by Anna Randol
They both shuddered at the contact.
A knock sounded on the door.
Clayton had withdrawn and moved away from the desk before she’d even registered what the noise was.
“Why have you been sending my servants away?” Kate spoke through the closed door. “Olivia, are you well?”
“I’m well,” she called out. She ran a hand over her hair, dusting white speckles across the desk. Heavens, she was still covered in plaster. A rather disheartening discovery when she’d thought herself seductive and alluring.
After ensuring Kate was alone, Clayton allowed her to enter. He tucked his damaged hand behind him. How many times had he done the same thing to Olivia without her even noticing?
No longer. She would never let him hide away his hand like it was something to be ashamed of.
“Your maid Iryna planted the bomb,” Clayton said.
Kate paled. “I thought it was one of your associates.”
“Not this time. Prazhdinyeh ordered it. How many people in your household are loyal to the revolutionaries?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Some perhaps. They’re serfs from my husband’s estates. Many of them were here while he worked with the revolutionaries. I never thought to ask.” Her hands clenched. “They set a bomb? In my house? Will they try it again?”
“We won’t be staying,” Clayton said.
Kate frowned at that. “Did you finish your investigation?”
“No.”
“Then where will you be going?”
Clayton remained silent. Olivia wasn’t sure if he wanted their destination to remain a secret or if he didn’t yet know.
Kate ran her hands down the front of her trousers. “I think—” But then she stopped and sighed. “Do what you must. Do you need anything?”
“We’ll be less conspicuous if we aren’t covered in plaster. Do you personally trust enough servants to bring up water to fill a bath?”
Kate thought a moment, then nodded. “And I’ll see if I can arrange for a few things to be gathered for you to take—”
“No. I don’t want it known we’re leaving. It might make any potential attackers act rashly. And I will need you to keep Blin as one of your servants for now. There is no need for him to endanger himself.”
“I think my cook would gut me if I did not.”
After Kate had left, Clayton returned to his chair. He tugged his glove back on, grimacing slightly as he pulled it tight.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Always.” He picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink. His lips quirked upward. “Except while it was caressing you.”
How could a woman resist that? She lowered the neckline of her gown. “Well, if it helped . . .”
He dripped ink across the table but mopped it up with a blotting paper before it stained. “What precisely are you offering?”
“Everything.” While her deceptions might keep her from casting her heart at his feet, they wouldn’t keep her from casting her body into his bed.
Except they did.
She couldn’t give herself to him without his knowing her part in the danger he faced today. “I asked you to take me to St. Petersburg because it would give the mill time to earn enough money to pay off the debts you hold.”
“I suspected something of the sort.”
Not precisely the reaction she’d expected. She’d expected him to be appalled. She expected to have to tearfully explain all her reasoning, show how determined she was to protect the mill.
Had she hoped for it? Had this reveal been nothing more than an emotional trump card in her game to keep the mill?
Clayton held up his paper. “My list is complete. Since yours is shorter, read it to me and I’ll mark off any we have in common.”
He wasn’t even going to respond to her confession?
“Clayton—”
“My plans for the mill will proceed with or without me. Nothing has changed.”
“What? How?”
But he straightened his paper. “The list?”
She read the list slowly, waiting for him to call out a match, but also waiting for him to react to her confession. He couldn’t truly be as uncaring about it as he seemed. But by the time she’d finished, he hadn’t stopped her once. And not once had he looked at her with shock. Betrayal. Anything but focused concentration. “Nothing,” she said.
“There was little chance of this working. After all, either one of them might have burned the book they used for the code. Or it might have been misplaced. Stolen by a servant. Given away.” He stood and with a harsh exhale sent a pile of books crashing to the floor.
They both stared at the mess, shocked by his reaction. He strode to the window and braced his hands on either side of the frame. “What am I supposed to think about you?” His words almost desperate. “Tell me. Can I trust you?”
“I’m not a revolution—”
“I know you’re not. But what am I supposed to do with this information you gave me? How did you think I would respond? How the devil should I?”
Olivia straightened the paper on the table, making it even with the edge, needing something to look at besides his face. Her throat felt dry, but Clayton hadn’t allowed the servants to leave anything to drink.
She didn’t know what to tell him. She couldn’t tell him to trust her. Not when the truth about her father and the money she’d used for the mill was still unspoken. “I want to know if I can trust you.”
He spun to face her. “What?”
Her answer surprised her as much as him. But it was too painful to be anything but the truth. “I need to know if I can trust you with my mistakes. I’ve made them, you know, big ones. And I know you don’t like second chances. Or apologies.”
“I saw my mother a year ago.”
It might have seemed like a change in topic, but Olivia knew exactly why his thoughts returned to her. “Where?”
“She was at the theater. She’s married to a butcher now.”
Olivia picked the blanket up off the floor. “She must be doing well if they could afford to—”
“I saw her backstage with one of the actors.”
Olivia stood and went to wrap the blanket around Clayton. He refused her with a sharp shake of his head. “Despite all the chances she had, she never changed.”
The mill.
She clung to the thought to keep from exposing the rest of her deceptions. Those people deserved their second chance just as much as she did.
She couldn’t take it from them.
And if she revealed her secrets, that’s what would happen.
There was a knock. Clayton opened the door again and checked each footman before allowing them to enter with a large copper tub and steaming buckets of water.
Neither Clayton nor Olivia looked at each other. Neither of them wanted to finish the conversation they’d begun.
But even with the tension between them, he stood sentinel between her and the servants the entire time. When one of the footmen tried to bring in a tray of food, Clayton ordered him to return it to the kitchen.
Unfortunately for her stomach, the heavenly scents of pork dumplings with melted butter lingered.
“We’ll require fresh clothing and a screen,” Clayton said.
A screen? Did he intend— But of course, he did. He hadn’t precisely let her state of undress stop him before.
Neither had she.
“And soap and oil for the bath. Jasmine, if you have it,” Clayton added after a pause.
The soap made sense. “Why the oil?”
He paced the room checking the locks, watching out the window. “I thought that was the scent you preferred.”
“It is.” He’d done it for her. “That was . . . sweet.” And unexpected. And blast it all, why were her eyes stinging?
He wouldn’t look at her. He was pulling away and she didn’t know what to do to stop it. Her deceptions were a barrier for her. Her truths were a barrier for him.
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nbsp; When the footman bearing a large Oriental screen and the other requested items left, Olivia stood. If this didn’t affect him, she wouldn’t let it affect her. She’d slip around the screen and strip as if he hadn’t just been stealing moans from her lips. As if she hadn’t bared herself far more completely with words.
Clayton opened the bottle of oil and sniffed. “Rose. Will that work?”
“Do you expect me to protest?”
“You might have at one time, but not anymore.” He poured some of the oil into the bath. “I’ll leave you in privacy behind the screen.”
She nodded as if this were a perfectly normal arrangement, as if—she was ashamed to admit—her breasts weren’t still throbbing from his touch.
She lifted her chin and strode toward the black lacquered divider and the steaming water behind it.
“Will you need help with your buttons?”
Botheration. So much for her dramatic exit. “Yes.”
He stepped behind her and made quick work of the buttons down her back. She wanted to look to see how he managed so easily with his injured hand, but she found she didn’t want to know anything more about him. She didn’t dare find more to admire.
Clayton cleared his throat twice. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Will you need help with anything else?”
“No.”
His boots were nearly silent on the carpet. “I’ll recheck our lists and see if there’s something I missed.”
Even though she knew he hadn’t missed anything, it was far preferable to think of him poring over lists rather than staring at the screen.
Had he ever seen the incomparable Madeline naked?
Olivia was suddenly quite grateful for the screen to cover her too long legs and less than abundant bosom.
And bruises. They covered her now. Her wrists. Her arms. Her stomach. It gave her an eerie resemblance to the cheetah she’d once seen at a menagerie.
As she slipped into the water, she couldn’t suppress a moan. She hadn’t spared a moment to think about her exhaustion and aching muscles until that instant.
But Clayton undoubtedly would appreciate use of the water for himself. So after scrubbing herself as thoroughly as she could, she stepped out and dried off, her skin pebbling instantly in the cold.
When she had a clean dress on, she moved from behind the screen and allowed Clayton to fasten her, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. As soon as he was done, Clayton took the blanket from his shoulders and tucked it around her.
Several minutes later, she wondered how Clayton had sat here without going mad. She stared at the same list he had, but each splash of water drew her eyes to the screen and her mind to what lay behind it. She picked up the prince’s ring that Clayton had brought into the room with the stacks of books and papers. As she slipped it on and off her thumb, she looked at the heavy scrollwork that encircled the ruby. It wasn’t decoration. It was artfully crafted Cyrillic.
Was that— “Clayton!”
Water sloshed, and he appeared from behind the screen with nothing but a dagger in his hand. Water dribbled down the hard, corded muscles on his shoulders, down the tight planes of his stomach, past his— She knew she should look away. But that was impossible. He was magnificent. A perfectly sculpted gladiator. A very large gladiator.
Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her body suddenly sensitive to everything. The scent of camphor on the blanket. The dampness of her hair.
The ache between her legs.
Clayton’s eyes swept the room.
Blast. Speaking. Surely, she was capable of it. “There was no danger. I just— I had an idea,” she finished rather lamely. She still couldn’t take her eyes from him. A few silvery scars decorated his chest. On his muscular left thigh was the puckered reminder of a gunshot. She wanted to trail her lips over each scar, since she hadn’t been there to tend him when he was injured.
Suddenly, the fact that he hadn’t been swayed by her efforts on behalf of the mill seemed all too understandable. He’d given more than she could ever imagine.
Clayton lowered the dagger. “An idea?” Color darkened his cheeks, but his eyes met hers, then watched her traitorous gaze as it surveyed his body. He quickly turned away, revealing a tight, well-muscled backside. It was so intriguing, it took her a moment to notice the mass of scars crisscrossing his back. She pressed her lips together until she could feel her teeth imprinted on the back of them. He’d been flayed. There had to be at least fifty different lines.
“An idea about the code,” she managed.
“Perhaps this conversation would be more appropriate clothed?” Clayton suggested.
“If you feel the need.” Heat rushed to her face. That wasn’t supposed to be uttered aloud.
He paused for a brief second before continuing to walk away. “What did you find?” His clothing rustled behind the screen.
“The prince’s ring. It has an inscription.”
“What does it say?”
She focused on getting the translation correct. “From the ashes . . . reborn.”
Clayton stepped back out. He’d pulled on his breeches but was still in the process of tugging on his shirt as he approached. “You’re a bloody genius.”
“Vasin had a pamphlet with that title,” Olivia said.
“More than that.” Clayton leaned over her, placing a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder. “He wrote it. It was considered one of the founding documents of the movement.”
“Then his associates would have it?”
“Precisely.”
She clenched the ring in her fist. “Then can we break the code?”
“If we can locate a copy.”
“But we have—” No, they didn’t have a copy. It had been in her room during the explosion. It was reduced to bits and ashes.
Clayton tugged back on his gloves. “I, unfortunately, know who does.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“Have a seat in the parlor. I’ll join you in a moment,” Professor Mir called out as they passed by the open library door. The stacks of paper that obscured the gray-haired scholar were even deeper than the last time Clayton was here.
The maid led them into a slightly less cluttered room. A few minutes later, the well-fed, gouty professor entered.
“Ah, Professor Lishpin! It has been ages. What brings you back to St. Petersburg?” He shoved aside a pile of books so he could sit; the chair creaked under the assault.
“More studies as always,” Clayton said. “Professor Mir, may I introduce my assistant, Miss Britta Loenhiemer?”
Olivia nodded and remained silent. Clayton had warned her who Mir thought Clayton was—an Austrian philosophy professor.
“Is she as useful as she is lovely?”
Mir had always been something of a rutting goat. And unfortunately, when Clayton had visited him last, he’d given Mir the impression that he was the same. But Mir had the most comprehensive collection of Russian writings in the country. Partly because he never threw anything away, and partly because he had enough important friends that the police hadn’t disturbed him when they purged the country of unpatriotic literature.
When a maid came in carrying tea, Mir gave her a swift pinch on the bottom.
Always a challenge to speak Russian with a German accent, Clayton found it even more difficult to do so through gritted teeth. “Miss Loenhiemer is indeed talented.”
“I’ll wager she is.” Mir shifted his breeches.
“She has one of the brightest minds I’ve ever seen.” He should be asking for the pamphlet, not defending his fictional assistant’s honor.
“I like them clever.” Mir chuckled. “Especially with their tongues.”
Perhaps Clayton would pummel him senseless and find the writing himself.
“If you help my professor, perhaps I could show you just how clever I am.”
The growl in Clayton’s throat froze at Olivia’s seductive murmur.
Mir’s German was worse than Olivia’s, so he had to puzzle through
what she said, but there was no mistaking her tone. Or the way she placed her hand on Clayton’s thigh and slowly massaged it. Clayton could hardly protest on her behalf while she did that.
He couldn’t do much of anything while she did that.
Mir sucked in his stomach. “What was it you were looking for again, Professor?”
“An old pamphlet written by Vasin. From the Ashes Reborn.”
“A popular writing,” Mir said.
“Has someone else inquired about it?” His chest slowly filled with dread. The inescapable dread that came from knowing the answer to his own question.
If someone else had come for the writing, then someone else knew how to break the code.
“Two days ago, some men from the academy came by and requested a copy.”
If they’d come two days ago, it couldn’t have been Golov.
Prazhdinyeh had broken the code first.
Olivia’s nails were digging into Clayton’s leg even through his thick woolen trousers. She’d made the connection as well. “And you gave it to them?” Olivia asked.
Mir motioned for Clayton and Olivia to take a cup of tea, then selected one himself, taking a large, noisy sip. “Of course. I always support academics.”
Or revolutionaries, in this case.
“Why all the interest?” Mir’s eyes glinted with the intelligence he so often neglected when there was a woman about.
Before Clayton could think of a lie, Olivia flicked her tongue over her lower lip. “Do you have another copy?”
Mir’s eyes glazed over slightly. “I might. Let me go see.”
Olivia sighed once he left and picked up a cup of tea. “They broke the code, didn’t they?”
“Most likely.”
“At least it means we were correct in our guess about the code.” Olivia dropped two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream into her tea and stirred quickly.
Clayton lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.
Bitter. Cloying.
He spat out the tea and lunged toward Olivia, knocking her cup from her hand as she raised it to her mouth, sending the liquid splattering across the carpet.
She stared at the rocking cup, lips still pursed to take a sip.
“Poison.” He set down his own cup, then jumped to his feet. “The professor.”