Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

brought into the room with the stacks of books and papers. As she slipped it on and off her thumb, she looked at the heavy

scrollwork that encircled the ruby. It wasn’t decoration. It was artfully crafted Cyrillic.

Was that— “Clayton!”

Water sloshed, and he appeared from behind the screen with nothing but a dagger in his hand. Water dribbled down the hard,

corded muscles on his shoulders, down the tight planes of his stomach, past his— She knew she should look away. But that was

impossible. He was magnificent. A perfectly sculpted gladiator. A very large gladiator.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her body suddenly sensitive to everything. The scent of camphor on the blanket. The dampness of her

hair.

The ache between her legs.

Clayton’s eyes swept the room.

Blast. Speaking. Surely, she was capable of it. “There was no danger. I just— I had an idea,” she finished rather lamely. She still

couldn’t take her eyes from him. A few silvery scars decorated his chest. On his muscular left thigh was the puckered reminder of a

gunshot. She wanted to trail her lips over each scar, since she hadn’t been there to tend him when he was injured.

Suddenly, the fact that he hadn’t been swayed by her efforts on behalf of the mill seemed all too understandable. He’d given more

than she could ever imagine.

Clayton lowered the dagger. “An idea?” Color darkened his cheeks, but his eyes met hers, then watched her traitorous gaze as it

surveyed his body. He quickly turned away, revealing a tight, well-muscled backside. It was so intriguing, it took her a moment to

notice the mass of scars crisscrossing his back. She pressed her lips together until she could feel her teeth imprinted on the back of

them. He’d been flayed. There had to be at least fifty different lines.

“An idea about the code,” she managed.

“Perhaps this conversation would be more appropriate clothed?” Clayton suggested.

“If you feel the need.” Heat rushed to her face. That wasn’t supposed to be uttered aloud.

He paused for a brief second before continuing to walk away. “What did you find?” His clothing rustled behind the screen.

“The prince’s ring. It has an inscription.”

“What does it say?”

She focused on getting the translation correct. “From the ashes . . . reborn.”

Clayton stepped back out. He’d pulled on his breeches but was still in the process of tugging on his shirt as he approached. “You’re

a bloody genius.”

“Vasin had a pamphlet with that title,” Olivia said.

“More than that.” Clayton leaned over her, placing a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder. “He wrote it. It was considered one of the

founding documents of the movement.”

“Then his associates would have it?”

“Precisely.”

She clenched the ring in her fist. “Then can we break the code?”

“If we can locate a copy.”

“But we have—” No, they didn’t have a copy. It had been in her room during the explosion. It was reduced to bits and ashes.

Clayton tugged back on his gloves. “I, unfortunately, know who does.”





chapter Twenty-one

“Have a seat in the parlor. I’ll join you in a moment,” Professor Mir called out as they passed by the open library door. The stacks of

paper that obscured the gray-haired scholar were even deeper than the last time Clayton was here.

The maid led them into a slightly less cluttered room. A few minutes later, the well-fed, gouty professor entered.

“Ah, Professor Lishpin! It has been ages. What brings you back to St. Petersburg?” He shoved aside a pile of books so he could

sit; the chair creaked under the assault.

“More studies as always,” Clayton said. “Professor Mir, may I introduce my assistant, Miss Britta Loenhiemer?”

Olivia nodded and remained silent. Clayton had warned her who Mir thought Clayton was—an Austrian philosophy professor.

“Is she as useful as she is lovely?”

Mir had always been something of a rutting goat. And unfortunately, when Clayton had visited him last, he’d given Mir the impression

that he was the same. But Mir had the most comprehensive collection of Russian writings in the country. Partly because he never

threw anything away, and partly because he had enough important friends that the police hadn’t disturbed him when they purged the

country of unpatriotic literature.

When a maid came in carrying tea, Mir gave her a swift pinch on the bottom.

Always a challenge to speak Russian with a German accent, Clayton found it even more difficult to do so through gritted teeth. “Miss

Loenhiemer is indeed talented.”

“I’ll wager she is.” Mir shifted his breeches.

“She has one of the brightest minds I’ve ever seen.” He should be asking for the pamphlet, not defending his fictional assistant’s

honor.

“I like them clever.” Mir chuckled. “Especially with their tongues.”

Perhaps Clayton would pummel him senseless and find the writing himself.

“If you help my professor, perhaps I could show you just how clever I am.”

The growl in Clayton’s throat froze at Olivia’s seductive murmur.

Mir’s German was worse than Olivia’s, so he had to puzzle through what she said, but there was no mistaking her tone. Or the way

she placed her hand on Clayton’s thigh and slowly massaged it. Clayton could hardly protest on her behalf while she did that.

He couldn’t do much of anything while she did that.

Mir sucked in his stomach. “What was it you were looking for again, Professor?”

“An old pamphlet written by Vasin. From the Ashes Reborn.”

“A popular writing,” Mir said.

“Has someone else inquired about it?” His chest slowly filled with dread. The inescapable dread that came from knowing the

answer to his own question.

If someone else had come for the writing, then someone else knew how to break the code.

“Two days ago, some men from the academy came by and requested a copy.”

If they’d come two days ago, it couldn’t have been Golov.

Prazhdinyeh had broken the code first.

Olivia’s nails were digging into Clayton’s leg even through his thick woolen trousers. She’d made the connection as well. “And you

gave it to them?” Olivia asked.

Mir motioned for Clayton and Olivia to take a cup of tea, then selected one himself, taking a large, noisy sip. “Of course. I always

support academics.”

Or revolutionaries, in this case.

“Why all the interest?” Mir’s eyes glinted with the intelligence he so often neglected when there was a woman about.

Before Clayton could think of a lie, Olivia flicked her tongue over her lower lip. “Do you have another copy?”

Mir’s eyes glazed over slightly. “I might. Let me go see.”

Olivia sighed once he left and picked up a cup of tea. “They broke the code, didn’t they?”

“Most likely.”

“At least it means we were correct in our guess about the code.” Olivia dropped two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream into her

tea and stirred quickly.

Clayton lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.