Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

“Not yet.”


“Then the odds are slim that Prazhdinyeh can?”

He hoped his friend’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. “I don’t know. But if they can find one of Vasin’s exiled generals, they won’t

have to. We can’t take that chance. And Vasin’s agent might decide to act even if he doesn’t receive a signal. He’s been awaiting

this moment for a long time, after all.”

Olivia’s door opened again. “I believe being manhandled entitles me to be part of this conversation.” Her back was straight, and her

eyes dared Clayton to contradict her.

Ian bowed. “I do apologize for my less than gentlemanly introduction.”

“You could have tried introducing yourself,” Olivia said.

“I did.”

“Yes. Calling yourself the Wraith should have calmed me immediately.”

Ian smiled that rugged, admiring grin that usually had women dropping at his feet. Then he turned to Clayton. “What are my orders,

oh wise leader?”

Clayton often thought Ian would make the better leader, but he’d always refused the role. “I need you to find Arshun.”

Ian yawned. “What will I do with the other twenty-three hours of my day?”

Clayton couldn’t help grinning. It was good to have Ian at his side again. “The plan was set into motion about three years ago.

Perhaps see if you can find anyone who’s made a rapid rise in the ranks surrounding the czar. Someone who will be in the position

to do what Vasin planned.” He explained about the weapons he’d destroyed.

“That doesn’t sound much like Vasin’s type of plan.”

Clayton nodded. “I think Arshun is feeling inventive. And I suspect I only blew up a portion of his weapons.”

Ian slid open the window, dropping the room temperature by several more chilling degrees. “I’ll see what I can—”

Boom!

Walls and floors shuddered.

A hot blast of air.

Olivia hurtled forward, lifted by the explosion behind her. Clayton threw himself on top of her as bits of plaster showered his back.

Breaking glass. Paintings crashing to the floor. Neck burning. Heat. Too much heat.

Then silence but for the faint, high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Olivia coughed in the murky air, wracking sounds that shook her body under him. How much of the blast had caught her? He’d seen

men whose insides had been turned to liquid by blasts like this. Men who—

Terror hollowed Clayton’s gut as he waited for her to pull her hand away from her mouth.

She lifted her hand. No blood.

The next choked exhale was his.

He rolled off her and gently flipped her onto her back. He wiped a finger through the pale dust coating her face, leaving a pink stripe

down her cheek. “Are you all right?”

Ian leaped past them, running into the cloud of smoke and heat that was once Olivia’s rooms. Clayton gave thanks again that Ian

had come. It meant he could see to Olivia and not worry about the house burning down around them. He ran his hands down her

arms. Her torso. Searching for any injuries.

Olivia coughed again and sucked in a wincing breath. “I’m uninjured. It simply knocked me to the floor and then an enormous man

fell on top of me.” She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging dust and bits of plaster. “You.”

He’d thought destroying the mill would bring him the satisfaction he’d been missing. But now he feared it wouldn’t compare to this.

The awe on her face. The tenderness.

Stomping came from the other room—Ian obliterating any smoldering wreckage. There was a sharp crack, and Ian swore. “The floor

’s compromised in places. Nearly just plunged to my death, thanks for asking. But no fire,” he called out. “Black powder, most likely.”

Ian reappeared. He bent over, rearranging the leg of his trousers. “Blast originated by the stove. It wasn’t the stove itself, although

that’s undoubtedly what we’re supposed to think. Lucky for us, the mahogany wardrobe on her wall redirected most of the force

away from us. Otherwise, your wall would have been blown out, too.”

Clayton glanced through the door. Olivia’s far wall had been demolished.

Servants shouted as they ran up the hall.

“Miss Swift!” Blin’s shout was anguished; his boots echoed on the floor as he ran down the corridor.

“If that man’s as big as he sounds, he’ll go straight through the floor in that room.”

“Blin,” Olivia yelled. “I’m all right.”

But his pace didn’t change as he passed Clayton’s room.

Olivia started to run to Clayton’s door. “Blin, don’t go into my room!” But she’d never make it before the other man had thrown

himself into her room.

The adjoining door.

“Ian, can that floor hold me?”

Ian paused halfway out the window. “Most likely—”

Clayton darted through it.

Window glass was gone. Chairs were splintered. The books and papers had been reduced to scraps and tiny flakes that dotted the

floor. He kept his feet to one of the structural beams that had been revealed by the missing boards in the floor.

The door crashed open.

Clayton leaped, throwing his entire weight at the man coming inside.

It was like hitting a wall, but Blin did stop. He grunted and stepped back and Clayton fell rather awkwardly onto one knee.

The other man was shaking, his mouth opening and closing. “Miss Swift? Where is she?”

Clayton rearranged his aching muscles until he was standing again.

“Blin. Don’t go in there!” Olivia scrambled to their side. Her hair hung lopsided off her head. She jerked back, and her eyes widened

when she saw Clayton.

“You went through my room.” What little color she still had disappeared. “You could have . . .” She bit her lip and reached for him,

and he knew that even if the floor had been nothing but a gaping hole, he still would have flung himself across it.

“Miss Swift?” Blin patted her cheek, his fingers stiff and slow. “What—”

The rest of the servants arrived. A dozen footmen and maids carried buckets of water. Others came simply to stare.

“Olivia!” Kate cried as she pushed her way through the servants. She wrapped Olivia in a fierce embrace.

Clayton turned back to the destroyed room. He gripped the doorway to keep his hands from trembling at the utter devastation.

More servants crowded behind him, exclaiming as they glimpsed the damage.

The ceramic stove was simply gone. None of the remaining shards were bigger than his finger. The rest of the debris was scattered

in a circular pattern around where the stove had been. Ian was correct. The blast had originated by the stove.

Clayton glanced back to Olivia, only to catch Kate’s angry glare. “You” was all she said.

And she was right. Everything Olivia had suffered had been his fault. She’d been kidnapped because of him. Bound. Cut. Bruised.

The room. He needed to focus on the blast. He bent and picked up a small metal gear from the floor near his boot. From a clock,