by Anna Randol
What did he have to lose by forgiving Olivia?
Anger. Bitterness. Both of which had always rattled foreign and jagged in his thoughts about her.
He’d only lose if he didn’t forgive her.
He’d lose her if he couldn’t forgive her.
The thought gutted him far more efficiently than a French bayonet.
But was it even possible for him to forgive? It wasn’t a skill he had much practice in.
He examined each shard of betrayal he’d kept so perfectly polished and was shocked to find them thin and brittle. Easily broken and tossed aside. Each betrayal, each action, he understood. She’d never meant to hurt him.
Olivia wasn’t perfect. But neither was he. Perfection was static and sterile, with no room for growth. Or learning. Or laughter. He didn’t want Olivia to be perfect. He loved her stubbornness. He loved her teasing. He loved that she refused to take him entirely seriously.
Now that he was over the shock, the spy part of him could even admire the work and skill that had gone into her deception. Not that lying had been the best option, but he was glad she was no longer the soft, naive creature she had been. Instead, she was brave. Clever.
Which was fortunate, otherwise, how could he ask her to accept a coldhearted bastard for a husband?
She was sobbing in her pillow. The woman who’d faced down killers to save him. Who’d dedicated her life to saving the people in her town. Who’d wanted him to know the truth before he confessed his feelings.
He forgave her.
A gasp befitting a drowning man expanded his lungs. But the world didn’t come to an end. In fact, he felt lighter. Stronger.
Why had he refused to do this for so long?
He loved Olivia. Forgiving her didn’t change that. It proved it.
As had her courage in confessing her deceptions to him.
Clayton stumbled over his own feet in his haste to get to his door. She would not shed a single tear more because of him.
He hoped to hell he’d be able to convince her to forgive him. His memory recalled every cruel word, every sneer. Every single bloody one.
He paused by her door, hesitating to enter. Surely, she’d forgive him. She forgave Blin. But then again, Blin hadn’t ripped out her heart. No sounds came from within. Had she fallen asleep?
Clayton cracked the door open and stared at an empty bed.
He’d kill Ian for this.
Assuming a bomb didn’t kill them first.
Chapter Thirty
Ian fiddled with the slim piece of metal in the window. “Many people think being omniscient is a gift. But it’s actually hard work.” Ian had the ability to speak in a soft voice that went no further than he wanted it to.
Despite the need for stealth, Ian had rambled on about this and that since he’d collected her. She recognized his words for the diversion they were, but they were still welcome. Especially after he’d taught her to curse Clayton in seventeen languages.
She’d lost him. She’d known it would happen. But she hadn’t known every single breath would hurt after that.
She’d played the situation dozens of times already in her mind. His reaction would have been the same no matter what words she’d chosen.
She’d done the right thing. She’d just have to find a way to convince him she’d done it for the right reason, too.
The streetlamps had been poor to begin with, but now the light could do little but knock against the ice coating the glass. Luckily, Ian had brought his own. It was a strange lantern that allowed light to escape only from a single slit on the side.
“Ah, there.” The window swung open. Ian lifted her through, then followed her inside.
Ian lifted a flap on the side of the lantern, allowing the room to come into focus. They were in some sort of workroom. Weights dangled from thin golden chains from a shelf. Ledgers sat in a straight line, pinned in by a clock weight on each side of the shelf. Along one wall, there were rows of drawers, each marked with a number. She pulled one open and found it filled with tiny brass gears. The one next to it held gears of a slightly larger size.
“What precisely are we looking for?”
“Any proof that he’s been building bombs. Black powder. Fuses. Or any information on him personally. Tidbits. Knickknacks. Crumbs.”
“This is how you’re omniscient?”
“Bloody difficult.”
Olivia continued her examination of the drawers. Screws. Springs of various sizes. All sorted into exact rows.
“Anything?”
Olivia spun around at Clayton’s voice, in time to see him slip noiselessly through the window.
Ian lifted up a scrolled clock hand, then replaced it on the shelf. “Forty-two minutes to pull your head out of your arse. I thought you’d be quicker.”
“Go search the front of the shop.”
Ian snorted and disappeared through the door that led into the shop.
Clayton inhaled. “I—”
“Ian was searching those clocks over there.” She wasn’t ready for him to speak. Not until she could school her hope that he’d come to do more than collect her and berate her for going with Ian.
But he chose not to take her hint. He moved next to her, his hand closing over hers when she would have opened the next drawer. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted.”
“I’m giving up the mill because it is the right thing. I— Wait. What?”
“I’m sorry.” He grimaced. “I feared if I forgave you, it would mean I was weak. That I would be letting you take advantage of me. You trusted me with the truth, and I failed that trust.” His eyes were bleak in the near darkness.
But he’d hurt her. She wanted him back more than anything, but not if their future only lasted until she made another mistake. That would break her. “How do I know you won’t cast me aside the next time I do something wrong? I swear I’d never knowingly hurt you. But I will make mistakes. Frequently, most likely.”
“As will I. Tonight being an example of that. Learning how to not be a coldhearted bastard will likely take time. I’ll understand if you don’t want to deal with that. But you’ve reminded me what I lack in my life.” He closed his eyes for a moment, pain etched on his face. “I can’t go back to that emptiness. And I can give you my word I will never again hesitate to beg your forgiveness whenever you demand it.”
Her heart skipped in her chest.
“Please, don’t let me drive you away.”
Never. If he could forgive her, she could do the same. “I wasn’t going to let you.” She lifted her hand to his cheek, and then her lips. “I don’t chase away easily.”
“I would have made him grovel longer,” Ian called from the shop.
She couldn’t help a choked breath of laughter. “I don’t want him to grovel.” She lowered her voice. “I want him to kiss me.”
Clayton’s lips obliged instantly. A dozen pulls from a dozen drawers dug into her back but she didn’t care. He tasted of snow and exhaustion. Of blackberry jam and forgiveness. Wondrous, heady freedom. Happiness.
For the first time in ten years, she could kiss him with no regrets, no hidden secrets. She twined her fingers around his neck and pulled him closer. Wanting him to deepen the kiss, but also to just savor the feel of him. Pleasure sang through her body, tightening her muscles. Tingling over her skin.
She lowered her hands to his shoulders, exploring the ridges of muscles, the broad strength.
“You’ve been silent for two minutes. Stop whatever lovey mush you’re up to and finish the job.”
Clayton lifted his head but continued to trace her lips with his thumb. “You said Ian was looking at the clocks?”
“Yes, the ones on the workbench. He’s currently—”
That was odd.
“What is it?” Clayton asked.
“At the mill, I always make sure my workers are close to their tools and supplies.”
“Efficiency.”
“Exactly. So why is his worktable over th
ere when all his tools and pieces are on this side of the room?”
Ian scrambled through the door. “You are marrying a bloody genius, Clayton.” He shook his head on the shock that must be on her face. “You haven’t asked her yet? When were you bloody planning to? In another forty-two minutes?”
“Perhaps when we aren’t standing in a bomb shop.”
Her heart did a little leap in her chest. “You were going to ask?”
His voice was gruff. “Yes. But you deserve better than to be asked here. In front of that idiot.”
“Too late. I accept.”
Clayton pulled her into his arms, grinning. “Not until I ask you properly.”
“The woman was foolish enough to say yes once,” Ian said. “I wouldn’t risk it again.”
Clayton released her with a quick kiss on her lips. “Shut up, Ian, and help me move the table.”
After both men lifted the enormous oak table, Ian bent over and examined the floorboards. “A trapdoor.” Part of the floor dropped away, revealing a ladder.
Ian lowered his lantern into the hole. Olivia crowded next to them. The light glinted off a spool of thick twine. A bowl of black powder had been placed next to it. Another bowl held small, round metal balls.
Ian turned the lantern.
Two legs sprawled on the floor. A torso covered in blood.
A dead man.
She gasped and jerked back from the trapdoor. Clayton’s arms wrapped around her, but she didn’t let him pull her away.
The man had been shot. There was no mistaking the gaping hole.
“Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t waste all that time waiting around for him to show up in the morning.”
“How long has he been dead?” Clayton asked, his voice rumbling under her ear.
Ian leaped down into the hidden room. “A day. Two at most.” She could hear his footsteps. “One day. There’s still a touch of warmth to the stove. What are the odds that our final agent picked up his explosive, then killed the witness?”
“Pretty good, considering our luck these past few days,” Clayton said.
“The clockmaker’s been a busy boy. There are several partially constructed bombs down here.”
Olivia pushed away so she could see more clearly.
Ian shone his lantern on a row of boxes. “It appears our friend had a specialty. These all contain about seven pounds of powder. Clockwork interiors. Flint igniters. All small and portable. Easily concealed.”
“How close would the agent have to be to the czar for this to be effective?” Olivia asked.
“Fifteen, perhaps twenty feet,” Clayton said.
“Does he have any records down there?” The workshop she stood in had been neat to the point of obsession. The worktable held logs of every gear he used and when. That type of man would also track every ounce of gunpowder and every inch of fuse, too. She couldn’t imagine his secret business would be different.
“What will they say? Deliver three bombs to— The devil! He did keep a ledger.” Ian paused. “He doesn’t give anything useful like names. But he does the list size of the bombs and payment. Hmm . . . perhaps a trade worth looking into.”
“What was his last entry?”
Ian swore. “It was for a bomb containing fifteen pounds of powder.”
“How close would the killer have to be for that?” she asked.
Clayton’s hand tightened on hers. “He would just need to be in the same ballroom.”
“So now we—” She rubbed her temples, trying to clear her thoughts.
“Now we take you home to rest.”
“But the bomb—”
He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. A spy quickly learns there are always more crises to solve, and you can’t solve them if you’ve killed yourself from exhaustion.”
“Take her to bed.” Ian’s grin was far too innocent. “Oh, I meant put her to bed, of course.”
But the words couldn’t be unsaid. The deliciously wicked thoughts unthought. The heat of Clayton’s hand on hers was suddenly nearly unbearable as he led her to the window.
There was no regret to stop her now.
Finally.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Olivia said. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was throaty, her syllables heavy with desire.
Clayton froze, his hand resting on the windowsill. “Which idea?”
“Both.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Clayton couldn’t risk kissing Olivia on the walk back to Kate’s. He needed to keep his eyes on their surroundings to ensure they weren’t followed.
But Olivia wasn’t making it easy.
And the devilish minx knew it. When she whispered in his ear, her lips caressed it as well. Her teeth worried her lower lip, leaving it rosy, and as soon as she saw him notice, she slowly licked it.
“Hell, woman, if you keep this up, I’m going to take you in a bank of snow and there will be a decided lack of silk sheets and candles.”
“Silk sheets and candles?”
His ears heated. “I may have pictured it a time or two.”
She lifted her brow, and it disappeared under the edge of her cap. “So have I.”
“What did you picture?”
She just smiled at him and sashayed in front of him, letting her hips swing. “We never made it to the sheets.”
Since they were only a block from the house, Clayton scooped her into his arms and ran the remaining distance. “Before we get eliminated by a dozen revolutionaries I’ve been too befuddled to notice.”
He loved the quivers in her chest as she laughed at him.
He hefted her through the window with enough force that she nearly stumbled. “Sorry.”
But she’d regained her footing and had already grabbed his coat to help tug him inside. “Like your new word?”
“Yes, strangely enough.”
They climbed the stairs so fast they were both out of breath as they skidded to a stop outside his door.
He loved that, too.
How could he have considered a life without this?
He opened his door and they fell inside.
“I’ve wanted you every day since I met you.” Her hands already grappled with his buttons.
He swept off her hat and tried to trap her hands to remove her gloves. “There must have been some days these past few weeks when that wasn’t true.”
She grinned. “Always so precise. But no, there weren’t.”
“Even when I appeared like a damned ghost at your mill, threatening you?”
“I dreamed of kissing you until I found the boy I knew.”
His body throbbed as her hand slipped inside his jacket. “Do you still hope to find him?” Despite the parts of him Olivia had restored, he’d never be that person again. Too much had happened to him.
She shook her head. “No, now I dream of kissing you until I know the man that boy became.”
Clayton threw off his coat. “What precisely do you want to find out?”
Her lips curled with pure feminine satisfaction. “A good question. First, I’m desperate to find out how quick you’ve become at unfastening a lady’s buttons.”
“Desperate?” He nipped the side of her neck.
“Completely.” She offered her back.
“I’m quite good at tests.” He’d thought to impress her with his speed, but he found himself unwilling to resist the delicate curve where her shoulder met her neck. He pressed a kiss to it, then along the valley of her spine until he was stopped by the rest of her clothing. “Sorry. That was a bit slow.”
He traced his thumb up and down where his finger had just been.
“It’s— I’ll let you try again sometime.” She let the gown pool at her feet, then tipped her head back so it rested on his shoulder.
He laid small kisses along her hairline. Her ear. Her jaw.
“I have also been wondering how you’d react if I bared myself for you?” She
pulled away and faced him. Her petticoat fell to the ground. Then she drew off her shoes and stockings.
She reached behind her for the ties to her stays. “Last time I didn’t quite get to finish. And I didn’t get to see your reaction. Would your eyes darken?” Her stays fell to the floor. “Would your hands clench? Would you be able to resist coming closer?”
He was already stepping toward her.
She tapped him on the chest, stopping him. “You asked me what I pictured when I fantasized about us making love. It was this.” She slipped off her shift.
Clayton did not know if it was a growl or a groan he made at the sight of her. Probably some portion of both. She was perfection. The saucy tilt of her chin. The wild challenge in her eyes. The strands of her blond hair that had come loose to tease her breasts.
No wonder he’d never felt anything for the other women. They’d always been in competition with her. And nothing could compare to her.
“This is all you pictured?” he managed to ask.
She leaned toward him and brushed her nipples across the linen of his shirt. “Not even close.”
“So you think my candlelight and silken sheets a paltry excuse for a fantasy?” Clayton stripped off his shirt, revealing those hard rows of muscle.
She couldn’t resist reaching out to trace her finger down the line that bisected his abdomen and disappeared into his trousers. “Oh no. Not paltry. Sweet, perhaps?”
Clayton’s hand snaked around her waist and pulled her to him. “Sweet? I thought you’d want to be wooed.”
She nipped his chest. “Perhaps at some point. But right now I’d like you to toss me on that bed over there. Or if we can’t make it that far, the floor right here will do.”
His lips tangled with hers, his tongue promising wicked things to come.
She arched as his lips moved on to her breasts, then gasped, twining her fingers in his hair to keep him there. “I vote for right here. Now.”
He pulled away and lifted her into his arms. “If I’m tossing you, it will have to be the bed. The floor would hurt.”
