Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

hated each other again.

But he seemed to know, increasing the pressure of his hand. More. She needed him. But she needed her hands on him, too. It wasn

’t enough just to feel pleasure. She wanted to give it.

She twisted until her hands were on him, slipping under his shirt, exploring the smooth, hot skin of his chest.

It still wasn’t enough. She wanted him as wild as she was. She wanted him to be as mindless with pleasure as she was.

She leaned forward and touched her lips to his throat. Then, feeling bold, she flicked her tongue across the skin there.

His breath caught, then released in a shudder.

A wicked, contented smile stretched his lips. His face was relaxed, the glint in his eye almost devilish. He looked . . . happy.

She couldn’t let him open his heart to her like this.

She tried to banish the thought. Focus on his hands. On the fire in your blood. But it was too late.

It had been one thing to kiss and provoke him while he hated her. She’d been able to convince herself that there was nothing wrong

with the small tastes of passion between them. That it wouldn’t mean anything to him even if it meant everything to her.

But he trusted her.

And he shouldn’t. And once he discovered the truth about the lies she’d told to hide her father’s condition and the money she’d

found, he wouldn’t.

If she allowed this to progress between them, she’d hurt him.

She’d been naive enough to let that happen once, but now she’d do anything to stop it from happening again. She loved him too

much.

He cupped her breast and brought her nipple to his mouth. The small flick of his tongue made everything blur. Her heart ceased

beating and raced at the same moment. She couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes against the sharp pleasure coursing through

her.

Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend his trust wouldn’t complicate things between them. That she could make

love to him, and they could somehow overcome her lies.

But she couldn’t.

“Now about that birthday gift you owe me. The one I’d never forget?”

She’d tried to forget about that. His birthday would have come one week after he’d been arrested. She’d planned to make wild and

passionate love to him. At least, as passionate as her innocent brain at the time could fathom. She’d interrogated the maids for

weeks to figure out all the details. Why couldn’t he have reminded her of this yesterday, before her crisis of conscience? When she

could have showed him exactly what she’d planned for him so long ago?

She wanted to rail at his poor timing. Instead, she lifted her brow. “It was an appointment book.”

“I almost wish that had been your gift. My younger self might never have recovered from his dashed hopes.”

She wished she’d thought of it then, too.

Except, inside the book she’d have written something utterly scandalous.

“We should see if the pamphlet will break the code.” Her voice was raspy and low in her throat. “Do you still have it?”

Clayton’s hand ceased its magic, and she cursed herself for the barest hint of uncertainty that crossed his features as he drew back

from her. “Would you prefer I put my glove back on?”

She spun to face him so he couldn’t doubt her response. She caught his hand, raising it to her lips so she could kiss his knuckles. “

No. It is not your hand.”

He frowned. “Then did I misread your permission earlier? Or your interest?”

“Neither of those things.”

“Then what the devil did I miss?”

“That I love you too much to make love while I’m hiding things from you.”

He stared at her. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened. “What are you hiding?”

“Things about the mill. And I cannot tell you my secrets if you’ll use them to destroy it.”

His face darkened. “If your secrets would destroy the mill, perhaps it’s simply a sign that it should be destroyed.”

“I refuse to accept that. Surely, there’s some compromise—”

“You tell me there are dark secrets about the mill and then expect me to work to safeguard it?”

She wanted to protest that the secrets weren’t dark. But they were. They were truths she’d hidden in order to restore the mill, and

now there was no way to escape them. Not without hurting far too many families.

They were both silent for a moment.

“So shall we work on the code?” she finally asked.

“Perhaps that would be for the best.”

He pulled the pamphlet and the paper containing the code from inside his waistcoat pocket. Both were crinkled from moisture along

the top edge, but it hadn’t touched the ink.

He handed them to her. “If you’ll allow me to see to my clothing, I’ll assist you in a moment.”

So formal. Her chest ached as she retied the strings of her shift.

Clayton shrugged out of his jacket, then began unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat. Olivia flashed her gaze to the walls of the

room, not wanting to know if his breeches were going to follow. Not when she knew all too clearly what lay under them.

Had she truly just given up the opportunity to undo those buttons herself? To have his naked body pressed against hers? His

fevered skin under her tongue?

I won’t listen for the rustle of fabric. I will not.

Bunches of slender branches were tied together and piled in the corner. Were they used for cleaning somehow? But then she

remembered the welts on the back of the previous occupant. Apparently, they had other uses.

Perhaps a solid flogging would distract her from thoughts of Clayton naked only a few feet behind her. But she wasn’t quite mad

enough to try it. Olivia turned to another form of self-punishment. The code. She laid out the pages next to each other on the bench.

“So how do I do this?” she asked as she compared the two pages.

“Determine the numerical equivalent of the first letter in the pamphlet and subtract it from the numerical equivalent of the first letter on

the coded page. You need to reverse how they coded it.”

But it wasn’t as simple as he made it sound. The Russian alphabet had thirty-three letters. And she had to stop and think out each

one. She went through the process on a dozen letters, but Clayton still didn’t join her.

Against her better judgment she turned to check on him. He sat across from her, struggling to remove a boot, face contorted with

pain.

The blow to his ribs.

She hurried to him and grabbed the heel of his boot. “You could have asked for help.”

“I can manage.”

Obviously, he couldn’t. But he was too stubborn to admit that.

“I think I saw a bit more than your bare feet earlier.”

She expected Clayton to laugh, but while his lips tilted slightly, his eyes grew hooded. “If you’re willing to let go of the mill, you can

see it again.”

The oxygen ceased to exist. There was only heat. In the room. And in his gaze.

A bead of sweat slipped down her neck, then between her breasts.