Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

“The count doesn’t frighten me. I’ve known him since university.”


“Then you know he likes to be obeyed.”

Olivia didn’t recognize the word Nicolai used as he backed away, but she assumed it was vulgar.

“Then you take care of her. I’m not a nursemaid. But do not untie her. Remember what I told you.” Nicolai slammed out the door.

Blin stood silently by the bed for a minute, then trundled over and poured her a glass of water. He reached for her, and she flinched,

but then let him help sit her up enough to take a drink. His huge hand dwarfed the cup. “Nicolai says he thought you’d be prettier, but

I think you’re very pretty.” She thought it was an apology of sorts, or at least an attempt at kindness.

The water tasted like mold, but she drank every drop. Blin then pulled a crumbled piece of bread from his pocket and offered her a

small chunk. The bread was hard and tasted worse than the water, but she ate all of it, too, bite by humiliating bite, unsure if she

would get more. He then carried her to a foul-smelling chamber pot in the corner.

Afterward, Blin lowered her back onto the bed. She knew her face was in flames, but it didn’t seem to bother her captor at all.

Her heart rate finally began to slow, and for the first time, she noticed a certain motion in the room around her. She looked again at

the planks that made up the room. There was a lap of water somewhere on the other side of the walls.

Sweet heavens. Her moment of calm twisted into something sick and unrecognizable.

She was on a ship.

“How long was I . . . asleep?”

She’d had drugs forced down her throat while Nicolai had pinched her nose shut until she’d had no choice but to swallow. But Blin

seemed kind and she didn’t want to antagonize him. Also, she had no idea how to say unconscious in Russian.

“Almost a full day.”

Then there was little chance they were still in a harbor. “Where are we going?”

The half-rotted pine chair creaked as he sat. “To the count.”

There were far too many people in this conversation that she didn’t know. La Petit. Vasin. The count. “Which count?”

Blin folded his arms, revealing long scratches on the back of one of his hands. She’d given him those when he carried her away

from her house. Olivia wasn’t sure if she felt proud or guilty. If she’d wounded Nicolai, she’d have felt no remorse whatsoever.

“Nicolai said to tell you nothing. He said you were good at tricking things out of people.”

Olivia cursed whoever this mystery woman was. If only she had some of her skills. But as it was, all Olivia could do was flounder.

“But I’m going to meet the count anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you tell me.”

Blin rocked slightly in his chair. “The count is my master.”

“He hired you?”

Blin frowned slightly. “I work his estate.”

She’d forgotten that Russian landowners still owned their serfs. “Nicolai, too?”

“No, he is his associate.”

“Why are you taking me to him?”

Blin scowled. “You stole papers.”

“I didn’t steal anything!”

He stood. “Nicolai said you’d say that. He said you’d lie.”

“I’m not lying.” Blin was her best chance. She had to convince him. “I’m not a spy. You kidnapped the wrong woman.”

He didn’t seem to like the word kidnap, so she pressed harder. He might have been only following orders but he needed to

understand the full ramifications. Blin might not be the brightest of fellows, but he wasn’t a fool. She suspected he was more easily

persuaded than anything else. She would have to turn that to her advantage.

“You kidnapped me. You and Nicolai drugged me and threatened me. Those are crimes.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Perhaps not. But now you do. You could untie—”

The door opened and Nicolai stalked back in. “Enough, Blin. Come.”

“She said she isn’t a spy.”

“Think.” Nicolai cuffed the big man on the back of the head. “If she’s not a spy, then why did she have all those coded messages

from a spy?”

Blin nodded slowly.

“Come, Blin.”

He followed Nicolai from the room—or rather, cabin.

She had coded letters from a spy? She didn’t know—

Ah, that was what Clayton had been doing for the past ten years.

Clayton swore as he wove his way through the dark streets of St. Petersburg. The ship he’d commandeered should have been

faster than the kidnappers’ frigate, but the winds had been wrong through the Oresund Strait and he’d had to wait to be towed

through by the rowers. Then it had taken him time to track down the man in Cronstadt who could provide him with papers to get off

the island that served as the port and actually into St. Petersburg.

According to the harbormaster’s records, Olivia’s ship had arrived yesterday morning.

He was only a day and a half behind now. But he knew from experience what a hellish eternity a day could be.

After all, it had taken only minutes for the French to flay the skin from his back. An hour for them to break every—

Clayton tugged his greatcoat around him, banishing the memories. He had survived. The French had been defeated.

Olivia had been with her kidnappers for sixteen days.

The deadness in his chest only grew. If he needed proof that there was nothing resembling a soul left in him, this was it. No panic.

No desperation. Those had been lost to him long ago. Now there was only a void that deepened with each passing day.

He would find her. Then he would destroy her kidnappers. It was as simple as that.

The mud had begun to freeze with the evening air, leaving an icy crust that crunched under his boots with each step. The cold

increased the ache in the misshapen bones in his right hand until he had to tuck it into his coat for relief. Unfortunately, his coat and

gloves had been designed for an English autumn, not for the start of a Russian winter.

The door to the Hammer and Anvil stood wide open despite the temperature. Clayton strode in and took a seat. He didn’t attempt to

look for Daisy. She didn’t miss a thing that went on at the inn. She certainly wouldn’t miss him.

Like most of the inns and hotels in St. Petersburg, this one was run by a foreigner—in this case an Englishwoman.

But unlike most, the Hammer and Anvil had a rather different clientele. Sooner or later, every unsavory fellow in Russia made his

way through here. And she gleaned information from every single one.

As he’d expected, Daisy slid in across from him before the barmaid had fetched his food. While her dimpled cheeks and graying

curly hair might have given her the look of a hearty farmwife, she had the heart of a shark.

Perhaps that was why they got along so well.

“Cipher. I didn’t expect to see you here ever again.” Her accent bespoke her Welsh origins, but the slight gloss of Russian hinted at

just how long she’d lived in St. Petersburg.

She pushed a glass of vodka toward him, which he ignored.

“You’re working, then,” she concluded.