But she wasn’t a virgin and hadn’t been for some time.
So, he hadn’t loved his “wife.” No wonder there was no trace of her in Andrew’s belongings, and Gemma had searched diligently when she had a spare moment in her days. She’d put her hands in pockets and drawers and riffled through the pages of books. A horrible thought came to her, a reason why he had chosen to immure himself on the stormy, barren rock. “Did you steal your son away? K-kidnap him?”
He flashed her a hostile look. “I may be capable of much, Miss Peartree, but not that. His parents are both dead. Murdered. Because of me and what I’d helped them do. That brings my personal death toll up to four. I took Marc out of Italy so he wouldn’t be his cousin’s next victim, changed my name, got so far away I’ve fallen off the face of the earth.”
She looked at the puckered red scar that blossomed beneath his shoulder and ran to his elbow, the only blemish on his exquisite body. “Was that how you were injured?”
He flicked a dismissive wrist at her. “Yes, yes. Gianni’s henchman’s aim was bad. I was meant to die, too. I didn’t. Oh, wait. That makes five. I killed him, too.”
Five. But the last must have been in self-defense. The others—perhaps he twisted the truth to torture himself further. Fate had not been kind to him thus far. But she was here now.
He had been saved for her, but she didn’t dare tell him that. He would think her quite mad, but she was a big believer in Fate. Her mother had often said things happen for a reason, even if the reason was not immediately apparent or seemed hopelessly wrong. It had been Fate that caused her to see the advertisement for a governess in The London List buried among the others, Fate that brought her to this isolated island splendor, Fate that had her standing trembling with nerves and cold by the side of Andrew’s bed.
She had been so certain that one night with Andrew Ross would make her forget everything and everyone that came before him. That it would be enough to keep her warm when he sent her away, as she knew he would. Their mistletoe kiss had been tinged with recognition and regret. Gemma had been quite prepared to use him, much as one used an ivory back scratcher to satisfy an itch.
But what he had told her complicated everything. He’d already been used in unconscionable ways, had paid a terrible price no matter the amount of fortune he’d earned. More than his arm was damaged.
She could help drive his demons away, she was sure of it. But she had to convince him, and just at present he did not look ready to receive her with open arms. She sat down gingerly at the edge of the bed.
“Go away,” he growled.
“No.”
“Damn it! Is the truth not sordid enough for you? Must you examine me like a bug under a microscope? Getting your fill of what sin looks like?”
She swallowed back an inappropriate giggle. He was being so dramatically gothic, except it was impossible for him to look like a gargoyle. She would indeed like to examine him, touch his skin, brush away the worry lines on his forehead. Soothe him as she was able to calm Marc from a bad dream.
Gemma had never shied from a challenge, and Andrew Ross was the most challenging man she had ever encountered, far more frightening than her cold, aristocratic father or the devious Franz.
She leaned forward, so quickly he had no time to escape her, brushing her lips against his ear. “My name is Gemma. But I’m not Miss Peartree, not really. I just thought you should know in case you want to say something nice to me at some point or other.”
CHAPTER 14
One answer, but so many questions left. She might have been speaking an African dialect. Right this minute he didn’t care what her name was, or who she was, or why she was here. How was he to rid himself of her when she hadn’t flinched at the truth? She darted above him like a golden butterfly, the filmy material of her robe gossamer against his skin, her hair cascading in molten waves in the firelight.
Gemma.
She was a jewel who shone so bright he had to close his eyes.
“Get out. I mean it. Gemma.” Her name was as sweet as honey on his tongue. He could push her away—fling her really, like a rag doll. She didn’t weigh anything, but his arms lay leaden at his side. Her fingertips skimmed across his chest, and he shivered.
“Did you not hear me? I’m responsible for five deaths, Miss Peartree.”
“Gemma,” she reminded him.
“Forgive me if I can’t adjust to this fascinating new knowledge. I don’t care what your name is anymore. I want you to go to your room and pack your bloody trunk. You’ll leave on the ferry tomorrow.”
“No. I really have nowhere to go. I am an orphan.” The little witch lay down beside him, staring at the firelight dancing on the ceiling. Her chin was set at its usual stubborn angle, and her hands were crossed over her sheer negligee like an effigy.
“I don’t give a damn. A man like me doesn’t pay attention to petty details like that. Go back to England and sell oranges at Covent Garden for all I care.”
Andrew tried to gather up his sheet to wrap it around him so he could get out of bed, but Miss Peartree—Gemma—was lying on it. He yanked, but she wouldn’t budge. But hell, she’d already seen him in all his naked glory, her doe-eyes wide with interest. He bounced off the bed and put on his dressing gown.
“I will count to ten, Miss Peartree, and you will leave, or I’ll open my window and pitch you straight down on the rocks.”
“No, you won’t,” she said, quite calm.
“You will not seduce me, no matter how many hours you lie in my bed. I’ll leave—I’ll go sleep in another room.”
“Your bed is very comfortable, isn’t it? Mine is hard as a monk’s. Maybe you can order me a new feather mattress the next time you make a list.”
“There will be no next time, Miss Peartree. You are dismissed. Your position is terminated. You are relieved of duty. You will get the hell out of my house even if I have to dump your naked body on the boat tomorrow morning myself.”
“Are you asking me to disrobe?”
“No, damn it! You are the most provoking little thing.” He stopped pacing, realizing he must look ridiculous stalking about like a wild animal. He threw himself down on the ratty chair by the fire and snarled, “Onetwothree.”
She didn’t move. If anything, he thought she wiggled into his pillow to get more comfortable.
Did she not know how desperate he was becoming? Of course she did—she was a wicked faerie, an evil pixie, the Temptress of Batter Island. “Please, Gemma.”
She leaned up on her elbows, baring her breasts beneath the diaphanous fabric. His mouth dried.
“If you’re worried about someone finding out, they never will. When the MacLarens come tomorrow with Marc, things will be back to normal.”
“Normal! Have you listened to a word I’ve said? I am not normal. And I’m not going to fuck you. Ever. Get out. I’ve asked nicely. I called you by your name. This has gone too far.”
“We are both adults.”
“I am your employer, that’s all. Don’t make me one of those blackguards who takes advantage of the servants.”
By God, the little imp was grinning at him. “I believe it is I that is trying to take advantage of you. And you’re making it most difficult.”
He saw his entrée. “Are you trying to trap me into marriage? It won’t work. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on earth.”
She sat up now, her hair cascading down her front, covering what he most longed to see. “I haven’t said one word about marriage. I’m only proposing pleasure. It’s clear to me you’re wound tight as a spring. I could help relieve you.”
He barked in laughter. “Really, Gemma. I have hands. I just jerked off in the bed you’re lying in.”
She actually raised her nose and sniffed like a dog. By God, he was going to throw himself out the window and fall to the rocks.
“Did you? No matter. I’m sure your manhood has had sufficient time to recover. Although I shall expect you to withdraw like a ge
ntleman in any case. It would not do for me to fall pregnant just yet.”
“Just yet? Just yet!” he sputtered.
She waved a small white hand. “You know what I mean. I suppose at some point I will have to consider matrimony. I’m not too keen, to be frank. People like my mother—like you—are temptations most people can’t resist. Fidelity is a rare commodity. I could go on being a governess indefinitely, I suppose. I’m good with children, and I love Marc. But someday I might like a child of my own.”
This conversation was growing more fantastic by the minute. “And who will be the lucky father?” Andrew sneered.
“I have no idea. I wouldn’t like to saddle myself with someone too dull and worthy. We should not suit.”
“Any man who marries you should be clapped in Bethlem Hospital with the rest of the unfortunates.”
“You’re hardly in a position to judge. Some might call you the lunatic. You have a willing woman in your bed and there you sit, your dressing gown tied up to your chin. We are quite alone. No one will descend upon us for hours and hours. What harm can we cause each other? If you are determined to send me away, why not say good-bye properly?”
She sounded so damned reasonable. She looked so damned beautiful. He tried to conjure up the first day he met her, when she was a filthy, smelly little ragamuffin, and failed.
He was so very tired of being good.
“I will not marry you. And you will have to leave after.”
“So you said. Please don’t repeat yourself. I might become bored.”
Andrew was across the carpet in three strides. In seconds, both his robe and the transparent nightgown were tossed aside and Gemma’s gamine body covered his. She was surprisingly smooth and warm for such a bony little thing, pouring over him as though she were vanilla custard. But there was nothing bland about the kiss she gave him. She cupped his face, licking the seam of his lips like a starving child.
It was he who was hungry. He held her to him so there was not a sliver of space between them, stroking her back and her bottom. Her skin was velvet, her kiss victorious. He had no will to fight as she nipped and parried and swirled.
He was perfectly content to lie back and let her kiss him. She was so good at it, with just the right amount of pressure on his lips, delightful wiggles against his body and endearing, enthusiastic groans. Her hair fell like a silk curtain around them, filling his senses with lemon. She tasted of tooth powder and innocence, although someone must have taught her to kiss. No one was born with such skill. Andrew was the beneficiary, and he had no complaints until her soft lips left his. He stayed his objection as she traced her tongue down the column of his throat. His pulse point jumped, and he felt her smile over it as she kissed him back to life.
He was rock-hard again, his manhood jutting into her flat belly. He might come just from the sweet friction of her skin against his like a schoolboy, though Gemma was no schoolgirl despite her diminutive size.
It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to feel anything. Most coupling was simply perfunctory—he had a job to do, and he did it for any fleeting sensation and the permanent benefits at the end. His bank account was proof that he, too, was good at what he did, good especially at convincing himself that all pleasure was equal. But Gemma was a distinct departure from his usual conquests.
He had not even tried to seduce her. Not in his waking hours anyhow. Yes, he’d teased her. It had been impossible not to. Impossible not to kiss her tonight, when every other man had and grinned like fools after.
Impossible not to kiss her now, as he pulled her back up before he spilled his seed as she kissed her way down his chest. A few more inches and her mouth would be on his cock and the night would be over before it started. Enticing as the act was, he wanted to be inside her. Needed to be inside her.
She slithered on top of him like a sinuous golden serpent, squeezing his heart, a heart he’d ignored far too long. He’d give himself this one night. An early Christmas present. He had the self-discipline, and more important, he still had a shred of sense. Andrew could not embark on a full-blown affair with his son’s governess. Such a plot might end happily in gothic novels, but in real life he could not marry Gemma or any woman. He’d been bent so long he couldn’t remember ever standing tall.
But tonight was not for reminiscing or recriminations. Tonight was for desire.
He skimmed his hands down her sides to her narrow hips.
“Gemma,” he whispered against her mouth.
Her lashes fluttered against his cheeks. “Mm.”
“Get on your knees. Straddle me. Do you know what I want?” He watched the blush sweep across her delicate features as she nodded.
He would watch her rise and sink above him. His cock twitched in anticipation.
She scrambled up on her haunches, self-consciously twisting her hair to one side to fall at her waist. He flicked back a curl. “Don’t cover yourself.”
“There’s nothing to see.”
Her nipples were large and a shade darker than her tawny skin, her breasts the merest hint of curve. “You are exquisite.”
“And you are a liar.”
“I don’t think so. You’re a pretty little package.”
“I look like a boy. Oh! I didn’t mean—” She put a hand over her mouth.
“Like no boy I’ve ever been with. It’s all right. I can’t change my past.”
This was the strangest encounter he’d ever had, awkward yet oddly liberating. His cards, dingy as they were, lay on the table. There was no pretense between them, no promises. He’d fantasized long enough about this very scenario. In minutes—seconds—he would either be thrilled or disappointed.
When she took his cock in her hand, he had his answer.
Heaven. But she stroked him far too gently.
“I won’t break,” he ground out. Covering her hand with his, he set the pace, aware of her warm weight resting on his thighs. Was it his imagination, or did her wet center weep on his skin? A probing finger assured him she was as ready as he.
Her kisses and touches had shown artful intent, and her original proposal before his confession was shocking indeed. All that talk about kissing her breasts, which he had yet to do, unfortunately. He guessed she was not still a virgin, for which he was grateful. Much the better. He had no wish to hurt her as he lifted her over his cockstand. As she guided him into her tight, slick sheath, every inch of him was alert to that artful intent. She contracted around him, a shy yet satisfied smile on her rose-tinted lips.
Gemma was the antithesis of her ragamuffin self. Somehow she’d turned into a pocket Venus, wise beyond her years and skilled beyond his dreams. She eased up and down, gliding effortlessly, almost mechanically, squeezing his cock with delicious precision. When her hand slipped down between her brown curls, Andrew realized just how selfish he was.
Bracing himself with his good arm, he pushed up to sit with Gemma firmly impaled in his lap. Her eyes blinked with questions, but he gave her the answer as he bent to take a peaked brown nipple in his mouth and work his fingers on her clitoris. He was rewarded with almost immediate unpracticed shudders of pleasure as her hands smoothed over him, her passage clenched tight around him.
He didn’t even have to move. She drew him in deeper, milking his cock until he couldn’t think to do anything but kiss her. Every place he could reach, and that would never be enough. He was drowning in Gemma—her scent, her wet softness. He was gloved tight within, her perfection a stark reminder that he didn’t deserve her. Deserve this.
But if he stopped, he’d simply die. So he suckled and stroked using all his skill and more until her crisis came and she shivered against him, crying his name.
Crying real tears, too. Sweet rivulets of silver that mixed with the sweat of their bodies. He kissed them away, then fell backward on the bed to reap his own reward. His balls seized, and he attempted to lift her away. Despite what she had said, she hung on, riding him through her bliss to his own, writhing over him wit
h abandon until he had no choice but to spill deep within her. He should be, but was not, sorry.
“My name is Rossiter,” he said, surging up into her. “Andrew Rossiter.” It seemed only fair that he introduce himself, too.
CHAPTER 15
Andrew lay on his back, spent. Gemma was still perched on top of him, her tiny body quaking. Her nipples had darkened, swollen from being tugged between his teeth and tongue. Her skin was the color of sherried cream in the firelight, flecked with bits of chocolate beauty marks. He had never felt so perfectly seated in any human being—it was as though this little brown sprite had been constructed bone by delicate bone just for him to wipe away the years of excess. Flushed with orgasm, she was so exquisite she took his breath away.
It took him a while to find his voice, and longer to find the right words. In his previous life, he would have assured his partner that he had never before experienced such ecstasy. Tonight, those words seemed truer than they ever had, but he dared not say them. He settled for neutral; she could interpret any meaning she chose.
“That was a surprise.”
She misunderstood him, looking embarrassed.
“You are wondering why I wasn’t a virgin, aren’t you?”
Blast. If anyone was to feel guilt, it should be he. “No, not at all. I—”
She put a finger to his lips. “You told me all your secrets. Now let me tell you mine.”
Yes, he’d told her too much already and still hadn’t repelled her. But she didn’t know everything and never would—he could scarce remember all the dismal details himself. “It’s none of my business, Gemma. I can hardly make accusations in my position.”
She smiled down impishly. “I rather like you in this position, Mr. Rossiter.” She had been paying attention. “You are exactly right where I want you to be.”
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