Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

And she didn’t want to any longer. She wanted to be able to lay her mistakes at Clayton’s feet. To have nothing keeping her from

speaking of her feelings.

“They broke my fingers one at a time to force me to tell them what they wanted. When I wouldn’t, they cut my hand open to examine

the mess they’d made. I didn’t talk, but I did scream. I screamed until my voice was so hoarse no sound would come out.”

The whole time he spoke, his quill never once stilled, as if the conversation meant little. But he was daring her to judge him. It was

there in the set of his jaw and the taunt in his voice.

“By the time Ian and Madeline got me out, it was too late to reset some of the bones. They never healed correctly.” He released the

blanket long enough to clench his hand. It couldn’t curl tighter than a loose fist. “Still not horrified?”

At her own bloodthirstiness, perhaps. Olivia longed to make each of his tormentors suffer for what they’d done.

But to be horrified at marks that proved his loyalty and bravery? Never.

She caught his gloved hand and lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss on the back of each knuckle.

His quill froze.

Slowly, she peeled off his glove. White lines bisected his palm. Uneven, dark scars covered his fingertips. His index finger curved

slightly inward.

It was shocking. But only because of the brutality that caused it. Not because the damaged skin itself was distressing.

She drew his hand to her lips again, pressing her mouth to the tip of one finger before laving the rough skin with her tongue. When

his breath hissed through his teeth, she knew she had to give him more. She drew the end of his finger gently into her mouth.

With a curse, he tucked his damaged hand behind her head and kissed her.

His lips were smooth. Hot against her cool flesh. His left hand trailed up her spine, coaxing her closer. When his tongue brushed the

seam of her lips, she opened for him, gasping as he pleasured her mouth.

The blanket slid to the floor, but neither of them bothered to collect it. He skimmed his hand up her arm, across her collarbone, and

then down to the swell of her breasts.

She arched her back, pressing against him. Yes. She was still throbbing from his accidental caresses. She wanted this. Needed to

have his fingers firm and purposeful on her. It was the only thing that would soothe the ache.

“Please . . .”

Clayton’s lips lifted from hers and curled into a lazy smile. “You always did have such fancy manners. What do you need?”

Heat rushed up the back of her neck, but she knew she’d answer. Something had changed in her since that kiss at the ball. She was

more daring, more wild.

More in love.

“Please, touch my breasts.”

After a slight pause, he lifted his good hand to her breast in reward, lightly cupping and kneading through the wool of her dress.

She moaned. The bliss was overwhelming but not enough. “More.”

Clayton lifted his scarred hand slowly as though waiting for her to flinch away.

“Yes.” The idea of both of his hands on her made her heart nearly explode.

Yet Clayton still hesitated a moment before giving it to her.

She leaned forward to complete the caress. She didn’t care a jot what his hand looked like as long as it was on her.

He skimmed down her throat to the valley between her breasts before dipping into her bodice and cupping her, his bare flesh finally

on her breast.

They both shuddered at the contact.

A knock sounded on the door.

Clayton had withdrawn and moved away from the desk before she’d even registered what the noise was.

“Why have you been sending my servants away?” Kate spoke through the closed door. “Olivia, are you well?”

“I’m well,” she called out. She ran a hand over her hair, dusting white speckles across the desk. Heavens, she was still covered in

plaster. A rather disheartening discovery when she’d thought herself seductive and alluring.

After ensuring Kate was alone, Clayton allowed her to enter. He tucked his damaged hand behind him. How many times had he

done the same thing to Olivia without her even noticing?

No longer. She would never let him hide away his hand like it was something to be ashamed of.

“Your maid Iryna planted the bomb,” Clayton said.

Kate paled. “I thought it was one of your associates.”

“Not this time. Prazhdinyeh ordered it. How many people in your household are loyal to the revolutionaries?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Some perhaps. They’re serfs from my husband’s estates. Many of them were here while he

worked with the revolutionaries. I never thought to ask.” Her hands clenched. “They set a bomb? In my house? Will they try it again?”

“We won’t be staying,” Clayton said.

Kate frowned at that. “Did you finish your investigation?”

“No.”

“Then where will you be going?”

Clayton remained silent. Olivia wasn’t sure if he wanted their destination to remain a secret or if he didn’t yet know.

Kate ran her hands down the front of her trousers. “I think—” But then she stopped and sighed. “Do what you must. Do you need

anything?”

“We’ll be less conspicuous if we aren’t covered in plaster. Do you personally trust enough servants to bring up water to fill a bath?”

Kate thought a moment, then nodded. “And I’ll see if I can arrange for a few things to be gathered for you to take—”

“No. I don’t want it known we’re leaving. It might make any potential attackers act rashly. And I will need you to keep Blin as one of

your servants for now. There is no need for him to endanger himself.”

“I think my cook would gut me if I did not.”

After Kate had left, Clayton returned to his chair. He tugged his glove back on, grimacing slightly as he pulled it tight.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Always.” He picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink. His lips quirked upward. “Except while it was caressing you.”

How could a woman resist that? She lowered the neckline of her gown. “Well, if it helped . . .”

He dripped ink across the table but mopped it up with a blotting paper before it stained. “What precisely are you offering?”

“Everything.” While her deceptions might keep her from casting her heart at his feet, they wouldn’t keep her from casting her body

into his bed.

Except they did.

She couldn’t give herself to him without his knowing her part in the danger he faced today. “I asked you to take me to St. Petersburg

because it would give the mill time to earn enough money to pay off the debts you hold.”

“I suspected something of the sort.”

Not precisely the reaction she’d expected. She’d expected him to be appalled. She expected to have to tearfully explain all her

reasoning, show how determined she was to protect the mill.

Had she hoped for it? Had this reveal been nothing more than an emotional trump card in her game to keep the mill?