Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

by Anna Randol

  Even save the blasted czar.

  Clayton laid the line of gunpowder to the keg. At least the excursion wasn’t a total loss. Arshun had been frightened enough to leave the weapons behind.

  The few remaining servants scampered away to the village, not even bothering to try to stop Clayton. There were only about a hundred rifles stored in this outbuilding. But Clayton was more than happy to deprive the count of these ones while he had the chance.

  He lit the black power.

  There were a few benefits to the job, after all.

  Chapter Eight

  Olivia watched as Clayton approached the old, swaybacked mountain pony in front of the cart. The creature was an odd mixture of brown, gray, and white, the colors sprouting at uneven intervals on its shaggy coat.

  The creature snorted in aggravation, its breath emerging in small white clouds.

  Clayton slowly ran his gloved hand along the pony’s neck, all the time whispering in Russian. She thought she heard him explain about coming snow. The horse’s ears twitched twice.

  He soothed around the straps, then cleaned the bits of ice that had formed around the horse’s mouth. This was the boy she’d known. Patient. Kind. That part of him did still exist. He might have buried it deep, but it was still there.

  “Why did you change your mind about taking me to St. Petersburg?” she asked. She’d been delaying asking the question all morning, but she had to know.

  He tugged the crude sheepskin cap lower on his head. The peasant garb should have made him appear comical, like a poor serf, which was what she supposed they were supposed to be. Instead, it emphasized the hard line of his jaw and the sharp angles of his cheeks. “I need to know how Arshun tracked me down.”

  She exhaled, the band about her chest finally loosening. “Then it wasn’t because I asked?”

  “No.” He pulled a bit of carrot from his pocket.

  “Thank heavens.”

  That finally caught Clayton’s full attention. He paused with the carrot inches from the pony’s mouth. “I thought you preferred to be at the center of attention.”

  The pony snapped at the carrot and the cart inched forward.

  “Not any longer.” Now she did the things that needed to be done even if no one knew she was the one behind it.

  “I find that difficult to believe.” Clayton swung up into the cart next to her again. The old farm wagon had been designed for only a single driver, so his thigh pressed tightly against hers. The fact that there must be half a dozen layers of cloth separating them seemed to have no effect on the intimacy it created. At least on her side. He didn’t seem to notice at all.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to argue against that without proving your point. If I tell you the good things I’ve done that I haven’t taken credit for, I would be taking the credit for them.”

  Clayton tucked his right hand inside the folds of his coat. “Perhaps you can tell me the truth about why you want to go to St. Petersburg.”

  The truth? How could she when it would make him hate her all the more? She didn’t know if she could sink lower in his estimation, but if it was possible, this would guarantee it.

  The truth was that she’d begged to stay in Russia to keep him here. Far, far away from her mill. If she could stall him for just a little while longer, the mill would have earned enough money to pay back the debts he held. She had secured enough contracts before she’d been kidnapped—even excluding the ones that had been cancelled and the Bank of England—so things would continue to run in her absence. And unlike her father, she had known the value of excellent clerks. They would keep things functioning until she returned.

  But she couldn’t tell him her plan. Not when he might change his mind and rush back to England to stop it.

  It was mercenary. And calculated. But it was the only chance she’d seen to save the mill.

  Instead, she said, “I told you before, I want to stay to try to save the czar.”

  She did want to save the czar. That desire was unfeigned. She’d spent eight years doing everything she could to make restitution for her part in what had happened to Clayton. She didn’t want to add more to the tally. Clayton’s death had been a wound on her soul that never healed.

  Olivia waited by her bedroom door, her reticule in hand. She managed to throw open the door right as her father passed. “Papa?”

  He whirled toward her, cane lifted, his square face more startled than angry. Perhaps with a night’s sleep he’d be able to see he’d come to the wrong conclusion about Clayton. He’d see that someone else was responsible for the crimes at the mill.

  He patted her cheek. “Go back to bed, pet.”

  “I’m coming with you to the court. I have to see Clayton.”

  Her father’s face reddened. “You will not.”

  She’d never disobeyed her father. She knew better. Last summer, her father’s favorite horse had bitten him. He’d had the animal destroyed before nightfall.

  But this was for Clayton. She lifted her chin. “I will.”

  She’d landed on the floor before she’d even realized her father had struck her legs with his cane.

  She clutched the back of her calf, rubbing it frantically with her hands. He’d struck her. He hadn’t hit her since she’d been out of the schoolroom.

  She tried to stop her cries long enough to talk.

  “Papa, Clayton isn’t guilty. I know he’s not. I have to tell—”

  Fire exploded across her shoulders. She cried out, her heaving sobs mingling with whimpers.

  “The boy is a criminal. He used you and lied to you. He tried to use you against me to take the mill from me. You will stay here. I will not have you labeled loose for that son of a whore.”

  He lifted his cane and she tried to raise her arms to protect her face but they shook so badly she couldn’t get them up. She tried to speak, to stay brave, but the only thing that would come out of her mouth were pleas for him not to hit her again. Apologies for angering him.

  Her father’s voice was black with cold rage. “Go back to bed.”

  She’d get up. Follow after he left.

  “If I see you at the court, there will be consequences.”

  She curled tighter on the floor. Clayton wouldn’t be alone. The magistrates would be able to discover the truth. They’d see that her father was wrong about Clayton. That’s what they did. Discovered the truth.

  Clayton would be fine.

  Olivia had to warn the czar.

  “So you aren’t going to tell me the truth,” Clayton said.

  “That is the truth.”

  “But not all of it.”

  She hated that he could still read her so clearly. She’d never been able to hide anything from him for long. “You come and threaten my mill. Forgive me if that doesn’t inspire openness.”

  The cart hit another rut, and she caught herself by placing her hand on Clayton’s thigh. The muscles tensed under her fingers.

  Clayton shifted his leg away from her. “You’ve done nothing but give me lies and keep secrets, and then you expect me to believe the mill is worth saving?”

  Yes. That’s why she kept them. “Sam Gaines, a fourteen-year-old boy from the village, was hanged in London for stealing a loaf of bread. Did you know his family? His father, Douglas, worked at the mill at the same time you did.”

  Clayton shrugged.

  She had to make him see reason. “Then the vicar pointed out if the boys had jobs to keep them in town, we could keep them safe.”

  Clayton only turned up the collar of his jacket against the wind. “You realize this argument simply convinces me that your father failed even more people.”

  She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. “Twelve new families have moved to the town since the mill has been refurbished. The Diplows convinced their two sons to stay in town to work at the mill. The vicar was able to fix the hole in the roof of the church. I know you remember the vicar. He would lend you books.”

  “What I
remember is being taken from my bed in the middle of the night and being thrown into a cell that was covered in piss and mold. I remember the beating the guards gave me, breaking my rib. I remember the other prisoners trying to strip me of my coat while I was vomiting from the pain.” His voice remained perfectly calm, perfectly composed. But a single muscle ticked along his jaw.

  She didn’t want to know those details. But she needed them. She still had nightmares about what Clayton might have suffered, and now these new images would fill them. But at least she’d be able to tell what was real and what was imagined when she awoke. “I’m sorr—”

  “You know I don’t believe in apologies.”

  “Then what am I supposed to say?”

  “Nothing. It is a simple statement of fact.”

  No, it wasn’t. And she wouldn’t let him pretend that it was. He might hide his true emotions deep, but they did exist whether he wanted them to or not. “Then why did you tell me? To shock me into silence?”

  “That isn’t—”

  “Because that obviously won’t work with me. To make me feel guilty, then?”

  His jaw clenched and unclenched several times before he spoke. “No.”

  “But that’s the result. You may like to pretend that I’m some coldhearted traitor, but I’m not. When you tell me a story like that, it tears me apart. I would give up anything to have spared you that.”

  His left hand tightened on the reins. “I told you so you’d realize your sentimental arguments about the mill are useless.”

  They weren’t. Not if they’d provoked this reaction. But she knew pressing him about it would only ensure he steeled himself against it in the future. She switched topics. “Did you have any luck with the code last night?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you had?”

  “Doubtful. But in this case, it’s irrelevant.”

  “Can I see it?”

  He pulled the paper out of his jacket and handed it to her. She unfolded it, the thick gloves on her fingers making the movements awkward. The irregular dark scrawl she remembered from the night before covered the page.

  “Arshun said La Petit had broken this code.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Have you seen it before?” The letters were Cyrillic. That in itself was almost code enough for her. Her Russian reading skills were even more unpracticed than her verbal ones.

  He looked up from the road. After his careful disinterest, his sudden focus was almost invasive. Yet heady. She wouldn’t be the first to look away.

  “Yes, but we never had reason to try to decipher it.”

  She had to concentrate to keep her thoughts on the code rather than the fact that she couldn’t breathe. “Can you now?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps.”

  “Truly? I need something to tell my superiors soon.”

  His hand tightened on the reins. “You—”

  “I wasn’t serious.”

  Clayton returned his gaze to the road in front of them. “I no longer play games.”

  But that meant he did remember. He remembered everything. She hadn’t even intended to provoke him. It had just slipped out. An old habit she didn’t even remember she had. Clayton had been so smart when they were younger that she’d begun to slip outrageous comments into their conversations just to see if he’d catch them. Ninety percent of the time he had. But those other ten percent had been enough to puncture his serious mien and free them both to laugh.

  Bolstered by her small victory, she studied the paper.

  The corner of his mouth edged up the slightest fraction, but when he glanced over at her, his expression was empty again. “When we arrive at the city gates, remain silent. Can you manage that?”

  She wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or annoyed. “Are we close, then?”

  “More or less.”

  “Which is it?”

  “It depends on what you are comparing it to. It is much closer than England.”

  She glared at him. “How far away are we?”

  “About four miles.”

  “What’s our plan once we arrive?” She’d tried to ask him before they’d left the hut, but he’d ignored her.

  As he was doing again.

  Olivia settled more deeply into the sheepskin coat, trying to ignore the smell while claiming the small amount of heat.

  The cart lurched to the right, sending her tumbling again, but this time toward the edge. She tried to grab the bench, but her hands were holding the paper.

  Clayton’s arm snaked around her at the last minute, saving her from careening off the cart like the dozen cabbages that splatted into the muck. For a moment, her back was tucked against an impossibly hard and broad chest, his fingers splayed across her stomach. His breath warm on her ear.

  “Mud.” Clayton climbed from the cart. The rear right wheel had sunk to its axle in the mud. The formerly staid pony pranced in agitation, and Clayton stopped to soothe it before it hurt itself on the shafts.

  Olivia gathered up her skirts and followed him. Stuck wagons were something she’d learned far too much about once she’d taken over the control of the mill. So rather than sitting on the cart now, adding her weight, she began gathering sticks and branches to wedge under the wheels.

  She’d managed to place three of them before Clayton stopped her. His head tipped to the side. “What are you doing?”

  “The sticks will provide traction for the wheel—”

  “Why are you doing it?” He sounded suspicious.

  “I keep trying to tell you that I’m truly not as worthless as I was when I was fifteen.”

  “You weren’t—” He cut off. She wasn’t sure if it was because he realized what she said was true or because he’d been about to say something nice. “If you lead the horse, I’ll lift.”

  “It might be easier if we remove the cabbages first.”

  Clayton shook his head. “Prazhdinyeh will be searching for you. I’d rather not give them more time to find us.”

  That option didn’t appeal to her, either. “I’ll speak to the horse.”

  The pony turned a panicked eye on her as she approached. She tried to speak to it as Clayton had done, in soft, soothing tones, though she ended up speaking English. “We just need you to try to pull.” The horse nipped at her with yellow teeth and she skipped back, switching to Russian. “I suppose being female you probably prefer Clayton, but he has to lift the cart—” The mare snapped at her again. “What exactly do you say to this horse?”

  Clayton left his position by the back. She thought his cheeks reddened slightly but it might have been from the cold. “I tell her what a pretty girl she is.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “What a smart girl she is.” The horse’s ears stilled.

  “I’ll give it a try,” Olivia said, and Clayton returned to his position by the wheel. But rather than use his words, she tried some of her own. “I wouldn’t fall for his pretty flattery. I think he used the exact same words on me once.”

  Clayton coughed.

  It felt good to have it out in the open. Their past. That strange awkwardness that existed in the void between two people who had once shared everything, but now shared nothing.

  She continued speaking to the horse. “But I wouldn’t believe him. He might change his mind and decide that you’re involved with a group of murderous Russians. And don’t let him kiss you. That won’t end well . . .”

  Clayton coughed harder.

  “On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.” She tugged on the mare’s bridle. After a dreadful pause, the cart lurched forward and came free of the mud with a wet, sucking sound.

  Clayton climbed back into the cart, and after a pat on the pony’s nose, Olivia followed. They rode in silence again for another hour, but unlike before, the silence was no longer brittle.

  Eventually, they rounded a corner in the forest and she gasped. The city was just . . . there. Spread out below them. Gently divided by dark rivers and th
en more sharply sliced by straight roads and canals. The sun glinted off golden, onion-shaped spires, only to be absorbed by granite façades that spanned entire blocks. Red and green metal roofs topped walls of pale blues, yellows, and pinks.

  “Have you been to St. Petersburg before?” she asked.

  Clayton flexed his right hand several times as if it pained him, but when he saw her watching, he tucked it beside him. “Three times. The first time, I killed a man. The second time, I saved a friend. And the third time, the czar made me a baron.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The baron said I was to bring the cabbages ruined or not.” Clayton gestured with a wide, careless motion, the normal stiffness along his spine absent. He even managed to scrunch his face as he spoke, completely obliterating all traces of his keen intelligence.

  The policeman at the city gate nodded, the lower half of his face obscured behind a heavy knitted scarf and the collar of his gray felt coat. “Papers.”

  Clayton nudged Olivia. “You have the papers?”

  What? Did he expect her to—

  “Wait, my sweet. I have them.” Clayton pulled something out of his vest and handed it to the man.

  Olivia held her breath. Clayton couldn’t really have orders to sell cabbages. Any moment the policeman would find something wrong and expose them as frauds.

  The policeman brushed a few flakes of snow off the paper Clayton had supplied him, then handed it back. “Make sure you have the proper permits before you sell.”

  “Always. Always.” Clayton flicked the reins and moved into the city.

  He’d not only been a spy for the last ten years—he’d been a good one.

  Olivia waited until they were out of sight before letting her shoulders relax. Their cart rattled down a street of shops, all of which had written signs as well as pictures proclaiming what they sold. A loaf of bread. A woman’s shoe. “You are quite good at this, aren’t you?”

  “Not good enough. I should have grown the blasted, itchy beard.”

  “A beard?”

  “Look around at the peasants.”

  She glanced around the cart. All the poorer men had thick, heavy beards.