by Anna Randol
“I never thought to be jealous of water.” He traced a finger down one of the paths onto her collarbone, then followed its descent to the neckline of her shift. He paused.
He was holding his breath, awaiting her decision. She knew with certainty that if she remained still he’d stop. But if she arched, driving his finger lower . . .
She arched.
His finger slipped beneath the neckline. With a groan, Clayton cupped her breast fully, pulling her back flush against his chest.
“I’ve never had such trouble focusing on a code in my life. Do you know how these tight nubs taunted me? How long I’ve imagined how they’d look bare to my gaze? I’ve dreamed about that for ten years.” He drew on the drawstring gathering the shift at her neck and tugged it loose. The garment slid off her shoulder, held up only by her back pressed against him and the swell of her breasts.
With a brush of his palm, the linen slid from one breast, baring it to him.
His chin rested on her shoulder and she knew he was studying her. She couldn’t help looking down, too. His hand was dark as it cupped the pale skin of her breast.
The contrast sent a stab of pure desire straight to her core.
He teased the tip with his thumb. His exhale was harsh. “It was worth the wait.”
When she shifted restlessly against him, the proof of his arousal pressed against her. When he groaned, she rubbed him again.
His hand tightened on her breast.
Apparently, he enjoyed that.
His other hand moved across her stomach, then dipped lower. She needed him to stop the ache. She twisted her hips. But rather than touch where she longed for him, his hand caressed down the front of her thigh.
She couldn’t help her small moan of disappointment.
“Did you want my hand somewhere else?”
“Yes!”
“No ‘please’ this time?”
She was past politeness. Past anything but needing him. “Touch me.”
His hand dipped between her legs. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder as the pleasure robbed her muscles of strength. He nipped her ear. “Whatever you desire.”
“You.” While her body hummed with the perfection of his caresses, her heart sang with the rightness of the man touching her. Slow circles. Bliss.
A new pressure began to build, radiating through her body from the sensitive flesh Clayton caressed.
She shifted against him, suddenly needing more than slow. She needed this moment of pleasure to remember when they both hated each other again.
But he seemed to know, increasing the pressure of his hand. More. She needed him. But she needed her hands on him, too. It wasn’t enough just to feel pleasure. She wanted to give it.
She twisted until her hands were on him, slipping under his shirt, exploring the smooth, hot skin of his chest.
It still wasn’t enough. She wanted him as wild as she was. She wanted him to be as mindless with pleasure as she was.
She leaned forward and touched her lips to his throat. Then, feeling bold, she flicked her tongue across the skin there.
His breath caught, then released in a shudder.
A wicked, contented smile stretched his lips. His face was relaxed, the glint in his eye almost devilish. He looked . . . happy.
She couldn’t let him open his heart to her like this.
She tried to banish the thought. Focus on his hands. On the fire in your blood. But it was too late.
It had been one thing to kiss and provoke him while he hated her. She’d been able to convince herself that there was nothing wrong with the small tastes of passion between them. That it wouldn’t mean anything to him even if it meant everything to her.
But he trusted her.
And he shouldn’t. And once he discovered the truth about the lies she’d told to hide her father’s condition and the money she’d found, he wouldn’t.
If she allowed this to progress between them, she’d hurt him.
She’d been naive enough to let that happen once, but now she’d do anything to stop it from happening again. She loved him too much.
He cupped her breast and brought her nipple to his mouth. The small flick of his tongue made everything blur. Her heart ceased beating and raced at the same moment. She couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes against the sharp pleasure coursing through her.
Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend his trust wouldn’t complicate things between them. That she could make love to him, and they could somehow overcome her lies.
But she couldn’t.
“Now about that birthday gift you owe me. The one I’d never forget?”
She’d tried to forget about that. His birthday would have come one week after he’d been arrested. She’d planned to make wild and passionate love to him. At least, as passionate as her innocent brain at the time could fathom. She’d interrogated the maids for weeks to figure out all the details. Why couldn’t he have reminded her of this yesterday, before her crisis of conscience? When she could have showed him exactly what she’d planned for him so long ago?
She wanted to rail at his poor timing. Instead, she lifted her brow. “It was an appointment book.”
“I almost wish that had been your gift. My younger self might never have recovered from his dashed hopes.”
She wished she’d thought of it then, too.
Except, inside the book she’d have written something utterly scandalous.
“We should see if the pamphlet will break the code.” Her voice was raspy and low in her throat. “Do you still have it?”
Clayton’s hand ceased its magic, and she cursed herself for the barest hint of uncertainty that crossed his features as he drew back from her. “Would you prefer I put my glove back on?”
She spun to face him so he couldn’t doubt her response. She caught his hand, raising it to her lips so she could kiss his knuckles. “No. It is not your hand.”
He frowned. “Then did I misread your permission earlier? Or your interest?”
“Neither of those things.”
“Then what the devil did I miss?”
“That I love you too much to make love while I’m hiding things from you.”
He stared at her. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened. “What are you hiding?”
“Things about the mill. And I cannot tell you my secrets if you’ll use them to destroy it.”
His face darkened. “If your secrets would destroy the mill, perhaps it’s simply a sign that it should be destroyed.”
“I refuse to accept that. Surely, there’s some compromise—”
“You tell me there are dark secrets about the mill and then expect me to work to safeguard it?”
She wanted to protest that the secrets weren’t dark. But they were. They were truths she’d hidden in order to restore the mill, and now there was no way to escape them. Not without hurting far too many families.
They were both silent for a moment.
“So shall we work on the code?” she finally asked.
“Perhaps that would be for the best.”
He pulled the pamphlet and the paper containing the code from inside his waistcoat pocket. Both were crinkled from moisture along the top edge, but it hadn’t touched the ink.
He handed them to her. “If you’ll allow me to see to my clothing, I’ll assist you in a moment.”
So formal. Her chest ached as she retied the strings of her shift.
Clayton shrugged out of his jacket, then began unfastening the buttons on his waistcoat. Olivia flashed her gaze to the walls of the room, not wanting to know if his breeches were going to follow. Not when she knew all too clearly what lay under them.
Had she truly just given up the opportunity to undo those buttons herself? To have his naked body pressed against hers? His fevered skin under her tongue?
I won’t listen for the rustle of fabric. I will not.
Bunches of slender branches were tied together and piled in the corner. Were t
hey used for cleaning somehow? But then she remembered the welts on the back of the previous occupant. Apparently, they had other uses.
Perhaps a solid flogging would distract her from thoughts of Clayton naked only a few feet behind her. But she wasn’t quite mad enough to try it. Olivia turned to another form of self-punishment. The code. She laid out the pages next to each other on the bench.
“So how do I do this?” she asked as she compared the two pages.
“Determine the numerical equivalent of the first letter in the pamphlet and subtract it from the numerical equivalent of the first letter on the coded page. You need to reverse how they coded it.”
But it wasn’t as simple as he made it sound. The Russian alphabet had thirty-three letters. And she had to stop and think out each one. She went through the process on a dozen letters, but Clayton still didn’t join her.
Against her better judgment she turned to check on him. He sat across from her, struggling to remove a boot, face contorted with pain.
The blow to his ribs.
She hurried to him and grabbed the heel of his boot. “You could have asked for help.”
“I can manage.”
Obviously, he couldn’t. But he was too stubborn to admit that.
“I think I saw a bit more than your bare feet earlier.”
She expected Clayton to laugh, but while his lips tilted slightly, his eyes grew hooded. “If you’re willing to let go of the mill, you can see it again.”
The oxygen ceased to exist. There was only heat. In the room. And in his gaze.
A bead of sweat slipped down her neck, then between her breasts.
Clayton followed it with his gaze.
She exhaled. “If you’re willing to abandon your plan.”
Clayton’s lips resumed their familiar stern line. “Your father needs to be brought to justice.”
She hadn’t expected his desire for her to be greater than his desire for revenge. So it shouldn’t sting so much that it wasn’t. “My father’s sick—”
“There is no other option.”
“Then you know why we cannot act on this.” She peeled down the top half of his boot, but it still refused to budge. “What in the blazes is wrong with your boot?”
That did return a slight smile to his face. “I feel better. I was quite appalled at my lack of progress.”
Glaring at his boot, she grabbed the heel by both hands and yanked hard. The boot popped free. The other, luckily, required only a small amount of coaxing.
“I think I can manage my stockings.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and his voice softened slightly. “Thank you for your help.”
It should be criminal the way he could make his voice low and rumbling like that. She wanted him to whisper like that all over her naked flesh.
Olivia retreated to the safety of the papers.
“Any progress?” Clayton asked from behind her.
Was he taking off his pants yet? Why was that the question of most importance to her brain tonight? She removed the cloth from the bowl of water and wiped the sweat from her face and arms, claiming any distraction she could. “Not yet.”
A few seconds later when Clayton stood beside her—still wearing his shirt and breeches—she’d finished the first line.
But it was gibberish. None of the letters combined into words that she recognized. In fact, they weren’t even words at all. No vowels.
Clayton brushed at the corner of her scowl with his thumb. “Then we try the next page and the next until we find the right one. If that doesn’t work then we go line by line. Then backwards.”
“But I was hoping for something. At least a sign we had the right pamphlet. This is nothing.”
Clayton frowned, then reached out and lifted her translation. “Too much of nothing.”
His brow furrowed as he rechecked her work, not needing to write things down as she had. After a moment, he rocked on his heels. “Out of all these letters, statistically, there should have been at least one vowel. There are none. You did break the code.” He picked up the quill. “We just were almost fooled by a second one.” With a few slashes of ink, he divided her line into grouped consonants. He read the line phonetically.
Vasin had taken out the vowels before he encoded it.
Olivia jumped to her feet and kissed Clayton on the cheek. “We’ve done it!” Or perhaps even better—they could do it. They might actually be able to stop the revolutionaries. She scooted aside as Clayton went through the rest of the paper with much greater efficiency.
She loved the way his quill scratched across the paper. The occasional grin he lifted in her direction that she couldn’t help returning. The flush to his cheeks, half heat, half excitement.
She leaned closer to his shoulder. She didn’t speak Russian well enough to divide the rows of letters into words on her own.
But Clayton seemed confident. Finally, he set down the quill.
“What does it say?”
He held out the paper and translated the words into English. “To my fellow lover of freedom: Three flags will free Russia from its shackles of corruption: A flag in the window of the Nevsky Monastery will bring the unrighteous to his knees. A flag by the westernmost cannon at St. Peter and Paul’s fortress will fell the mighty. A flag on the cupola at St. Igor’s will vanquish a crown. Then you will know the time is ready to light the fire of freedom.” He reread the page. “It’s a little more poetic in Russian.”
“I was rather hoping for a name.” She wiped at the sweat itching on her cheeks.
Clayton lifted the cloth from the bowl and scrubbed it over his face, then rinsed it before offering it to her. “This is a list of signs to be given to Vasin’s agents.”
“Agents?”
“Four of them, I suspect. One to coincide with each signal. And one to do the final act. This paper must have belonged to the man who is supposed to kill the czar.”
Olivia sat down with a thump on the bench. He didn’t seem surprised, but it had never occurred to her. She’d thought they would need to locate a single gunman and stop him. But four? “So what now?”
“We prevent the revolutionaries from giving the signals.”
“Will that prevent them from acting?”
“It’s our best option.”
Then that’s what they would do. “How far away is the monastery?”
“Not far. Perhaps twenty minutes.”
Her soaked dress hadn’t dried at all in the steamy room. It still dangled limp and heavy over the bench across from her. How long would it take it to refreeze once they returned outside? Longer than twenty minutes?
Clayton must have followed her gaze. “We’ll wait until Ian returns with supplies and a vehicle.”
“And what do we do until then?” she asked.
“We rest.” He sat on the bench next to her and pulled her against him.
“Clayton—”
“There is no mill here now, is there? Rest.”
Slowly, she allowed her head to press against his shoulder. His linen shirt was soft and smelled of him. She inhaled deeply, the warmth melting her bones and her resolve.
For a moment, Clayton’s head rested on hers.
“Can we just stay here?” she whispered.
“I am fairly certain you would die from the heat before too long.”
She turned her head and bit him lightly.
His exhale was half laugh.
“I need you to be clever for me,” she whispered. “I need you to find a way for us to both be satisfied with what happens to the mill.”
His lips brushed her hair. “You always were demanding.”
“I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“Why are you so certain you will? I’m not precisely fragile.” His muscles tightened under her cheek.
“Did you just tense to show off your muscles?”
His shoulder tensed again, even tighter this time.
A knock sounded on the door. Clayton was on his feet before it could open.
“I’ve returned victorious.” Ian sounded quite pleased with himself.
“That was fast even for you,” Clayton said.
“Did I interrupt?”
Clayton must have scowled because Ian laughed.
“I did interrupt. Madeline owes me a quid when I return. But now for the news—I know where to find Arshun.”
The sledge jostled over the uneven snow. They’d emerged into one of the older parts of St. Petersburg. Most of the buildings were wood and only a single story. Not a neighborhood Clayton associated with Arshun.
Ian pointed to a squat house a short distance down. Its windows had been papered to keep out the cold. And also, no doubt, so the police couldn’t see what was going on inside it.
“How did you find it?” Clayton asked.
“I’d like to claim something impressive, but as it turns out, your favorite lovable giant helped the count deliver boxes to several houses around the city. This was one of them. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“He said he didn’t know where Arshun was. I suppose I didn’t ask the right questions.”
“Blin knew?” Although she was finally dressed properly for the cold, with a fur hat, mittens, and coat, Olivia could barely keep her eyes open. And she had to be starving. They hadn’t eaten all day.
Ian was far too well trained to give in to his exhaustion, but the horses he drove had clumps of ice around their nostrils and his good cheer was a bit more forced than normal. “Indeed. And can I just say that man has pastries running through his veins? His tortes are divine.”
Secrets or no, Olivia was Clayton’s to protect. To watch after. He supposed many might think that obligation a burden, but he relished the right to claim the responsibility even as it terrified him. He cradled her against him, offering what little added warmth he could.
But Olivia had been correct earlier. No matter how irresistible and undeniable their attraction was, he couldn’t pursue her while he planned to ruin something she held dear.
Was there a way they could both be satisfied with what happened to the mill? What if he forced her father to sell the mill privately? He could punish her father but keep her safe. He could even arrange for the mill to be bought by a fair businessman so the townspeople she cared about could be safe. He could have his justice, but it wouldn’t affect those who didn’t deserve it.