by Anna Randol
She scrambled up from her chair. “Did he try to kill us?”
Clayton picked up the teapot and sniffed. “No. The entire thing is poisoned. And he drank some.”
They ran to the study. The professor lay in a crumpled heap, his face purple, eyes bulging. Clayton knelt and checked the body for a heartbeat, then closed the eyes. “He’s dead.”
Pale crescents deepened on either side of Olivia’s mouth, but she surveyed the piles of books, papers, and writings scattered around the room. “Do you know anyone else who might have Vasin’s pamphlet?”
He understood her concern. There had to be thousands of books and papers. He could see no system of organization. They might search for days and never find the pamphlet.
“Wait.” He stepped around the body. “This pile was twice as tall when we passed by originally.” He pointed to a stack in front of the bookcase a few feet from where the professor had fallen.
“You noticed?”
He’d always remembered small details, but the Foreign Office trained him to recognize the significance in them.
He sorted through the papers. There it was. Three pages down.
From the Ashes Reborn.
Clayton tucked the paper in his waistcoat, then pulled Olivia after him until they were safe in the dim twilight of the snowy evening.
Perhaps not so safe.
The sleigh that was supposed to wait for them was gone. Not a promising sign. He couldn’t risk taking her back into the house, so he started walking.
They’d gone only a few hundred feet when a footman left Mir’s house and started in their direction. He could be heading out on some perfectly valid errand, but Clayton wasn’t taking that chance. He quickened their pace.
Olivia fell slightly behind him so she could walk in his footsteps in the knee-deep snow.
A stoop-shouldered laborer stepped from behind white-capped bushes ahead of them, deliberately blocking that path.
Clayton grabbed his knife from his boot, then spun Olivia around to head in the other direction. Two heavy men had joined the footman with a purposefully casual stroll.
Damnation. He should have anticipated an ambush.
Where could he send Olivia so she’d be safe? The neighborhood had cleared of people as the temperature dropped with the sun. Across from the street lay the granite-lined bank of the Neva, but it offered no cover. The thick snow made it difficult to walk, let alone run.
He’d take out the laborer with a dagger to the throat, then send Olivia to safety while he delayed the footman and the other two. “When I give the word, I want you to run ahead. There’s a bridge a half mile up. There will be a policeman nearby to monitor it. Don’t stop until you reach him.” He handed his first dagger to Olivia, before unsheathing another. “Don’t hesitate to use that if cornered.”
Another two men joined the laborer.
Hellfire. He had only three knives. He’d planned on throwing the dagger, retrieving it, and throwing it at the party behind him to even the numbers somewhat. But with two more so close, the thrown dagger would be lost. It was still his best option, but he’d be left with five to fight hand to hand.
Clayton waited until he and Olivia were a dozen feet from the laborer. The man pulled a gun.
He’d just volunteered for death.
The dagger flew from Clayton’s fingers, and the man dropped to his knees with a wet gurgle.
“Now!” Clayton shoved Olivia to the right while he lunged to intercept the other two. He stabbed the short one in the gut, but the bulky fellow in a gray scarf attacked in the same moment. Clayton blocked a cudgel inches before it slammed into his skull. When Clayton tried to reattack, the man deflected easily. Gray Scarf wasn’t a simple thug; most likely a former soldier, which made him far more dangerous.
The wounded man on the ground shrieked, making it difficult to hear the other attackers approaching from behind. Clayton backed toward the river and risked a glance over his shoulder. Ten feet.
The cudgel slammed into his side. Clayton would have dropped to his knees if the snow wasn’t bracing his legs upright. His next block protected his head, but succeeded in driving his knees into the snow.
He couldn’t let them go after Olivia. This thought brought him back to his feet and gave him the speed to slice Gray Scarf’s hand as the man prepared to swing.
Gray Scarf merely grunted and switched hands.
Clayton flinched out of the reach of a new knife flashing toward him. The other attackers had reached him.
He stabbed one in the throat while kicking out to keep the other men back, but pain exploded as someone landed a punch to the side of his face.
Three remained. Including Gray Scarf, who was biding his time until he could land a clear blow.
Hell. If he wanted to survive this— Clayton leaped up over the embankment and onto the icy river six feet below. The ice creaked beneath him.
They all stilled until the noise ceased. When it held Clayton’s weight, one of the men followed, leaping onto the ice nearby.
But Clayton could handle one man, even if he was armed. And with a single feint and thrust, his opponent fell.
With a shout, the footman jumped onto the ice. Clayton dispatched him as well, retreating from the crimson snow now encircling him.
Gray Scarf was wise enough to keep his vulnerable throat hidden beyond the edge of the embankment. Only his eyes were visible.
“Do you wish to join your friends?” Clayton asked, adjusting his weight so he’d be able to move quickly on the ice.
Then Gray Scarf’s head disappeared completely from the edge of the embankment. But he wasn’t the type to simply give up. Not a seasoned campaigner like him.
A huge chunk of paving stone landed on the ice next to Clayton.
The sharp, brittle sound of ice cracking echoed along the granite walls.
Another rock smashed clean through the ice, leaving a few remnants bobbing in the black space. Sharp white slashes splintered toward him.
Clayton scrambled back to the embankment, but he could gain little purchase on the smooth, frozen stone of the embankment. Water seeped up through the cracks, spreading around his feet.
Now Gray Scarf’s entire head appeared. His scarf still covered his mouth, but Clayton didn’t need to see it to know he must be grinning evilly as he held another huge rock over Clayton’s head. Even if Clayton managed to dodge it, the rock would put him through the ice.
“Step away from him!”
Olivia.
What was she doing? She should be with the policeman by now. Cursing the weakness in his right hand, Clayton wedged his dagger in the seam between two of the granite blocks and pulled himself upward, ignoring the fact that his rib cage had been replaced with hot coals.
She stood no chance against the soldier.
Hell. What was she thinking?
Olivia spoke again. “I said step away.”
“You will not pull the trigger, little girl.” It was the first time Gray Scarf had spoken, his voice both higher and softer than Clayton had expected.
She must have picked up the dead man’s pistol.
Clayton threw one elbow over the top of the embankment.
Olivia stood a dozen feet away, a pistol clutched in her hands. Her bonnet had gotten lost somewhere and her golden hair whipped around her face. She was a Valkyrie. Defending him.
“I always finish my fights,” she warned.
Gray Scarf chuckled and lifted the rock.
She fired.
Gray Scarf fell, the rock landing with a near silent thump into the snow.
Clayton forced his body to obey once more and hefted himself fully onto the street.
Olivia took a step toward him before she collapsed, her whole body trembling.
He had to get to her.
It hurt to breathe. His vision blurred from the punch to his head. Air refused to fill his aching lungs. But he dragged himself toward her in the snow.
He’d gone only a foot when s
he stood, her face pale where it wasn’t reddened from the cold. She wavered, but then set her chin and walked to him, keeping her gaze pinned on him rather than the carnage surrounding her.
“He’s not dead,” Clayton said.
As if on cue, Gray Scarf groaned. Olivia flinched away.
The gunshot had roused the curiosity of the surrounding neighborhood. People peeked out of windows and cracked open doors.
“We need to get out of sight before he recovers or the police arrive.” Clayton forced his legs to stand under him. As long as he moved slowly, he could tolerate the pain in his side.
As they passed, he tugged the gray scarf off the man and passed it to Olivia to tie around her head so she didn’t lose her ears to frostbite.
Clayton’s toes had gone numb in the full leather boots, and Olivia had only those impractical half boots females were forced to wear. Her feet must be frozen. And that wasn’t a term he used lightly. He needed to get her up and out of this snow completely.
She stumbled against his bad side, and they both fell to their knees.
“People . . . don’t freeze to . . . death in the streets, do they?” Her chattering teeth made her difficult to understand.
He wished he could lie. “All the time.” Clayton’s pants and jacket were soaked through with melted snow, as was the hem of Olivia’s skirt. The damp fabric robbed what little warmth their bodies would have created walking.
“Lovely.”
A sleigh hissed across the snow behind them. Let it be one for hire . . . Clayton dropped his hand to the hilt of his last remaining dagger as the horse slowed beside them.
“I said to myself, who could have left such a fine body count along the streets of St. Petersburg?”
Ian.
Despite his agony, Clayton lifted Olivia into the sleigh before it had come to a stop.
“We need to get her inside and warm.” He grabbed Olivia’s red hands and rubbed them vigorously to get the circulation going again.
After her fingers had pinkened, he unbuttoned his greatcoat and pulled her hands against his chest. “I intend to buy you a dozen pairs of gloves. Which you’ll wear.”
“At the same time?” he thought she tried to ask.
“Bloody right. In the summer, too.” Then he’d feed her chocolate, and biscuits, and the most exotic sweets he’d encountered, and he’d bury her under a dozen furs next to a roaring fire. “Give me one of your blankets, Ian.”
Ian tossed one off his shoulders, making him a slightly smaller mountain. Clayton tucked it around Olivia.
Her hand traced down his side. “Are your ribs broken?”
Clayton shifted to test them. “Perhaps cracked. Not broken.”
“You let someone land a blow on your ribs?”
He was glad Ian’s mockery gave him something to think about other than Olivia’s hands on his body.
Olivia frowned, blinking through the snowflakes that settled on her eyelashes. “There were six of them.”
Ian snorted. “Getting soft, old man. Did he ever tell you about the time he took out an entire regiment of French cavalry?”
“I did have a cannon.”
“Judging from the gunshot, you at least had a pistol this time.”
“No. That was Olivia’s shot,” Clayton said.
Ian glanced back, his eyes searching Clayton’s. “I must say it is lovely to have a team again.”
“Yes, it is,” Clayton said. He’d give her a second chance. Despite her confession this afternoon, he owed it to her. Besides, didn’t the fact that she’d told him the truth speak in her favor? The decision wasn’t nearly as unsettling as he thought it would be. After all, Olivia was only one person. He wasn’t being too permissive or allowing everyone to trample over him.
Besides, it felt right. Like he’d finally found the piece he’d been missing for a puzzle.
The sleigh slowed in front of a modest building. Ian hopped down, then returned a minute later, eyes twinkling. He gestured with a proud sweep of his arm. “Go warm yourselves and get naked.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Pardon?” Olivia’s cold-slowed brain must have misheard.
But Clayton was already lifting her out of the sleigh. “A private room?”
“The finest,” Ian replied as he flicked the reins on the horse. “Such as it is. I asked them for ink and paper for you, as well. You can thank me later.”
The building had a small sign hanging out front but a heavy dusting of snow made it impossible to read. Two bull-shouldered men greeted them at the door, lightly dressed in white linen shirts and trousers tied around their waists. They bowed low and led them inside, casting only a single curious glance at Clayton’s swollen cheek and the blood that dripped from the cut above his eye.
The air was heavy and overly moist as they walked down a corridor. The low rumble of voices was occasionally interrupted by the sounds of flesh pounding flesh.
The men stopped at a door and opened it. Smoke—no, steam—billowed in thick, white strands into the corridor. A man stalked out, glaring at them, skin raw, pink, and glistening. Only a towel was wrapped around his pudgy hips. Red stripes covered his back.
“A bath?” Olivia asked, although it felt more like a statement.
“Ian thinks himself quite humorous. But it will give us a private place to keep warm while he finds us a room for the night.”
After convincing the attendants they didn’t need any further personal ministrations, Clayton tipped them a few kopecks for a bowl of water and a fresh towel.
Olivia stepped through the curtain of steam.
The air in the room was on fire. There was no other explanation for how each breath seared her nose. She was reduced to taking small pants of air; deep breaths smoldered too painfully within her chest. The molten air smelled faintly of pine from the rough planks that covered the walls and the heavy, wide benches that ringed the room. Two small candles cast patches of light in one far corner.
They both stood still a moment, letting the heat from the glowing red rocks in the brazier seep into their bones.
Melting ice dripped from Clayton’s hat across the dried blood of his cut, trailing streaks to his chin.
Olivia took the towel from him and dipped it in the water. “We should clean your wound.”
The corner of his mouth inched upward. “It hardly qualifies as a wound.”
The cut wasn’t bad, only an inch long, and the bleeding had already stopped. But she had to do something that involved touching him.
He’d been incredible. And terrifying. She’d never seen a man move with such grace and precision. “Can all spies fight like that?”
He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the cut. “Most of the useful tricks I know came from Ian. But all spies have some training.”
“You were amazing.”
“The Trio had more practice than most.” He tilted his head after he finished speaking. “I expected that to come out with more bitterness. See what you do to me?”
“What do I do to you?”
Clayton stripped off his greatcoat, then his gloves. She loved that he didn’t hesitate before removing them this time. “Get out of your wet things, and I’ll show you.”
But he apparently didn’t think she was quick enough at following his directions, because his hands were suddenly on her shoulders, lifting her sodden pelisse away. With the callused pad of his thumb, he brushed the powder burn on the back of her hand. “Next time I tell you to run, you don’t come back.”
“Your death didn’t work so well for me before.”
Clayton laid her wet cloak over one of the benches that lined the walls of the room. “If both of us had died, no one would translate the code.”
Ah, the one time she thought she’d actually been selfless, she’d been selfish after all.
She barely registered what he was doing before her dress was draped over the bench, followed by her petticoats and stays. She kicked off her shoes, leaving her clad only in her shift an
d stockings. She should be shocked, but anticipation was flowing too swiftly for that. “What was this you had to show me?”
He lifted the cool rag to trace across her forehead, down her cheek, and under her jaw. “The Russians claim these baths have great restorative powers.”
She swallowed. “Is that so?” The cloth was cheap and coarse. It shouldn’t feel like paradise on her skin.
And from Clayton’s heavy gaze, he knew it did, too.
“From the steam?” she managed to ask.
“The steam’s only a small part of the tradition.” Clayton dipped the cloth in the bowl behind him, then trailed it down the other side of her face. “After relaxing in the steam, most Russians would run outside and roll in the snow.”
She longed to quench her heated flesh in the icy powder. The shock. The clarity. How could she have dreaded the cold seconds ago? Anything would be preferable to this inferno in her blood. “Naked? Like you aren’t?”
She couldn’t help it. Clayton inspired pure wickedness in her.
“Ah, but I must see to you first.”
“You always do.”
Clayton’s hand slowed for an instant where he dabbed along her throat.
Perhaps she’d said too much. “So they are naked, writhing in the snow. Then what happens?”
He resumed his ministrations. “Then they return to the steam and throw more water on the coals, raising the temperature even higher.”
Why did they need water to do that? The room was growing hotter all on its own.
She needed to move far, far away from this. But she said, “What next?”
“The attendants would rub their bodies, releasing any tightness. Soothing sore muscles.” He moved behind her, his hands lifting to her shoulders. His fingers, still cool from the water, dug into her neck and she leaned into them. How could she not?
He kneaded his way down her back. “Then more steam and more cold.”
More, more, more was the only thing her fevered brain understood.
She jerked as water replaced his hands, the sopping cloth leaving small strokes of comfort on her neck. The liquid dripped from the cloth, under her shift, down the length of her body.