by Anna Randol
He discounted Blin. The man hadn’t killed Olivia when he had her alone in the market. Or when Clayton had left her in the house. Neither had he killed Clayton moments ago.
But there would be other revolutionaries. “Have you seen the count?”
Blin’s head shook from side to side. “Not since you blew up his h-h-house.” The man was shivering so badly it took him three tries to say the final word. He buried his hands in his beard, fingers tangling in the curly mess.
“How long have you been out here?” Clayton asked.
The man’s shoulder lifted. It was wide enough to hold a sack of flour. Maybe a sack and a half. “Since you left with the soldiers and came back.”
Over four hours. “When did you plan to contact her again?”
“I didn’t. She told me to go home.”
Devil take it. The more time Clayton spent with this fellow, the more he believed his claim.
But if he believed Blin, then he’d have to believe Olivia wasn’t one of the revolutionaries.
He wasn’t quite certain of that.
But he was certain this man was going to lose his toes if he kept standing in the snow in those felt boots.
“Come.” Clayton pulled Blin to his feet.
“Come where?”
“Into the house. I will find you a place in the kitchen to keep warm.”
The man’s shaggy brows scrunched together, and his eyes were wary. “Why?”
Because if he was innocent as Olivia claimed, Clayton owed him a deep debt for keeping Olivia safe. Dark horror at what could have happened to her without this man slithered up his spine, coiling tight around his ribs.
Perhaps she had been quick enough to keep herself alive with Blin’s help.
“Because Olivia would want me to.”
Chapter Fourteen
Not being a particularly religious man, Clayton had never thought to be divinely punished for his past sins.
He was fast altering his opinion.
He’d heard voices in Olivia’s room when he’d come upstairs. So he did what he’d been trained to do—spy. He’d meant to crack open the adjoining door to get a visual on the occupants, then ease it closed again and simply listen for anything interesting.
He had a dozen things he hoped to glean. Ensuring she was safe. Making sure she wasn’t passing information. Watching her interact with others to see if her interaction with him was false.
Now he just wanted to remember how to breathe.
The modiste stripped another gown from Olivia with a click of her tongue. “The alterations would take much too long.”
Every bit of Olivia—from her lush lower lip to the honey and cream of her skin—made his body ache as it hadn’t in years.
Today in the market he’d thought he’d lose control like a green youth at the feel of her. But that interaction had been clouded with anger, suspicion.
Now there was nothing to distract him from the thud of his heart against his rib cage or the swell of her bosom that peeked over the cups of her stays. The sudden itchiness on his palms or the sweet curve of her waist. The pressure in his groin or the brush of a curl across her cheek.
“ . . . quite chilly. I expect the port to freeze over completely in a matter of days.” Kate and Olivia chatted nonstop about everything from books to ancient tribal customs. Now they’d moved on to St. Petersburg.
“The ocean freezes?” Olivia asked.
“Entirely. People take sleighs across the ocean from St. Petersburg to Cronstadt. Although once a count waited too long and . . .”
The talk was quick and witty. Both women were relaxed and constantly doubled over with laughter.
Because he wasn’t there.
The door jerked under Clayton’s hand and he forced his grip on the handle to soften. He was being a fool. There was no reason to be watching. The women could be heard perfectly well through the closed door.
The modiste slipped another dress over Olivia’s head.
Clayton stilled.
All three women sucked in a breath.
The high-waisted ivory silk skimmed over her form like she’d been dipped in cream. The bodice drew the eye with dozens of seed pearls that shimmered. Long, elegant sleeves covered the bandages on her wrists. The neckline was so wide it fully displayed the smooth line of her shoulder.
There she was. The creature of money and prestige. The girl who’d once had her father change the upholstery in the coach to match her dress. The girl who threw out a pair of slippers because they didn’t have enough gold thread. The girl who turned up her nose in revulsion when she found Clayton eating something as common as porridge.
He should have despised her.
But hell if he didn’t want to trace his fingers over each pearl. He wanted to weave a dozen more into her soft hair. He wanted pearls to dangle from each of her delicate ears.
After a lingering strum of her fingers down the side of the bodice. Olivia shook her head. “I’ll go with the blue satin.”
Impossible. Clayton had to let go of the handle to keep from charging into the room and demanding to know if she was insane. It was obvious she adored the gown.
“But the ivory was made for you,” Kate said. Clayton thought that was a rather blatant understatement.
“I’ll wear the blue.”
“If it is the cost,” Kate said, “it is truly nothing to me. It would be a pleasure to buy it for you.”
“I appreciate your kindness, but it’s not necessary.” She sounded entirely sincere, but her fingers dropped to the silk skirt once more. “A simple dress will do.”
He’d never known Olivia to deny herself any treat. In fact, she’d often demanded them. Nothing had made her happier than when he’d saved enough to buy her some trinket.
Then again, she’d been wearing that cheaply tailored dress when he’d found her at the mill. And not once had she complained about the peasant clothing and poor-fitting gowns she’d been dressed in since.
She had changed. There was no denying that truth now. But how much of her was good and how much was him wanting her to be so? Wanting an excuse for his fascination? Looking for a reason to be able to take her back?
Was this the pull his mother had over his father? Clayton had never understood how his father could keep taking her back. Once she’d even had her former lover drop her off on the doorstep, and his father had still allowed her in. If this was the tug that he felt—
No. He didn’t understand it. He wouldn’t.
Clayton returned his focus to the other room. Olivia resisted the arguments of both Kate and the modiste, and soon she was left alone to rest. She stood and stretched, hands high above her head, back arched. Then with unconcerned, leisurely deliberation, she slipped off her dressing gown and then her stays, leaving her clad only in her shift.
She reached down to grasp the hem and slowly, so slowly, lifted it. It skimmed past her knees. Clayton could hear nothing but his pulse echoing in his ears.
If he valued his sanity, he’d move away now. The thoughts of what she might do alone and naked shuddered through him.
The linen lifted another quarter inch, revealing the pale skin of her thighs.
At least close your eyes. Give her privacy. He was no longer a lad waiting by the window of the mill to catch a glimpse of her as she arrived with her father.
Another quarter inch . . .
But she dropped the shift, letting it fall back to her calves. “Was that enough of a show for you?”
He scrambled rather gracelessly back to dodge the door swinging open from her adjoining room.
He tried to look nonchalant, perhaps a bit imposing, though he doubted how effective he was with either. His breathing he could control, but not the heat that colored his face, and not the lingering hunger that possessed his body.
“Learn anything?” she asked, her hands planted on her hips, a single brow raised.
That he could see the outline of her nipples through the thin, white linen. That they
were a dusky pink. That they were jutting in the cold. Why the devil wasn’t she wearing flannel?
“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To spy on me and find proof that I’m working for the revolutionaries?”
“How long have you known I was there?”
There was a flush of something on her cheeks as well. Amusement? Arousal? “You groaned.”
“I did not.”
Now there was definitely amusement on her face. “The first time my dress came off. And you had the door practically halfway open by the end.”
Absolute disaster. But he wasn’t about to let her know that. “Why didn’t you get the dress?”
“I did get a dress.”
“The white one.”
Her bare toes dug into the carpet, and she fingered the linen of her shift. “I didn’t need it. And Kate is already beyond generous to let us stay here despite the risk we pose. Why do you care?”
Why did he care? Why was he still upset she didn’t choose the dress she loved? He reached out a finger, tracing it along where the neckline of the ivory dress had fallen. Over the rounded slope of her shoulder, across the sharp angle of her collarbone, ending at the slight valley that dipped between her breasts. “Because I don’t know what to make of you.”
Her chest lifted and fell with shuddered quickness. “I am a woman. A woman who has made some terrible mistakes.” Her eyes dropped from his, and regret and something darker crossed her features. “But I am a still just a woman.”
She lifted her eyes to him again, and their gazes locked. The blue of her eyes was nearly gone, hidden by the black of her pupils.
Clayton jerked his hand away and clenched it behind him. Did he have so little pride? That all she had to do was gaze up longingly at him and he’d throw himself at her feet? He refused to return to being the same lad who jumped at every footstep in gaol because he was convinced she’d gotten help and come for him. “Did you have any luck on the code?”
She blinked twice and her breathing slowed. She rubbed her arms as if to warm them. “No. I think I need your help. I tried the things I know, but I can’t find any pattern to know where to start. Did you find Arshun?”
“Not yet.”
“How will you?”
By using Olivia. Either she was working for the revolutionaries and she’d eventually try to make contact with them . . .
Or the revolutionaries would try to find her.
Either way, Clayton had his bait.
Chapter Fifteen
“If you need to use the chamber pot, I’d hurry and do it now before your glowering escort returns,” Kate whispered behind her fan. She’d changed from breeches into a simple yet elegant gown of crimson silk edged with black fur. “Really, the man is taking his role of overprotective betrothed far too seriously.”
Olivia couldn’t keep her gaze from sliding to where Clayton stood conversing with a group of soldiers. His eyes lifted immediately, sweeping over her before returning back to the group.
Her hand skimmed the neckline of her ivory gown. When the box from the modiste had come an hour ago, it had contained the ivory dress rather than the blue. There was no time to try to exchange it. When she’d asked Clayton about the switch, his lips had lifted in a satisfied smirk.
“Shall I ask the empress to have him locked up for the rest of the ball so you can dance with someone else?”
Kate, Olivia had quickly learned, was a favorite confidante of the empress.
“No. In fact, I believe I can dance with someone else right now.”
One of the gentlemen grouped around Kate offered Olivia his hand and led her to the dance floor.
When she returned at the end of the set, she expected Clayton to be waiting, but he must have felt like he’d played his role of betrothed well enough. For the next hour, she danced with half a dozen men and was introduced to countless more, but Clayton made no attempt to return to her side. He always stood somewhere nearby, however, just close enough that she could never draw a full breath of air, that her shoulders could never unknot.
Olivia surveyed the crowd swirling around the glittering ballroom, trying to shake him from her thoughts. She was attending an imperial ball. Something far beyond the dreams of a mill owner’s daughter. She wouldn’t let him consume all her attention. When she returned home, her friends would want details. For instance, the lush tropical trees that lined the walls. Despite the two feet of snow outside, ripe oranges and lemons dangled from the branches.
But even this made her think of the time Clayton had tucked a peach blossom in her hair.
And there he was again, his shoulder propped against the wall with negligent grace. He appeared to be in conversation with two blond women, but his gaze was pinned on Olivia. Despite the hopeful entreaty she put on her face, his gaze shifted past her and he stayed with his current companions.
The room suddenly became oppressive with perfume and sweaty bodies. Her throat burned with each inhale.
“I think I need some air,” she whispered to Kate.
Kate cut off the angular young cavalry officer who argued with her about the value of mountain ponies versus purebred Arabians. “I can go with you.”
Olivia shook her head. She just needed to get . . . away.
She forced her way through the crowd before Kate could protest. She stepped on three sets of toes, and had to use her elbows twice before she was able to stake claim to a small open window in the corner of the ballroom.
The air inside the insufferable ballroom was so warm, it turned as thick and heavy as smoke as it fled into the night sky.
Olivia rested her hand against the sill and debated sticking her head all the way out. Behind her, women tittered and men murmured; the cadence of the language and the occasional enthusiastic exclamation were the only things that set it apart from its English equivalent.
She sucked in the icy breeze, ignoring the goose bumps that rose over her skin. It did clear her head somewhat.
She couldn’t let herself be disappointed. She’d made progress with Clayton. The fact that he’d arranged for her to have the dress she admired could only be good. He was softening. She refused to give up.
Hands clamped on her waist.
“What the devil were you thinking, going off by yourself?” Clayton whirled her about and pulled her tight against his chest. His face was pale, yet arranged into angry slashes. He exhaled with measured control as if trying to master his rage.
She shoved against his hands, but he wouldn’t be budged. He’d ignored her all evening, then thought he could castigate her for going to the window? “I didn’t leave the ballroom.” It wasn’t as if she’d even walked more than a few dozen feet away.
“Why didn’t you take Kate with you?”
“Because I wanted a moment alone.” She glared at him. “Which you are spoiling. So good evening.”
Clayton knew he was overreacting. But damnation, he hadn’t been able to find her. He caught Olivia’s wrist and tugged her through the door to the right and out into the corridor before they attracted even more attention.
Her breasts strained against her bodice with each breath and her hand dug rather painfully into his damaged hand, but he still couldn’t let go. It was as if his body hadn’t yet registered what his eyes knew.
She was safe.
It was with vague surprise that he realized he’d pressed her against the wall in a deserted parlor. He released her arm, moving his hands to the wall on either side of her head. His calming breaths did nothing but bring the scent of her deeper into his lungs. Until he knew he’d never be able to walk past jasmine without searching for the underlying scent of this woman.
She was innocent. She wasn’t a revolutionary.
He finally had to accept it. Apparently, his heart had already believed it. When he’d lost sight of her, he hadn’t thought once about her making contact with the revolutionaries; his only thought had been that he’d failed her. That someone had hurt her. That he should have warned her about hi
s fears. That he shouldn’t have placed her in the ballroom like a rabbit before the hounds.
He ran his hand down her cheek, only to earn a glare.
“Dobre vecher, if that makes what I said clearer,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. I was . . .” Was he truly about to admit this? Yes, apparently. “ . . . concerned.”
Her gaze softened, and after a hint of deliberation, she caught his hand, trapping it against her cheek. The tension eased from her spine. And her lips softened, nudging upward to a satisfied angle.
It should have pleased him, but it didn’t. She shouldn’t forgive him. Not that easily. The warmth of her skin through his gloves was like a brand of guilt.
“Ask me.” The words rasped from him. “Ask me why I was so concerned.”
She blinked, her brows drawing together. “What?”
“Ask me about my plans for the evening. Ask me how I’d hoped the revolutionaries would come after you so I could catch them.”
She paled and pressed herself hard against the wall. Away from him. But then something in her face shifted. A new determination set her jaw, and she cupped his face. “What if I asked why you’re telling me your plan now? Why not continue to sit back and observe?”
Because the thought of anything happening to her had eaten at him like acid. And there was no way in hell he’d ever intentionally risk her again. “Because I want you too damned much.”
But he had to make her see that he wasn’t noble. She wasn’t the only one to make mistakes. That the light in her eye was misplaced.
So he kissed her. His kiss was hard and cruel, his fingers tangling in the hair at the base of her scalp. It was a kiss meant to punish. To convince. But when her hands settled on the smooth wool of his jacket, they didn’t push him away.
They pulled him closer.
A sudden release of tension weakened his knees. He opened his lips with silent desperation. He didn’t want her to push him away. He needed this too much. Comfort. Solace. Her. Things he’d sworn he had no need of when they parted. “A good man would walk away,” he said.