Master of Sin

by Maggie Robinson

  “I believe he’s spent most of his adult life in England. And traveled, of course.” To Italy, where he was paid to father a child. She firmly pushed the thought out of her mind.

  MacEwan settled his bulk on a fading chair near the fire and looked around the room. “Hasn’t done much with the place, has he? Doesn’t he have the blunt?”

  “Mr. Ross has written to his friend. With a list of things to purchase for the cottage. And my school,” she said brightly, trying to steer the conversation to safer territory. “Did you explain the idea to your people?”

  “Aye. You’ll have better luck getting the girls to come, I think. But I’ll drop a few more words before I leave.”

  “Thank you. You must want to spend Christmas with your family.”

  “I would if I had one. My men are a poor substitute. I don’t suppose,” he said with a devilish grin, “you’d like the job of Lady MacEwan?”

  Gemma swallowed hard. “You are not serious, my lord.”

  “Who says I am not? You’re a taking little thing, although I liked last night’s dress much better.”

  “But—but I—”

  “Dinna fash yourself, Miss Peartree. I see where your interests lie. I’ll not be playing second fiddle to your employer, though he should make an honest woman out of you if you live alone in this house together.”

  It was inconceivable that Lord MacEwan knew what had transpired last night, yet somehow Gemma was certain he had guessed. Did she look different this morning? More womanly? Well-pleasured? She crossed her arms over her chest, locking her hands around her elbows and put on Miss Meredith’s sternest expression.

  “I assure you, sir, that there is absolutely nothing untoward going on in this house. My first and only priority is Marc. I am a v-virtuous woman.”

  The MacEwan threw back his head and laughed. It was on this note that Andrew entered the house, slamming the door once again. He paused at the threshold, taking in the MacEwan sitting comfortably on the tatty chair and Gemma looking daggers at him.

  “What’s all this?”

  “N-nothing, Mr. Ross. Lord MacEwan came by to discuss the school plans.”

  Andrew frowned. “The school.”

  “Aye. The school. I told your little governess that I’ve spoken to the islanders. She tells me you made a list of supplies for it. Did you get it to the ferrymen this morning before the boat went off?”

  Andrew’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I gave it to someone yesterday. The boat was gone by the time I got to the landing today,” he muttered.

  Clearly, he was unhappy about that, but Gemma experienced a jump of joy. He couldn’t get rid of her quite yet. Unless—

  “MacEwan, would you consider taking a passenger back with you when you leave?”

  “As long as you know I’ve one more stop to make before we head home. What’s your business on the mainland, Mr. Ross?”

  “It is not I we’re talking about. Miss Peartree has decided her position does not suit.”

  “I have not!” countered Gemma. She was not going to let him force the issue in front of MacEwan and meekly submit to his edict.

  “There seems to be some difference of opinion,” MacEwan said, stretching his long legs out before him. “Perhaps I can act as judge. As laird, I’m often called to settle disputes between tenants on my land.”

  “You forget you sold me this property, MacEwan. I’m not your tenant.”

  “Och. The legalities. Perhaps I can act as a friend, then.” He winked at Gemma. “What becomes of the school then if Miss Peartree leaves?”

  “I don’t give a damn about the school. Miss Peartree, I’d like to speak to you. Alone,” Andrew said pointedly.

  Gemma looked from one man to the other. MacEwan was enjoying this contretemps far too much. Andrew looked ready to throttle someone.

  “Go on then,” MacEwan said expansively, relaxing in his chair. “I’ll just wait for the verdict. But you should know we leave this evening. Time and tide tarry on for no man. Or woman.”

  Gemma followed Andrew down the hall to the kitchen. Her fire was crackling merrily, but she was cold nonetheless. “You cannot send me away!” she burst out.

  “I told you I would.” His voice was level. Calm. Dispassionate, and Gemma wanted to take her fists to him. Or kiss him. She wasn’t sure which.

  “I’ll go, but not today. I—I can’t. I feel most unwell.”

  Andrew’s concern showed for a moment, but then his mask slipped back on. “No doubt it’s the fault of all the punch you drank. You’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t leave Marc. Not like this.”

  “This is exactly the best time to go. He’s with the MacLarens and won’t be disturbed by your packing. I’ll give you plenty of money, Gemma. You needn’t worry about starving. More than enough to tide you over until you find another situation.”

  He sounded resolute. Gemma was desperate.

  “You can’t send me away with Stephen MacEwan. He asked me to marry him. I said no, but I don’t trust him an inch. He’ll—he’ll take advantage of me. I know it. He’s a brute.”

  “Did he touch you?” Andrew snarled.

  “Yes.” But not today.

  “I knew it! School be damned. The bastard!”

  Blood would not improve the parlor’s décor. Gemma did not want to be the cause of any, fearing it would be Andrew’s that would be spilled, brawling with a man who was taller, heavier, and had the full use of both his arms. She touched his elbow. “Don’t confront him. I promise you I will leave on the next ferry in two weeks’ time. That will give me time to pack and plan, and for you to arrange for a woman from the village to care for Marc. Surely you can put up with me for two weeks. It’s almost Christmas. You can’t turn me out at Christmas. I have nowhere to go.” She fluttered her lashes, making it look as though she was blinking back tears. If he sent her away, she would cry for real.

  Andrew hesitated. She was playing on his sympathy, being such an object of pity. Soon she would do everything in her power to make herself irresistible. But today, she sniffed loudly and wiped away a nonexistent tear. Francesca Bassano would have been proud.

  Gemma was spared from finding out whether her dramatics were successful when the kitchen door blew open. “Mamma!” Marc cried, bundled up in Mrs. MacLaren’s arms. His face was scarlet, and Mrs. MacLaren made a vain attempt to wipe away the snot under his little nose. “L’ho mancata!” He burst into tears. Gemma dashed across the room and grabbed him, wet and lumpy, kissing his cheeks and murmuring in Italian.

  Mrs. MacLaren erupted in a torrent of Gaelic. The commotion was loud enough to rouse the MacEwan from the parlor. He towered over the housekeeper as she gestured, pointing first to Marc and then to Andrew. MacEwan nodded sagely.

  “What’s the matter with him? Is he ill?” Andrew asked, a touch of panic in his voice.

  “Not at all. Mrs. MacLaren said he was fine, playing with her grandchildren until you showed up. Then he decided he missed Miss Peartree. And you, I suppose. He’s been shrieking his head off ever since you left the village. She thought it best to bring him home.”

  Gemma snuggled with the boy. He’d called her mamma, said he missed her. Andrew couldn’t possibly turn her out today. He’d have to have a heart of stone.

  “Grazi, bambino,” Gemma whispered in his ear. “Thank you.” Marc gave her a snotty kiss and hiccupped.

  “See here. I know you think it’s none of my business, Ross, but that child will have a fit if you send Miss Peartree away. Just look at them, like a Madonna and child, if the baby Jesus was wearing a sweater. I’d think twice about dismissing her.”

  “As you said,” Andrew ground out, “it’s none of your business. I’ll see to my own servants.”

  “And that’s another thing.” MacEwan threw an arm around the housekeeper protectively. “Mrs. MacLaren will return tomorrow. Her nerves are quite overset what with Marc carrying on so and all the revelry last night. She’s going home to take a nap. That’s if her g
randchildren can quiet down. Marc evidently spurred them on to a bit of a riot.”

  A muscle twitched in Andrew’s cheek. “Bloody wonderful. I suppose we’ll manage.”

  MacEwan grinned hugely, reveling in Andrew’s obvious discomfort. “Well, I’ll just get my hat and gloves and escort Mrs. MacLaren back home then, aye? I’ll be out again in the spring to collect the rents. Keep warm over the winter. Miss Peartree, it was pure pleasure meeting you. If you need anything, anything at all, I’m at your service.”

  “Th-thank you,” Gemma said faintly. With a few whispered words to the old woman, he left with her by the front door. Marc burrowed down into Gemma’s shoulder, ignoring the tension in the kitchen.

  “I’ll just bring Marc upstairs,” she said, breaking the silence.

  “Don’t think this is the end of it,” Andrew growled. “You’ll leave in two weeks. No stratagem will change my mind.”

  We’ll see about that. With a brisk nod, Gemma left him alone to stew.

  CHAPTER 17

  He’d waited in his empty library. Waited and drank until his empty stomach rebelled and his mind emptied of everything save the pain in his gut.

  He listened. The house was never quiet—there was always the rattling of window frames, groaning floorboards, the blasting wind and splashing water outside. But right now it was as still as it was apt to ever be. Hours ago he’d heard Gemma sing to Marc—Italian lullabies mixed with snatches of songs that seemed familiar to him. Her voice was as sweet as the rest of her.

  She would be asleep by now. It was safe to go upstairs and spend the night staring at the bedroom ceiling rather than the library ceiling. There was a damp patch that he could focus on by candlelight. Perhaps the whole bloody thing would fall on his head and put him out of his misery.

  He took off his boots and climbed the thinly carpeted stairs. It wouldn’t do to wake his son. He had refused a nap all day, clinging to Gemma like a monkey, afraid to let her out of his sight. Preventing Andrew from having a civil conversation and laying down the law about the rest of the time that remained. He wondered if Gemma had used his son as some sort of shield.

  No. Her feelings for Marc were genuine. She’d worked wonders with him in the month they’d been stuck out here. He was now sleeping through the night. There had been no night terrors or accidents. He babbled in English. All Gemma’s doing, not his father’s.

  He pushed open his bedroom door and paused on the threshold, his heart stopping along with his feet. The firelight in the grate flickered, revealing an odalisque rivaling any artist’s rendition.

  Gemma slept in his bed, her hair braided to the side and tied with a scrap of green ribbon. Her narrow back and bottom curved in invitation. If she woke and looked over her shoulder at him, he would be undone.

  The covers were folded back neatly. The exposure—this revelation—of her body was not accidental. She must know the image she presented anyone who walked through the door. But there was no one but Andrew to discover her, no one but Andrew to tempt beyond bearing.

  The bloody girl wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was as if she’d lost all her facility with the English language even as she taught it to Marc. Andrew had been blunt. Dismissive. Cruel. About the only thing he hadn’t done was take his fists to her, and only because if his hands drew near, they would forget to be instruments of pain and turn to her pleasure. His pleasure, too. She’d lit a spark within him he had thought long extinguished.

  Gemma might be an orphaned courtesan’s daughter with a rackety upbringing, but she deserved more than Andrew could give her. If she wasn’t so bloody pigheaded, so bloody perverse, so bloody perfect—

  She turned in her sleep, one small hand still tucked beneath her ear. She was on her back now, her chest rising and falling, her nipples stiff from the cold room despite the fire. Andrew stared as the shadows danced across her creamy skin, flitting fingers pointing to each gentle curve, each tiny chocolate birthmark, each gilt strand in her loosely bound hair. He’d been so wrong about her before. She wasn’t simply brown all over, but bronze and gold, almond and apricot, chestnut and copper.

  “Get out.” He’d intended to bark, but his mouth was so dry his voice was barely above a whisper. She slept on, her face as innocent as a child’s, her straight brows relaxed. She seemed to think the better of her position in her dreams, and presented him her lovely arse again as she rolled to her side.

  If she wouldn’t get out, he would. He stumbled down the stairs like a blind man in perpetual darkness. He should have gone to one of the spare rooms, but it was too late to mount the stairs again when it would only lead him closer to Gemma.

  The parlor fire had died hours ago. Andrew worked it to feeble flames and sat down on the sagging couch. Gemma had slept here when she first came. He could, too. With more whiskey anything was possible. There was a bottle now here as well as his library. One in his bedroom. Several in the kitchen, always at hand for a man who was trying to drive his demons away. He poured himself yet another glass, then set it abruptly back on the table.

  Overindulgence in spirits had never been one of his sins. In the past, he’d needed his wits about him to make sure events unfolded in precisely the ways he wished them to. Drink was for the weak or the merry, and he was neither. Marc was too young to notice he had an incipient sot for a father, but Gemma would know. She’d seen him in his cups since that misbegotten ceilidh, bit her beautiful lip but said nothing. She had to know she was the reason for the current fall from his graceless state.

  No. He couldn’t blame her. She had some misguided notion that her love would heal him, as if a quarter of a decade of sin could be erased by a faerie’s solemn kiss.

  Andrew had not let her utter another word about her dismissal, and now she’d taken matters into her own hands and into his own bed. It was Christmas Eve, and she lay like a present, already unwrapped.

  He knew now what it felt like to be buried inside her. To touch her bare, dusky skin. To smell the lemon fragrance as her body heated. To hear her call his name. To watch her come apart. He was denying himself what he most wanted, but he could not give in to his desire again. In a little more than a week he would never see her again. Best to have their one night to savor as he spent the rest of his life doing penance.

  Marc would be fine. Andrew would find another relative of Mrs. MacLaren’s to help young Mary with his son. The child would forget Gemma soon enough.

  But would Andrew? He’d carried a torch for Caro for years. He was steadfast, in his fashion, still able to satisfy others sexually while he fantasized about his first love. But Caro hadn’t once intruded in his mind the other night. It had been Gemma, and only Gemma.

  He buzzed her name between his lips, able finally to put a name to the piquant little face and body that had so enthralled him. It suited her. She was like polished topaz, golden amber. Citrine. Cat’s-eye. Cut perfectly into spare angles and planes.

  Groaning, he picked up his glass again, swirling the liquid. The color reminded him of Gemma’s eyes.

  He was simply going mad.

  What state would he be in a year from now, alone with Marc and makeshift nursemaids? He pictured himself wizened and wild eyed, his arm still useless. He’d not be fit to be anyone’s father.

  Maybe Caro and Christie could take the boy, hire Gemma back, and raise him as their own. Caro loved children, and Christie would see it as his Christian duty to save Marc from his sinful father. Marc would lead a normal life with a normal family, not be set adrift on Batter Island to be forever in isolation.

  It was the ideal solution—Andrew wondered why he’d not thought of it before. He’d write the letter tonight. He drained his glass and set it on the rug.

  Could he give up his son? He had before. But then, Marc had been an abstract infant, faceless in Giulietta’s occasional letters. Now he saw himself in his son, the Rossiter cleft in his chin, his fair curls, his ice-blue eyes. Someone vigilant was needed to protect him from the predators that were sure to
be drawn to Marc’s angelic good looks.

  Virtuous Edward Christie would do better than amoral Andrew Rossiter. He may have changed his name to Ross, but he was still the same man underneath.

  Andrew felt more than a moment of regret, but he went into his library and penned his plea by candlelight. Any favor Christie owed him had long been returned, and asking this was surely too much.

  The words did not come easily, and he went through several sheets of foolscap until he got the right tone. The clock struck one. Some happy Christmas, when he was giving his only treasure away. But it would take weeks to hear back, and then the answer might be no.

  Without the responsibility to protect Marc, he could go anywhere. Be anybody. The thought should have lifted his spirits, but it did not. Instead, he was strangled in a kind of sorrow he’d never before experienced.

  The kind of sorrow that made one’s life seem pointless.

  The kind of sorrow that made one desperate. Reckless.

  The kind of sorrow that pushed one into the arms of the willing woman waiting for him upstairs.

  He would deny himself everything. Later. His child. His woman. He’d go back to his old life, collect his money, breeze by without a care in the world. But tonight—

  It was Christmas. A night of stars and miracles.

  He left the ink to dry on his letter and navigated through the dark house. His door stood open as he’d left it, a spill of firelight into the hall. To his great disappointment, Gemma had pulled his coverlet up. The sound of her even breathing told him she slept, unaware of his presence or his desire. But she was not here by accident, by a wrong turn, or by mistaken invitation. She knew what his intentions toward her had been and had defied him, unrolling nude like Cleopatra from her rug. But she’d wrapped back up. He would have to remedy that.

  He dropped his wrinkled clothes to the chair, wishing he’d availed himself of a bath earlier. Gemma would have to take him as he was, punchy from too little sleep and too much whiskey. He wiped a hand over his face, feeling the golden bristles that had been undisturbed by a razor since the night of the ceilidh.