Sins of a Ruthless Rogue Page 18

  Clayton glanced back to Olivia, only to catch Kate’s angry glare. “You” was all she said.

  And she was right. Everything Olivia had suffered had been his fault. She’d been kidnapped because of him. Bound. Cut. Bruised.

  The room. He needed to focus on the blast. He bent and picked up a small metal gear from the floor near his boot. From a clock, perhaps? Then why was it in this part of the room?

  “He protected me,” Olivia said. “I was in his room.”

  Kate sighed. “At least you’re alive. Who could have—”

  “—designed such a poor stove?” Clayton said. The person responsible needed to think them none the wiser. It would make him easier to spot. He pocketed a small brass screw.

  “Perhaps the mouse tampered with it,” Kate muttered. She let go of Olivia, allowing Olivia’s maid to reach her. The young woman brushed dust from Olivia’s gown, exclaiming about overheated stoves and how her aunt had been killed by one last winter and how the stoves killed hundreds every winter.

  Clayton ran a hand down the door frame. He worked loose a flattened chunk of metal that had lodged deep within. A flattened lead disk. A rifle ball. The bomb had been made to mutilate. If Olivia had been in the room, she’d have been torn to shreds.

  Clayton leaned his back against the door frame to remain upright. The buzz of the servants’ voices echoed in his ears. The dust was dry and chalky in his mouth.

  If he’d lost her—

  He rubbed his fingers back and forth over the metal fragment, faster and faster. Until a hand clasped over his.

  Olivia.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  The rest of the servants were hovering around her, wanting to see to her every wish. And she’d come up with the daft notion to worry about him. She wiped the dust from his gloves with the tips of her fingers.

  Hell, but he’d missed her all these years. Why not be honest with himself now? He didn’t want to lose her again.

  So where did that leave him? He didn’t do second chances.

  Did he?

  “You don’t love me. You don’t want me here. I can tell.” His mother sobbed, her dark hair clinging to her cheeks.

  “She is your mother, boy,” his father said.

  Clayton felt the mulish line of his lips weakening. His own eyes burned. He didn’t want to see her cry.

  Clayton placed his other hand over the top of Olivia’s, needing the heat of her fingers to free him of the memories. The memories of how his mother had left two weeks after that episode. “I’m well. Just surveying the damage.”

  “The room actually looks better than I expected.” But she edged away from it. With the dust still on her face, she looked rather like a frightened marble angel.

  But she was right. The room remained more or less intact. Why not use a bigger bomb?

  Clayton straightened from the door frame, focusing on the voices behind him until he could hear each one distinctly. “Someone didn’t want to bring the house down around their own ears.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “My maid,” Olivia whispered. Her maid had brought in a dress box and set it next to the stove after the mouse scare. Now that Olivia’s blind panic had ebbed, she could remember it clearly. She’d paid no attention at the time, thinking it was more borrowed clothing to add to her ill-fitting wardrobe.

  Clayton’s posture didn’t change. “What?”

  “My maid planted the bomb.”

  Iryna was standing at the edge of the crowd. She’d dusted off Olivia’s skirts and now she continued to linger.

  “We need to separate her from the others. I don’t know who in this household answers to Prazhdinyeh. We can’t risk someone coming to her aid.”

  Aid? “What precisely are you planning?”

  “To question her.”

  That didn’t sound too horrible, and yet the grimness deepened in his eyes. “Lean against me.”

  “Why—”

  Clayton wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, and for a moment, everything faded but the hard-muscled chest pressed against her cheek.

  “You there!” Clayton called to Iryna. “Your mistress is overset. She needs to be put to bed. Preferably in the other wing of the house.”

  After conferring with the butler, Olivia’s maid came forward. “I can show you to your new rooms.”

  Rather than letting her walk, Clayton swung Olivia up into his arms and followed the maid.

  For a moment, she worried her weight would be too much, but Clayton held her so effortlessly, her fear ebbed. She rested her cheek against him, enjoying the smoothness of his gait. The strength in the arms cradling her as if she was precious.

  Until she remembered he was carrying her so they could interrogate the woman who’d tried to kill them.

  She suddenly felt as ill as Clayton claimed her to be.

  The maid led them into a small, graceful room decorated in pale yellow and cream. The stoves hadn’t been lit so the room remained icy cold. “I’ll see to the stove.”

  Clayton set Olivia on her feet and shut the door. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  Iryna hesitated. “Just seeing to my mistress.”

  He locked the door with a sharp click. “As you already saw to her?”

  She swallowed twice and inched closer to the door. “I didn’t know what was in the box, I swear. He just told me to put it in her room. It was just a box.”

  “It would have taken at least five pounds of gunpowder for a blast that size. What did you think it was? A bonnet? Who gave it to you?”

  Iryna crumpled to the floor with a keening sob. “I don’t know. A man gave me a few rubles to deliver it.”

  “Who gave it to you?” he repeated.

  Iryna curled up even tighter, rubbing her arms like she was cold. “I swear I do not know.”

  Clayton’s lips thinned, his face colder than the air in the room. Olivia fought the urge to step back. She’d thought he’d been cruel when he’d come to the mill. She’d been wrong. This was pure ruthlessness. This was who he’d been in his years as a spy.

  For the first time, she could see the man Golov said had slain a man in his own bed.

  Yet she didn’t fear him. What she feared was losing him again to this darkness. Losing the teasing and banter she’d just found in him again.

  Olivia tried to soften his interrogation. “If you know anything—” She took a step toward Iryna, but Clayton drew her back to his side.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I swear.” Iryna scooted on her backside toward the door.

  Clayton blocked her escape.

  “The truth, Iryna. I need a name.”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “You will tell me.” Clayton pulled a knife from his boot. “Or I will have to carve it out of you.”

  Iryna squealed. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  The darkness was there again, beckoning to Clayton. The emptiness he chose so he could do tasks like this. It would be an easy transition. He knew how to turn off the extraneous noise of his emotions and his thoughts. To slip behind his shields and let duty guide him.

  Yet as they closed around him, he found himself struggling against them. The darkness was suffocating. He didn’t want to lose himself to it.

  Olivia was watching him. Her eyes were wide, worried. He didn’t know why that bothered him. He’d intended to be frightening. And somehow, he knew he couldn’t allow her to witness Cipher as the scum of Europe knew him. Brutal. Vicious. That gave him the strength to keep his shields at bay.

  “Clayton—”

  Olivia’s distress worked in his favor. The maid sobbed louder. “He was dressed as a peasant. Gray hair. Full beard.”

  But without the darkness, he had to bear the brunt of the distastefulness of this situation. Deal with the maid’s cries. Hear his father’s voice reminding him to be a gentleman no matter the woman. Remain unflinching under Olivia’s concern.

  “What was he wearin
g?” Clayton asked. He’d find his answers even with his blasted emotions interfering.

  “A heavy coat. Fur cap. Felt boots. But I don’t know his name.” She lifted her head before ducking it.

  Her face was red and splotchy, but no tears. None at all.

  His guilt dissolved. And he knew how to get his results. “You can continue to sob fake tears or you can tell me the truth and perhaps survive this.”

  Iryna looked up, suddenly silent. Clayton hauled her to her feet, pushed her against the wall, and put the knife to her throat.

  Olivia inhaled sharply.

  “Tell me the truth, and I’ll give you a head start before I tell Golov.”

  Iryna paled, her nostrils flaring as she breathed. But her face twisted. “You won’t live long enough to tell him anything. Everyone in Prazhdinyeh has orders to kill you. From the leaders to the lowliest recruits. And the reward is big. Do you know how many people in this household alone sympathize with the revolutionaries?”

  Considering the prince had been one of the key generals in Prazhdinyeh before he’d been persuaded to change sides, probably far too many.

  He pressed the knife to Iryna’s throat. “How much did they tell you about me?”

  “That you’re an English spy who works for the emperor.” The word was filled with loathing.

  He kept his tone conversational. Calm terrified people far more than all the anger and bluster he could try. “Did they tell you how many men and women I have killed? How I’m quite well-known for being able to slit a throat so cleanly that the person is drenched in their own blood before they feel the bite of my knife?”

  She’d break soon. He saw it in the wildness of her eyes and the sway of her body. “How do they give orders?”

  Iryna’s throat worked nervously against the knife. “Everyone has two people they pass along news to.”

  If the orders were passed by word of mouth, there’d be no help for the code there. “Who are your contacts?”

  Iryna reluctantly gave the names.

  “And which one gave you the bomb?”

  “Barndyk.”

  He stepped away from her. “You have five minutes before I inform the police.”

  She started for the door, but he spoke before she could flee. “Before you think of joining your revolutionaries, know that I’ll be quite truthful with your friends about who betrayed them.”

  She gripped the door frame to keep upright. “You’ve killed me.”

  “Perhaps. But I’ve given you a chance, which is far more than you intended for Miss Swift.”

  Iryna fled.

  He locked the door again, keeping his gaze on the small brass key in the lock rather than looking at Olivia. “I do what I must to get answers.”

  “I know,” she answered quietly.

  “It got us results.”

  “Are you going to vomit?” she asked.

  “No.” She shouldn’t be able to read him that well. He focused on calming the nausea churning in his gut. He’d thought such reactions banished long ago. He could hardly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies if they knew he’d cast up his accounts for two days after his first kill.

  This was what came of allowing Olivia to weaken him.

  Yet when she cupped his cheek, he leaned into her touch. The shared moment didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like . . . completion.

  He wanted more than a simple touch. He wanted to lose himself in her lips again. He wanted to explore the delicate texture of her skin. Savor it.

  But he couldn’t be the kind of man to savor things. He needed to be the kind of man to keep her alive. “We’ll finish cataloguing the books and papers. Then we’ll find a new place to stay.” There were too many dangers surrounding them here. Without knowing who else answered to Prazhdinyeh, they wouldn’t be safe. There’d be far too many opportunities to be poisoned, stabbed, shot, tossed down the stairs. The list was nearly endless.

  He wouldn’t allow Olivia to remain here.

  “What we need now is speed,” he said.

  Olivia straightened. “Then let’s gather the books and get to work.”

  Nearly finished. Her hand had long ago cramped as they sat side by side at a table in the icy room. A servant came to light the stove, but Clayton refused to let him enter.

  Instead, he’d wrapped a blanket from the bed around them both, which meant since Clayton was writing with his left hand, their elbows constantly collided. Olivia supposed she should offer to switch sides, but every now and again his arm would brush against the side of her breast. The accidental caresses stole her breath.

  He didn’t notice. He was so focused on scribbling down the titles in front of him.

  With a sigh, she wrote the final title from Vasin’s writings.

  She rolled her wrist to regain blood flow and tilted her head slightly, unable to resist watching Clayton as he wrote.

  She’d never studied his chin from this angle. A tiny white scar highlighted one edge of his jaw, so small it might have resulted from shaving. She smiled at the idea of Clayton being human enough to nick himself.

  The scar was in the exact place he’d held the knife on Iryna.

  Olivia raised a finger to his chin, brushing the line there. “Who held a knife to your throat?”

  “How did—”

  She tapped the same spot. “You have a scar.”

  “I was cornered by a Spanish guerrilla who wanted information.” He could have been discussing the weather.

  “What happened?”

  “I killed him with his own knife.”

  So blunt.

  “Horrified?” he asked.

  She should be, but she wasn’t. “No. I’m glad you survived.”

  Although his expression didn’t change, his exhale was long, as if he’d been holding his breath.

  Knowing she was being far too bold, Olivia drew her finger farther up his jaw until she reached the hollow under his ear. She kept waiting for him to bat her hand away, but when he remained motionless, she ran her finger along his throat, relishing the small vibration as he swallowed. She then trailed down his shoulder until she reached his right hand that awkwardly held the blanket. “What happened to your hand?”

  “The French. I waited at a meeting point to warn Madeline we’d been betrayed.”

  “But if you’d been betrayed—”

  “I knew I’d be captured, but she was spared.”

  The more time she spent in his company the more flawed and selfish she felt by comparison. She was holding so many lies, concealing so many truths.

  And she didn’t want to any longer. She wanted to be able to lay her mistakes at Clayton’s feet. To have nothing keeping her from speaking of her feelings.

  “They broke my fingers one at a time to force me to tell them what they wanted. When I wouldn’t, they cut my hand open to examine the mess they’d made. I didn’t talk, but I did scream. I screamed until my voice was so hoarse no sound would come out.”

  The whole time he spoke, his quill never once stilled, as if the conversation meant little. But he was daring her to judge him. It was there in the set of his jaw and the taunt in his voice.

  “By the time Ian and Madeline got me out, it was too late to reset some of the bones. They never healed correctly.” He released the blanket long enough to clench his hand. It couldn’t curl tighter than a loose fist. “Still not horrified?”

  At her own bloodthirstiness, perhaps. Olivia longed to make each of his tormentors suffer for what they’d done.

  But to be horrified at marks that proved his loyalty and bravery? Never.

  She caught his gloved hand and lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss on the back of each knuckle.

  His quill froze.

  Slowly, she peeled off his glove. White lines bisected his palm. Uneven, dark scars covered his fingertips. His index finger curved slightly inward.

  It was shocking. But only because of the brutality that caused it. Not because the damaged skin itself was dist
ressing.

  She drew his hand to her lips again, pressing her mouth to the tip of one finger before laving the rough skin with her tongue. When his breath hissed through his teeth, she knew she had to give him more. She drew the end of his finger gently into her mouth.

  With a curse, he tucked his damaged hand behind her head and kissed her.

  His lips were smooth. Hot against her cool flesh. His left hand trailed up her spine, coaxing her closer. When his tongue brushed the seam of her lips, she opened for him, gasping as he pleasured her mouth.

  The blanket slid to the floor, but neither of them bothered to collect it. He skimmed his hand up her arm, across her collarbone, and then down to the swell of her breasts.

  She arched her back, pressing against him. Yes. She was still throbbing from his accidental caresses. She wanted this. Needed to have his fingers firm and purposeful on her. It was the only thing that would soothe the ache.

  “Please . . .”

  Clayton’s lips lifted from hers and curled into a lazy smile. “You always did have such fancy manners. What do you need?”

  Heat rushed up the back of her neck, but she knew she’d answer. Something had changed in her since that kiss at the ball. She was more daring, more wild.

  More in love.

  “Please, touch my breasts.”

  After a slight pause, he lifted his good hand to her breast in reward, lightly cupping and kneading through the wool of her dress.

  She moaned. The bliss was overwhelming but not enough. “More.”

  Clayton lifted his scarred hand slowly as though waiting for her to flinch away.

  “Yes.” The idea of both of his hands on her made her heart nearly explode.

  Yet Clayton still hesitated a moment before giving it to her.

  She leaned forward to complete the caress. She didn’t care a jot what his hand looked like as long as it was on her.

  He skimmed down her throat to the valley between her breasts before dipping into her bodice and cupping her, his bare flesh finally on her breast.