye with dozens of seed

pearls that shimmered. Long, elegant sleeves covered the bandages on her wrists. The neckline was so wide it fully displayed the

smooth line of her shoulder.

There she was. The creature of money and prestige. The girl who’d once had her father change the upholstery in the coach to match

her dress. The girl who threw out a pair of slippers because they didn’t have enough gold thread. The girl who turned up her nose in

revulsion when she found Clayton eating something as common as porridge.

He should have despised her.

But hell if he didn’t want to trace his fingers over each pearl. He wanted to weave a dozen more into her soft hair. He wanted pearls

to dangle from each of her delicate ears.

After a lingering strum of her fingers down the side of the bodice. Olivia shook her head. “I’ll go with the blue satin.”

Impossible. Clayton had to let go of the handle to keep from charging into the room and demanding to know if she was insane. It

was obvious she adored the gown.

“But the ivory was made for you,” Kate said. Clayton thought that was a rather blatant understatement.

“I’ll wear the blue.”

“If it is the cost,” Kate said, “it is truly nothing to me. It would be a pleasure to buy it for you.”

“I appreciate your kindness, but it’s not necessary.” She sounded entirely sincere, but her fingers dropped to the silk skirt once

more. “A simple dress will do.”

He’d never known Olivia to deny herself any treat. In fact, she’d often demanded them. Nothing had made her happier than when he’

d saved enough to buy her some trinket.

Then again, she’d been wearing that cheaply tailored dress when he’d found her at the mill. And not once had she complained

about the peasant clothing and poor-fitting gowns she’d been dressed in since.

She had changed. There was no denying that truth now. But how much of her was good and how much was him wanting her to be

so? Wanting an excuse for his fascination? Looking for a reason to be able to take her back?

Was this the pull his mother had over his father? Clayton had never understood how his father could keep taking her back. Once she

’d even had her former lover drop her off on the doorstep, and his father had still allowed her in. If this was the tug that he felt—

No. He didn’t understand it. He wouldn’t.

Clayton returned his focus to the other room. Olivia resisted the arguments of both Kate and the modiste, and soon she was left

alone to rest. She stood and stretched, hands high above her head, back arched. Then with unconcerned, leisurely deliberation, she

slipped off her dressing gown and then her stays, leaving her clad only in her shift.

She reached down to grasp the hem and slowly, so slowly, lifted it. It skimmed past her knees. Clayton could hear nothing but his

pulse echoing in his ears.

If he valued his sanity, he’d move away now. The thoughts of what she might do alone and naked shuddered through him.