Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Clayton followed it with his gaze.

She exhaled. “If you’re willing to abandon your plan.”

Clayton’s lips resumed their familiar stern line. “Your father needs to be brought to justice.”

She hadn’t expected his desire for her to be greater than his desire for revenge. So it shouldn’t sting so much that it wasn’t. “My

father’s sick—”

“There is no other option.”

“Then you know why we cannot act on this.” She peeled down the top half of his boot, but it still refused to budge. “What in the blazes

is wrong with your boot?”

That did return a slight smile to his face. “I feel better. I was quite appalled at my lack of progress.”

Glaring at his boot, she grabbed the heel by both hands and yanked hard. The boot popped free. The other, luckily, required only a

small amount of coaxing.

“I think I can manage my stockings.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and his voice softened slightly. “Thank you for your help.”

It should be criminal the way he could make his voice low and rumbling like that. She wanted him to whisper like that all over her

naked flesh.

Olivia retreated to the safety of the papers.

“Any progress?” Clayton asked from behind her.

Was he taking off his pants yet? Why was that the question of most importance to her brain tonight? She removed the cloth from the

bowl of water and wiped the sweat from her face and arms, claiming any distraction she could. “Not yet.”

A few seconds later when Clayton stood beside her—still wearing his shirt and breeches—she’d finished the first line.

But it was gibberish. None of the letters combined into words that she recognized. In fact, they weren’t even words at all. No vowels.

Clayton brushed at the corner of her scowl with his thumb. “Then we try the next page and the next until we find the right one. If that

doesn’t work then we go line by line. Then backwards.”

“But I was hoping for something. At least a sign we had the right pamphlet. This is nothing.”

Clayton frowned, then reached out and lifted her translation. “Too much of nothing.”

His brow furrowed as he rechecked her work, not needing to write things down as she had. After a moment, he rocked on his heels.

“Out of all these letters, statistically, there should have been at least one vowel. There are none. You did break the code.” He picked

up the quill. “We just were almost fooled by a second one.” With a few slashes of ink, he divided her line into grouped consonants.

He read the line phonetically.

Vasin had taken out the vowels before he encoded it.

Olivia jumped to her feet and kissed Clayton on the cheek. “We’ve done it!” Or perhaps even better—they could do it. They might

actually be able to stop the revolutionaries. She scooted aside as Clayton went through the rest of the paper with much greater

efficiency.

She loved the way his quill scratched across the paper. The occasional grin he lifted in her direction that she couldn’t help returning.

The flush to his cheeks, half heat, half excitement.

She leaned closer to his shoulder. She didn’t speak Russian well enough to divide the rows of letters into words on her own.

But Clayton seemed confident. Finally, he set down the quill.

“What does it say?”

He held out the paper and translated the words into English. “To my fellow lover of freedom: Three flags will free Russia from its

shackles of corruption: A flag in the window of the Nevsky Monastery will bring the unrighteous to his knees. A flag by the

westernmost cannon at St. Peter and Paul’s fortress will fell the mighty. A flag on the cupola at St. Igor’s will vanquish a crown. Then

you will know the time is ready to light the fire of freedom.” He reread the page. “It’s a little more poetic in Russian.”

“I was rather hoping for a name.” She wiped at the sweat itching on her cheeks.

Clayton lifted the cloth from the bowl and scrubbed it over his face, then rinsed it before offering it to her. “This is a list of signs to be

given to Vasin’s agents.”

“Agents?”

“Four of them, I suspect. One to coincide with each signal. And one to do the final act. This paper must have belonged to the man

who is supposed to kill the czar.”

Olivia sat down with a thump on the bench. He didn’t seem surprised, but it had never occurred to her. She’d thought they would

need to locate a single gunman and stop him. But four? “So what now?”

“We prevent the revolutionaries from giving the signals.”

“Will that prevent them from acting?”

“It’s our best option.”

Then that’s what they would do. “How far away is the monastery?”

“Not far. Perhaps twenty minutes.”

Her soaked dress hadn’t dried at all in the steamy room. It still dangled limp and heavy over the bench across from her. How long

would it take it to refreeze once they returned outside? Longer than twenty minutes?

Clayton must have followed her gaze. “We’ll wait until Ian returns with supplies and a vehicle.”

“And what do we do until then?” she asked.

“We rest.” He sat on the bench next to her and pulled her against him.

“Clayton—”

“There is no mill here now, is there? Rest.”

Slowly, she allowed her head to press against his shoulder. His linen shirt was soft and smelled of him. She inhaled deeply, the

warmth melting her bones and her resolve.

For a moment, Clayton’s head rested on hers.

“Can we just stay here?” she whispered.

“I am fairly certain you would die from the heat before too long.”

She turned her head and bit him lightly.

His exhale was half laugh.

“I need you to be clever for me,” she whispered. “I need you to find a way for us to both be satisfied with what happens to the mill.”

His lips brushed her hair. “You always were demanding.”

“I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“Why are you so certain you will? I’m not precisely fragile.” His muscles tightened under her cheek.

“Did you just tense to show off your muscles?”

His shoulder tensed again, even tighter this time.

A knock sounded on the door. Clayton was on his feet before it could open.

“I’ve returned victorious.” Ian sounded quite pleased with himself.

“That was fast even for you,” Clayton said.

“Did I interrupt?”

Clayton must have scowled because Ian laughed.

“I did interrupt. Madeline owes me a quid when I return. But now for the news—I know where to find Arshun.”

The sledge jostled over the uneven snow. They’d emerged into one of the older parts of St. Petersburg. Most of the buildings were

wood and only a single story. Not a neighborhood Clayton associated with Arshun.

Ian pointed to a squat house a short distance down. Its windows had been papered to keep out the cold. And also, no doubt, so the

police couldn’t see what was going on inside it.