Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Clayton’s hand tightened on the man’s throat. “Come now, Archie. You know every ship that enters and leaves this port. Even the

ones the harbormaster knows nothing of. I will ask again. Where was the ship headed?” Witnesses had seen two men matching the

description of the Russians carry a sleeping woman aboard a ship minutes before it sailed. They must have planned the kidnapping

to coincide perfectly with the tides.

“We were even.” Archie coughed. “I don’t owe you anything. Not anymore.”

Clayton pressed his thumb harder into the thief’s leathery windpipe. “Then I’ll owe you one.”

Even though he was on the edge of oblivion, interest entered Archie’s eyes. “You . . . make . . . a deal? You never . . . make deals.”

“And I won’t again. Three. Two—”

“St. Petersburg. The ship was Russian. Worthless cargo. It was set to sail to St. Petersburg.”

Clayton dropped the man, who slumped to the ground next to the boarded-up warehouse, gasping and rubbing his neck. “Don’t

forget that you owe me—”

“I don’t forget.” Not a single bloody thing. Ever. In his whole life. Not the way Archie’s throat had spasmed under his hand. Not the

haunted agony in Olivia’s eyes when he’d announced his plans for the mill. “Where can I get a ship? Tonight?”





chapter Four

For a moment, Olivia was certain she was blind. She knew her eyes were open. Her lids scraped over her dry eyes with each rapid

blink. Yet the darkness remained black. Complete. Not only were her eyes dry, but so was her throat. She tried to reach for the cup

of water she kept on her end table, but pain burned in her wrists and shoulders.

She couldn’t move her arms. She tried to force them, but gasped as the movement seared like fire across her wrists. They were

bound behind her. Her ankles were tied as well.

This wasn’t her bedroom. She was on her side on some sort of lumpy mattress. How long had she been like this? Where was she?

The door slammed open. “She is awake?” a voice asked.

She flinched away from the intense light filling the doorway. After several seconds, her eyes adjusted, and she realized it was only a

lantern.

“She should drink something then?” another voice asked. It took her a few confused minutes to understand the words. Russian. The

voices were speaking in Russian. And to think she’d given her governess endless grief for forcing her to learn it to impress her

father’s investors.

Two men entered the room. A thin one with dark hair held the lantern. He might have been handsome if not for the cruel twist of his

lips. The other man was so massive he had to duck and hunch his shoulders to fit through the door.

The mention of water intensified the dry, swollen ache in her mouth. She wanted to beg for it, but she kept her cracked lips closed.

She didn’t know what these men wanted. She couldn’t afford to appear weak.

“She doesn’t get water until she gives me answers,” Lantern Man said. “Now tell us the key.”

She thought of a dozen keys in that instant. The keys to her home. To the mill. But they’d broken into her house, so those keys could

be of no interest to them. The new steam equipment at the mill was expensive, but it would be impossible to move. “What key?” At

least that’s what she tried to ask. The words were so raspy and choked, she didn’t know if the men understood. Her Russian accent

had always been horrible. It had infuriated her father to no end.

Lantern Man hung the light on a peg, reached over to a table behind him, and poured water into a clay cup. He must see that she’d

need water if she was going to talk.

She couldn’t stop her own lips from parting in anticipation of the cool liquid.

Lantern Man tipped the cup and poured it onto the floor.

The air whooshed out of her lungs.

“Don’t lie, Petit. I know what you took from Vasin.”

Why had he switched to French for the endearment?

Nothing made sense, and she had to struggle to hold on to each thought.

But she did know she hadn’t taken anything. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hoped her words were correct in Russian.

She’d never used it for anything more than chatting over tea. But surely, she could speak clearly enough to make them understand

they had the wrong person. “I do not know Vasin.”

Lantern Man lowered his face until it was inches from hers. With a start, she recognized him. The man who’d spoken to her at the

festival. This had something to do with Clayton. The man’s breath smelled of alcohol and pipe smoke. “Your associate led us

straight to you. His brief visit to your house. Your strange meetings with various government officials.”

Her work with the Society? But that had nothing to do with Clayton.

“Then we found these. In code, are they not?” He tossed a small stack of envelopes onto the bed next to her. They were tied with a

green ribbon.

Her love letters from Clayton. A bittersweet reminder she’d never been able to throw away.

These men had been in her room. They’d searched through her things. And she hadn’t even known. Her skin felt like it had been

smeared with mud.

Lantern Man continued, “You can say what you want. Your actions have already proven your identity.”

She closed her eyes. The drug they’d given her tempted her back into oblivion. This had to be a dream. None of it made any sense

otherwise.

A hand clenched in her hair and viciously shook her. “I know you are not asleep, Petit.”

“The count didn’t tell us to hurt her, just get her.” The other man spoke, his words hesitant.

“Shut up, Blin. You were not brought for your thoughts.”

“But she says she doesn’t know.” Blin’s words were emphatic.

She cried out as Lantern Man shook her again. She opened her eyes and tried to pull away, but that only made the pain worse.

“She’s lying.” His face was nothing but shadows and menace.

She had to try again. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“And you just happen to speak Russian? No. You English learn Italian and French. You don’t dirty yourselves with Russian. And why

did Campbell help you by buying up all your mill’s debts?”

Help her? “He wants to destroy me.”

But both men ignored her. Blin’s brows drew together under the heavy line of hair that hung across his forehead. “What if she’s not

the spy, Nicolai?”

A spy? That’s what those things somehow proved? But it still didn’t make sense.

Nicolai dropped her head back on the bed. “Then she’s of no use and we kill her. Eventually.” He ran a finger down her cheek.

Olivia would have spat at him if her mouth wasn’t so dry. She wanted to close her eyes again, but she refused to let Nicolai know

how thoroughly he’d cowed her. She might not be able to fight him, but neither would she just give in.

Blin stepped toward her, his beefy hands tugging on the ends of his beard. “The count will be angry if she’s hurt too much to talk.”