Sins of a Ruthless Rogue Page 17

  Olivia fled. She managed to make it to the stairs before collapsing in poorly muffled mirth. She wondered what Golov’s spies would report about that.

  After a few moments, she was able to calm to a less embarrassing chortle and resumed climbing the stairs. Clayton would deserve two points for that story if they were still playing their little game. She’d forgotten just how good he was at the absurd. For a man so smart, one would have thought he’d have a dry intellectual wit. And while Clayton had possessed that, he’d also found hilarity in the ridiculous. The street puppet shows she found inane had him laughing until his sides hurt. Until she couldn’t help laughing because he was laughing so hard he snorted.

  Olivia settled by the stack of books and papers in her room and wrote down the remaining titles. There really weren’t very many more.

  She should help Clayton with his portion. He might be rather exhausted after any more time in the general’s company. She picked up her list and opened the adjoining door.

  A rough hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her inside.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clayton took the stairs two at a time. He still wasn’t quite sure where that story had come from during the general’s visit. He hadn’t liked seeing Olivia embarrassed by Marya’s blatant overtures. But he could have stopped her with a cutting remark.

  Instead, he’d chosen the option that made Olivia’s eyes sparkle and her lips twitch.

  Marya apparently wanted to try for a repeat of their night together. But that wasn’t going to happen. There’d never been anything more than a single mediocre night at her instigation. And she’d spent half the time flinching away from his hand. The other half, after he put his glove back on, she’d just lain there limp. Apparently, gracing him with her beauty was enough. Not precisely what he was looking for in a bedmate.

  Unlike Olivia, who had met his kiss with—

  He wasn’t going to follow that line of thought.

  Like hell he wasn’t. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of the perfection of her kisses. He’d crafted and discarded a dozen compliments that couldn’t quite capture the bliss. He hadn’t told Olivia, but each barely repressed quiver, each swivel of her hips, each gasp of pleasure had severed some band deep within him. Liberating him. Freeing him of years of constant tension and suspicion. Reminding him what it felt like to be a man who cared for passion and pleasure and the feelings of the woman in his arms.

  He hadn’t thought he missed that. It had been a frivolous part of him that he hadn’t needed to survive. But he felt as if his soul had opened to the sunshine for the first time in years.

  He slowed as he neared their rooms. The prospect of working on the code the rest of the afternoon no longer loomed so—

  Voices.

  He stilled. Training clamped back down into place. He quieted his breathing so he could hear more clearly. It was possible that Olivia was speaking to her maid.

  No. It was clearly a man’s voice.

  Perhaps a maid and one of the footmen—but no, that was definitely Olivia. He couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her voice was too muffled.

  Frightened.

  He drew the knife he had hidden in his boot, trying to relax his hand around the hilt before he reached the door. He needed Olivia’s attacker alive for questioning.

  Olivia squeaked.

  No, he’d have Olivia’s attacker’s entrails dripping on his knife.

  Clayton slammed open the door.

  A man’s broad back was to Clayton. He held Olivia. Or was trying to. She struggled wildly. He muttered something to her. She screamed an outraged reply into the hand covering her mouth.

  Clayton threw the knife.

  Just before the knife struck, the attacker released Olivia and spun around, knocking the knife aside with his arm.

  Ian.

  Clayton had nearly killed his friend.

  But before that could fully register, Olivia was screaming loud and long, a scream determined to bring the entire house running.

  Ian swore. “Remember how I told you not to scream when I released you?”

  “I never agreed.” Olivia blinked slowly, taking note that Clayton hadn’t moved to attack again and Ian looked more annoyed than concerned.

  “I cannot believe you never mentioned me, Clayton. The Trio. That means three of us. Not just you and La Petit.” Ian rubbed at his palm, where Olivia must have bitten him. “And I admire your determination not to believe me.”

  “You actually do know each other?” Olivia asked, her face flushed red from where Ian’s hand had been clamped over her mouth.

  Clayton hoped she’d taken a good chunk out of his hand. “Quite well. As he mentioned, he’s the third member of the Trio.”

  “Wraith?” Ian supplied, hopefully. “Ring any bells?”

  But Olivia just shook her head.

  “Or Ian Maddox, if you prefer,” Clayton said.

  Ian raised a brow. “I didn’t realize we’d progressed to the revealing-our-true-identity part of our relationship.”

  Footsteps pounded in the hall.

  “Those would be the servants I was attempting to avoid rousing. Perhaps I’ll disappear and let you deal with them.” He bowed to Olivia. “I shall demonstrate why I was awarded such an intriguing title.”

  Clayton and Olivia turned to the door as Kate, two footmen, and a maid entered. “What’s wrong?” Kate asked.

  Olivia glanced back over her shoulder and froze. Clayton knew she’d noticed Ian’s favorite trick—vanishing mysteriously.

  Clayton had seen Ian’s act enough times to know it was less than fantastical. Despite being slightly shorter and broader than Clayton, Ian moved with the agility of a tumbler. He was most likely in the wardrobe.

  Olivia still wore a look of stunned admiration on her face. Clayton didn’t want to explain his sudden desire to demystify Ian’s trick.

  Olivia rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, obscuring the redness around her mouth. “I saw a mouse.”

  “It was truly repulsive,” Clayton added with satisfaction. “In fact, I think it ran under the wardrobe. The servants should check.”

  The footmen glanced at each other, then with a grunt shoved the heavy wooden bureau.

  Nothing was underneath, of course. But hopefully it had caused Ian heart palpitations.

  Kate’s gaze narrowed. “Would you like to move to a less distressing room, Baron?”

  Clayton shook his head. “No, I’ll make do with this one.”

  Kate circled Olivia. And Clayton suspected she didn’t miss the new wrinkles in the dress from Olivia’s struggle with Ian. “Why don’t we inspect your room as well?”

  Olivia ducked her head low. “I really don’t think—”

  But Kate linked her arm through hers. “No, I insist. I wouldn’t want there to be a problem with vermin.”

  Clayton would have followed but Kate held up her hand. “You should keep watch in your room in case your mouse returns. Or perhaps an angry pig?”

  Kate escorted Olivia and the herd of servants into the other room and shut the door after them, but Clayton could hear her speaking. He stepped closer and pressed his ear to the door.

  “Now are you going to tell me what really happened or—”

  “I wasn’t in the wardrobe, by the way.” Ian reappeared next to him, his comment making it impossible to hear Olivia’s response.

  “Pity,” Clayton said. “Under the bed?” Ian’s hair was slightly mussed on one side.

  “I’m sorry I almost stabbed you, dear friend.” Ian copied Clayton’s voice perfectly, then switched to his own. “I thought I’d save you from feeling guilty for not apologizing.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I know. That’s why I saved you the trouble.”

  “No, I don’t feel guilty.”

  “You wound me, old man.” Ian leaned forward and theatrically placed his ear on the door. “Why are we spying at her door?”

  Clayton stepped back. “I
wasn’t spying.”

  “Ah, the floor was slanted making you lean toward it. I understand.” Ian lifted an eyebrow. “I’m glad she had the sense to scream once I let go of her. She’s brave. In all your descriptions of her, you didn’t mention that.”

  For a man who prided himself on his memory, there were too many things Clayton was uncertain of now. The bravery, for instance. Had that always been there only to be forgotten in his hurt and anger? More and more, he was doubting his justifications for staying away from her. Now when he thought of her, it wasn’t about the betrayal, but the wonderful, nearly giddy times they’d shared.

  He didn’t want to remember. The memories were too tempting. Too sweet. Like eating a sugar cube after months of starvation. “There’s a lot I never mentioned.”

  Ian sighed. “Ah, yes, because you’re an uncaring villain. Full of secrets and driven by revenge.”

  “I never claimed to be uncaring.” Clayton picked up a paper from the floor and tucked it into his jacket. It was her copy of the list. She must have dropped it when Ian had mauled her.

  Ian flipped through the papers on the end table. “Hmm . . . I seem to recall this conversation you had with Madeline a few months ago— ‘You really don’t care if you destroy all those lives?’ To which you replied, and I think I can quote you with some confidence: ‘No.’ ”

  Clayton moved the stack of papers away from Ian before he confused their order. “She’s under my protection.”

  “The perfect time to ruin her—in a far different way than you plan to ruin her father. At least I hope.”

  “I don’t plan to ruin her.”

  “You’ve already done it then?”

  “No.”

  “Then why was she in your room?”

  “She must have finished the books in her room.”

  “You’re going to try to claim she came into your room looking for a book? You know, as she struggled against me, I couldn’t help noticing what a fine—”

  Clayton’s fist connected with his friend’s chin before he could finish.

  Ian shifted his jaw back and forth before grinning. “Spirit. I was going to say she had a fine spirit.”

  Clayton flexed his hand. The woman was driving him mad. It was as simple as that. “Thank you for coming, by the way.”

  “As if I could resist that cryptic message you sent me in the middle of the night. I never miss an opportunity to partake in violence and subterfuge. So what’s going on? No, wait.” Ian lowered himself into the delicately embroidered chair in the far corner of the room. “I know better than to stand through one of your explanations. You’ll probably feel the need to tell me the color of the villains’ shoes and what type of shaving powder they use.”

  But then Ian’s banter disappeared, replaced by an intense focus and keen intelligence Clayton often suspected was far greater than his own. “Now the details.”

  Clayton recounted everything that had happened so far.

  “They were going after Madeline?” Ian finally asked.

  The comment jarred Clayton. At some point over the past day, concern for Madeline had been overshadowed by fear for Olivia.

  Which only went to show he needed to realign his priorities. Madeline was the one who’d stitched him back together after the French were done with him. He owed her everything.

  Ian stood, his fluid grace absent. “This is the second time we’ve been compromised. First, Einhern was led to Madeline. Now someone has given you away to our enemies.”

  Clayton hadn’t thought of it in that light. The Trio was being betrayed one by one.

  Ian walked to the window and surveyed the ground below. “Have you broken the code?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then the odds are slim that Prazhdinyeh can?”

  He hoped his friend’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. “I don’t know. But if they can find one of Vasin’s exiled generals, they won’t have to. We can’t take that chance. And Vasin’s agent might decide to act even if he doesn’t receive a signal. He’s been awaiting this moment for a long time, after all.”

  Olivia’s door opened again. “I believe being manhandled entitles me to be part of this conversation.” Her back was straight, and her eyes dared Clayton to contradict her.

  Ian bowed. “I do apologize for my less than gentlemanly introduction.”

  “You could have tried introducing yourself,” Olivia said.

  “I did.”

  “Yes. Calling yourself the Wraith should have calmed me immediately.”

  Ian smiled that rugged, admiring grin that usually had women dropping at his feet. Then he turned to Clayton. “What are my orders, oh wise leader?”

  Clayton often thought Ian would make the better leader, but he’d always refused the role. “I need you to find Arshun.”

  Ian yawned. “What will I do with the other twenty-three hours of my day?”

  Clayton couldn’t help grinning. It was good to have Ian at his side again. “The plan was set into motion about three years ago. Perhaps see if you can find anyone who’s made a rapid rise in the ranks surrounding the czar. Someone who will be in the position to do what Vasin planned.” He explained about the weapons he’d destroyed.

  “That doesn’t sound much like Vasin’s type of plan.”

  Clayton nodded. “I think Arshun is feeling inventive. And I suspect I only blew up a portion of his weapons.”

  Ian slid open the window, dropping the room temperature by several more chilling degrees. “I’ll see what I can—”

  Boom!

  Walls and floors shuddered.

  A hot blast of air.

  Olivia hurtled forward, lifted by the explosion behind her. Clayton threw himself on top of her as bits of plaster showered his back.

  Breaking glass. Paintings crashing to the floor. Neck burning. Heat. Too much heat.

  Then silence but for the faint, high-pitched ringing in his ears.

  Olivia coughed in the murky air, wracking sounds that shook her body under him. How much of the blast had caught her? He’d seen men whose insides had been turned to liquid by blasts like this. Men who—

  Terror hollowed Clayton’s gut as he waited for her to pull her hand away from her mouth.

  She lifted her hand. No blood.

  The next choked exhale was his.

  He rolled off her and gently flipped her onto her back. He wiped a finger through the pale dust coating her face, leaving a pink stripe down her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  Ian leaped past them, running into the cloud of smoke and heat that was once Olivia’s rooms. Clayton gave thanks again that Ian had come. It meant he could see to Olivia and not worry about the house burning down around them. He ran his hands down her arms. Her torso. Searching for any injuries.

  Olivia coughed again and sucked in a wincing breath. “I’m uninjured. It simply knocked me to the floor and then an enormous man fell on top of me.” She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging dust and bits of plaster. “You.”

  He’d thought destroying the mill would bring him the satisfaction he’d been missing. But now he feared it wouldn’t compare to this. The awe on her face. The tenderness.

  Stomping came from the other room—Ian obliterating any smoldering wreckage. There was a sharp crack, and Ian swore. “The floor’s compromised in places. Nearly just plunged to my death, thanks for asking. But no fire,” he called out. “Black powder, most likely.”

  Ian reappeared. He bent over, rearranging the leg of his trousers. “Blast originated by the stove. It wasn’t the stove itself, although that’s undoubtedly what we’re supposed to think. Lucky for us, the mahogany wardrobe on her wall redirected most of the force away from us. Otherwise, your wall would have been blown out, too.”

  Clayton glanced through the door. Olivia’s far wall had been demolished.

  Servants shouted as they ran up the hall.

  “Miss Swift!” Blin’s shout was anguished; his boots echoed on the floor as he ran down the
corridor.

  “If that man’s as big as he sounds, he’ll go straight through the floor in that room.”

  “Blin,” Olivia yelled. “I’m all right.”

  But his pace didn’t change as he passed Clayton’s room.

  Olivia started to run to Clayton’s door. “Blin, don’t go into my room!” But she’d never make it before the other man had thrown himself into her room.

  The adjoining door.

  “Ian, can that floor hold me?”

  Ian paused halfway out the window. “Most likely—”

  Clayton darted through it.

  Window glass was gone. Chairs were splintered. The books and papers had been reduced to scraps and tiny flakes that dotted the floor. He kept his feet to one of the structural beams that had been revealed by the missing boards in the floor.

  The door crashed open.

  Clayton leaped, throwing his entire weight at the man coming inside.

  It was like hitting a wall, but Blin did stop. He grunted and stepped back and Clayton fell rather awkwardly onto one knee.

  The other man was shaking, his mouth opening and closing. “Miss Swift? Where is she?”

  Clayton rearranged his aching muscles until he was standing again.

  “Blin. Don’t go in there!” Olivia scrambled to their side. Her hair hung lopsided off her head. She jerked back, and her eyes widened when she saw Clayton.

  “You went through my room.” What little color she still had disappeared. “You could have . . .” She bit her lip and reached for him, and he knew that even if the floor had been nothing but a gaping hole, he still would have flung himself across it.

  “Miss Swift?” Blin patted her cheek, his fingers stiff and slow. “What—”

  The rest of the servants arrived. A dozen footmen and maids carried buckets of water. Others came simply to stare.

  “Olivia!” Kate cried as she pushed her way through the servants. She wrapped Olivia in a fierce embrace.

  Clayton turned back to the destroyed room. He gripped the doorway to keep his hands from trembling at the utter devastation.

  More servants crowded behind him, exclaiming as they glimpsed the damage.

  The ceramic stove was simply gone. None of the remaining shards were bigger than his finger. The rest of the debris was scattered in a circular pattern around where the stove had been. Ian was correct. The blast had originated by the stove.