Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

She’d done the right thing. She’d just have to find a way to convince him she’d done it for the right reason, too.

The streetlamps had been poor to begin with, but now the light could do little but knock against the ice coating the glass. Luckily, Ian

had brought his own. It was a strange lantern that allowed light to escape only from a single slit on the side.

“Ah, there.” The window swung open. Ian lifted her through, then followed her inside.

Ian lifted a flap on the side of the lantern, allowing the room to come into focus. They were in some sort of workroom. Weights

dangled from thin golden chains from a shelf. Ledgers sat in a straight line, pinned in by a clock weight on each side of the shelf.

Along one wall, there were rows of drawers, each marked with a number. She pulled one open and found it filled with tiny brass

gears. The one next to it held gears of a slightly larger size.

“What precisely are we looking for?”

“Any proof that he’s been building bombs. Black powder. Fuses. Or any information on him personally. Tidbits. Knickknacks.

Crumbs.”

“This is how you’re omniscient?”

“Bloody difficult.”

Olivia continued her examination of the drawers. Screws. Springs of various sizes. All sorted into exact rows.

“Anything?”

Olivia spun around at Clayton’s voice, in time to see him slip noiselessly through the window.

Ian lifted up a scrolled clock hand, then replaced it on the shelf. “Forty-two minutes to pull your head out of your arse. I thought you’d

be quicker.”

“Go search the front of the shop.”

Ian snorted and disappeared through the door that led into the shop.

Clayton inhaled. “I—”

“Ian was searching those clocks over there.” She wasn’t ready for him to speak. Not until she could school her hope that he’d come

to do more than collect her and berate her for going with Ian.

But he chose not to take her hint. He moved next to her, his hand closing over hers when she would have opened the next drawer. “I’

m sorry for the way I reacted.”

“I’m giving up the mill because it is the right thing. I— Wait. What?”

“I’m sorry.” He grimaced. “I feared if I forgave you, it would mean I was weak. That I would be letting you take advantage of me. You

trusted me with the truth, and I failed that trust.” His eyes were bleak in the near darkness.

But he’d hurt her. She wanted him back more than anything, but not if their future only lasted until she made another mistake. That

would break her. “How do I know you won’t cast me aside the next time I do something wrong? I swear I’d never knowingly hurt you.

But I will make mistakes. Frequently, most likely.”

“As will I. Tonight being an example of that. Learning how to not be a coldhearted bastard will likely take time. I’ll understand if you

don’t want to deal with that. But you’ve reminded me what I lack in my life.” He closed his eyes for a moment, pain etched on his

face. “I can’t go back to that emptiness. And I can give you my word I will never again hesitate to beg your forgiveness whenever you

demand it.”

Her heart skipped in her chest.

“Please, don’t let me drive you away.”

Never. If he could forgive her, she could do the same. “I wasn’t going to let you.” She lifted her hand to his cheek, and then her lips. “I

don’t chase away easily.”

“I would have made him grovel longer,” Ian called from the shop.

She couldn’t help a choked breath of laughter. “I don’t want him to grovel.” She lowered her voice. “I want him to kiss me.”

Clayton’s lips obliged instantly. A dozen pulls from a dozen drawers dug into her back but she didn’t care. He tasted of snow and

exhaustion. Of blackberry jam and forgiveness. Wondrous, heady freedom. Happiness.

For the first time in ten years, she could kiss him with no regrets, no hidden secrets. She twined her fingers around his neck and

pulled him closer. Wanting him to deepen the kiss, but also to just savor the feel of him. Pleasure sang through her body, tightening

her muscles. Tingling over her skin.

She lowered her hands to his shoulders, exploring the ridges of muscles, the broad strength.

“You’ve been silent for two minutes. Stop whatever lovey mush you’re up to and finish the job.”

Clayton lifted his head but continued to trace her lips with his thumb. “You said Ian was looking at the clocks?”

“Yes, the ones on the workbench. He’s currently—”

That was odd.

“What is it?” Clayton asked.

“At the mill, I always make sure my workers are close to their tools and supplies.”

“Efficiency.”

“Exactly. So why is his worktable over there when all his tools and pieces are on this side of the room?”

Ian scrambled through the door. “You are marrying a bloody genius, Clayton.” He shook his head on the shock that must be on her

face. “You haven’t asked her yet? When were you bloody planning to? In another forty-two minutes?”

“Perhaps when we aren’t standing in a bomb shop.”

Her heart did a little leap in her chest. “You were going to ask?”

His voice was gruff. “Yes. But you deserve better than to be asked here. In front of that idiot.”

“Too late. I accept.”

Clayton pulled her into his arms, grinning. “Not until I ask you properly.”

“The woman was foolish enough to say yes once,” Ian said. “I wouldn’t risk it again.”

Clayton released her with a quick kiss on her lips. “Shut up, Ian, and help me move the table.”

After both men lifted the enormous oak table, Ian bent over and examined the floorboards. “A trapdoor.” Part of the floor dropped

away, revealing a ladder.

Ian lowered his lantern into the hole. Olivia crowded next to them. The light glinted off a spool of thick twine. A bowl of black powder

had been placed next to it. Another bowl held small, round metal balls.

Ian turned the lantern.

Two legs sprawled on the floor. A torso covered in blood.

A dead man.

She gasped and jerked back from the trapdoor. Clayton’s arms wrapped around her, but she didn’t let him pull her away.

The man had been shot. There was no mistaking the gaping hole.

“Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t waste all that time waiting around for him to show up in the morning.”

“How long has he been dead?” Clayton asked, his voice rumbling under her ear.

Ian leaped down into the hidden room. “A day. Two at most.” She could hear his footsteps. “One day. There’s still a touch of warmth

to the stove. What are the odds that our final agent picked up his explosive, then killed the witness?”

“Pretty good, considering our luck these past few days,” Clayton said.

“The clockmaker’s been a busy boy. There are several partially constructed bombs down here.”

Olivia pushed away so she could see more clearly.

Ian shone his lantern on a row of boxes. “It appears our friend had a specialty. These all contain about seven pounds of powder.