Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

hair was rumpled on one side, wisps loose from the braid she wore.

The meager light from his candle caught in the golden strands, giving her a lopsided halo. But her face was set in aggrieved lines,

giving her the appearance of a rather surly angel. He fought to keep a smile from his lips. “If Golov’s brother is with Prazhdinyeh,

then we must assume Golov is, too. We can’t truly work on the code with him present. Or risk working on it without him while the

servants can report back.”

She paused in the middle of rubbing her eye. “You’re going to help me? I thought you’d be chasing the colonel.”

“After we work on this.”

“And what if you break the code? Will you trust me with that?”

“Yes.”

Her smile was quick and radiant, but disappeared quickly as if she feared he’d crush it. “Why?”

Clayton rubbed his knuckles along his jaw and shifted back. “I no longer think you are a revolutionary.”

There was a pause, a silence that perhaps someone else would have filled with an apology; instead, he would give her something

far more useful—information. He stepped aside so she could see into his room. “I have heard rumors about Vasin’s codes. It’s why I

chose to come here in the first place.”

Her eyes widened as she surveyed the crates and books piled to chest height. “Those are all papers from Vasin and the prince?”

“Kate claims they are.”

She hurried back into the room and returned with the code. “So what rumors have you heard?”

“That he used books to code his messages.”

“How would that work?”

“One way to encode messages is for both sides to have the same book or writing and an agreed-upon page.”

“Then what?”

“Then to encode a message, the sender takes the first letter from that page and adds that letter’s number to the first letter of the

message. For instance, if the first letter on the agreed-upon page is B, they would add two to the first letter of the code. If it was C

they would add three.”

Her teeth nipped at her lower lip as she analyzed the process. “The results would appear random.” Her lips parted softly as she

stared at the paper in her hand. “Like this.” She glanced up. “So what do we do?”

“The best way to proceed is for one of us to catalogue the prince’s items while the other does the same for Vasin’s.”

Olivia lovingly trailed a finger down a row of books, a caress he felt down his spine. “What are we looking for?”

“The prince corresponded with Vasin. They would both need to be able to encode and read the messages. If my theory is correct,

there will be a book in common between them.”

“So how will we figure out if we are right?”

“We try it on the code.”

“Couldn’t Prince Sergey tell us?”

“He’s in Wales.”

A light sparked in her eyes, and he cursed his tongue.

“You cannot tell Kate.”

“Why not? She loves him.”

“The prince has been free to tell her where he is. If he hasn’t, then I must assume he has his reasons.”

She tapped a jar of ink before picking it up. “Where do you want me to start?”

“On the bed.”

They both froze and then started talking at the same time.

“I believe those belong to—”

“Whose books—”

She motioned for him to continue.

“Those are Vasin’s books. I believe there are far fewer of them.”

“Are you trying to be kind?”

Was he? He shrugged. “I’m a faster writer.”

But as she shifted a pile of books so she could sit on the edge of the bed, a slight smile still pulled at her lips.

And he found himself inordinately pleased to be the one who had put it there.

She tugged her dressing gown tighter around her neck. “Your room seems colder than mine.”

“It is. I think it’s Kate’s way of welcoming me.” He settled in the corner of the room, his back turned to the tempting picture she made

on his bed, and began to create his own list. A crick in his neck finally forced him to look up.

Olivia now sat in the center of the bed, her knees tucked under her. The books she’d already listed sat in a neat pile on the floor. At

some point during the past hour and a half, she’d smudged a line of ink on her chin. She’d always had the bad habit of tapping her

chin while she worked.

He could have come back for her ten years ago.

The thought made him ache with a cloying bittersweetness. He’d come back to England many times.

But no. He straightened the books in his pile, then straightened them again until his thoughts followed suit.

What would he have done if he’d come back? Married her? The hurt would have been too fresh and he’d still had his duty to the

Crown.

And the more time he spent with her now, the more he was certain he would never make any woman a good husband. He was too

harsh, too quick to suspicion, too scarred inside and out.

Then there was the matter of the mill.

He suspected she held out some hope that she’d be able to change his mind. That his agreement to work with her on the code

would mean he’d be willing to compromise on other things.

He would just have to let her see that would not happen. Ever.





chapter Eighteen

Hands swept under her shoulders. Caressed behind Olivia’s knees. “Clayton.” The moan of her own voice jolted her awake.

Clayton loomed above, his face only inches from hers.

She squeaked and jerked away, colliding with a pile of books. She blinked as she put the pieces together. She was still in Clayton’s

room. From the pale gray washing over the ceiling, it looked to be early dawn.

Clayton pulled away and straightened, a somewhat pained grimace on his face. “I was about to move you to your room before the

maids come to build up the fires.”

The last time she’d looked at the clock it was three. She’d slept on his bed, but then where had he slept?

The slight crease running from his temple to his chin made it appear as if he’d fallen asleep on a book. There was a crumpled

blanket nearby where he’d been working.

She felt a pang of guilt. “You should have woken me. I would have given you back your bed.”

Somehow, the fact that he hadn’t yet folded the blanket along neat, precise lines made everything more intimate. That blanket would

still be warm from Clayton’s body if she touched it. Or curled up in it.

What would he think if she snatched it up and wrapped it around her? If she breathed deep to capture his scent?

“You were exhausted.” He smoothed back a lock of her hair, his fingers following it around the shell of her ear and down the side of

her neck. Her shudder had nothing to do with the cold. He’d removed his jacket at some point during the night, as well as his boots

and cravat. But strangely, not his gloves.

“But you must have been freezing on the floor.”