Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

What was she doing? She should be with the policeman by now. Cursing the weakness in his right hand, Clayton wedged his

dagger in the seam between two of the granite blocks and pulled himself upward, ignoring the fact that his rib cage had been

replaced with hot coals.

She stood no chance against the soldier.

Hell. What was she thinking?

Olivia spoke again. “I said step away.”

“You will not pull the trigger, little girl.” It was the first time Gray Scarf had spoken, his voice both higher and softer than Clayton had

expected.

She must have picked up the dead man’s pistol.

Clayton threw one elbow over the top of the embankment.

Olivia stood a dozen feet away, a pistol clutched in her hands. Her bonnet had gotten lost somewhere and her golden hair whipped

around her face. She was a Valkyrie. Defending him.

“I always finish my fights,” she warned.

Gray Scarf chuckled and lifted the rock.

She fired.

Gray Scarf fell, the rock landing with a near silent thump into the snow.

Clayton forced his body to obey once more and hefted himself fully onto the street.

Olivia took a step toward him before she collapsed, her whole body trembling.

He had to get to her.

It hurt to breathe. His vision blurred from the punch to his head. Air refused to fill his aching lungs. But he dragged himself toward her

in the snow.

He’d gone only a foot when she stood, her face pale where it wasn’t reddened from the cold. She wavered, but then set her chin and

walked to him, keeping her gaze pinned on him rather than the carnage surrounding her.

“He’s not dead,” Clayton said.

As if on cue, Gray Scarf groaned. Olivia flinched away.

The gunshot had roused the curiosity of the surrounding neighborhood. People peeked out of windows and cracked open doors.

“We need to get out of sight before he recovers or the police arrive.” Clayton forced his legs to stand under him. As long as he

moved slowly, he could tolerate the pain in his side.

As they passed, he tugged the gray scarf off the man and passed it to Olivia to tie around her head so she didn’t lose her ears to

frostbite.

Clayton’s toes had gone numb in the full leather boots, and Olivia had only those impractical half boots females were forced to wear.

Her feet must be frozen. And that wasn’t a term he used lightly. He needed to get her up and out of this snow completely.

She stumbled against his bad side, and they both fell to their knees.

“People . . . don’t freeze to . . . death in the streets, do they?” Her chattering teeth made her difficult to understand.

He wished he could lie. “All the time.” Clayton’s pants and jacket were soaked through with melted snow, as was the hem of Olivia’s

skirt. The damp fabric robbed what little warmth their bodies would have created walking.

“Lovely.”

A sleigh hissed across the snow behind them. Let it be one for hire . . . Clayton dropped his hand to the hilt of his last remaining

dagger as the horse slowed beside them.

“I said to myself, who could have left such a fine body count along the streets of St. Petersburg?”

Ian.

Despite his agony, Clayton lifted Olivia into the sleigh before it had come to a stop.

“We need to get her inside and warm.” He grabbed Olivia’s red hands and rubbed them vigorously to get the circulation going

again.

After her fingers had pinkened, he unbuttoned his greatcoat and pulled her hands against his chest. “I intend to buy you a dozen

pairs of gloves. Which you’ll wear.”

“At the same time?” he thought she tried to ask.

“Bloody right. In the summer, too.” Then he’d feed her chocolate, and biscuits, and the most exotic sweets he’d encountered, and he

’d bury her under a dozen furs next to a roaring fire. “Give me one of your blankets, Ian.”

Ian tossed one off his shoulders, making him a slightly smaller mountain. Clayton tucked it around Olivia.

Her hand traced down his side. “Are your ribs broken?”

Clayton shifted to test them. “Perhaps cracked. Not broken.”

“You let someone land a blow on your ribs?”

He was glad Ian’s mockery gave him something to think about other than Olivia’s hands on his body.

Olivia frowned, blinking through the snowflakes that settled on her eyelashes. “There were six of them.”

Ian snorted. “Getting soft, old man. Did he ever tell you about the time he took out an entire regiment of French cavalry?”

“I did have a cannon.”

“Judging from the gunshot, you at least had a pistol this time.”

“No. That was Olivia’s shot,” Clayton said.

Ian glanced back, his eyes searching Clayton’s. “I must say it is lovely to have a team again.”

“Yes, it is,” Clayton said. He’d give her a second chance. Despite her confession this afternoon, he owed it to her. Besides, didn’t

the fact that she’d told him the truth speak in her favor? The decision wasn’t nearly as unsettling as he thought it would be. After all,

Olivia was only one person. He wasn’t being too permissive or allowing everyone to trample over him.

Besides, it felt right. Like he’d finally found the piece he’d been missing for a puzzle.

The sleigh slowed in front of a modest building. Ian hopped down, then returned a minute later, eyes twinkling. He gestured with a

proud sweep of his arm. “Go warm yourselves and get naked.”





chapter Twenty-two

“Pardon?” Olivia’s cold-slowed brain must have misheard.

But Clayton was already lifting her out of the sleigh. “A private room?”

“The finest,” Ian replied as he flicked the reins on the horse. “Such as it is. I asked them for ink and paper for you, as well. You can

thank me later.”

The building had a small sign hanging out front but a heavy dusting of snow made it impossible to read. Two bull-shouldered men

greeted them at the door, lightly dressed in white linen shirts and trousers tied around their waists. They bowed low and led them

inside, casting only a single curious glance at Clayton’s swollen cheek and the blood that dripped from the cut above his eye.

The air was heavy and overly moist as they walked down a corridor. The low rumble of voices was occasionally interrupted by the

sounds of flesh pounding flesh.

The men stopped at a door and opened it. Smoke—no, steam—billowed in thick, white strands into the corridor. A man stalked out,

glaring at them, skin raw, pink, and glistening. Only a towel was wrapped around his pudgy hips. Red stripes covered his back.

“A bath?” Olivia asked, although it felt more like a statement.

“Ian thinks himself quite humorous. But it will give us a private place to keep warm while he finds us a room for the night.”

After convincing the attendants they didn’t need any further personal ministrations, Clayton tipped them a few kopecks for a bowl of

water and a fresh towel.

Olivia stepped through the curtain of steam.