She waited for a knock. An imploring word. There was nothing. Tearing off the plaid scarf, she listened for any sign of him, but only the pervasive wind rattled the windowpanes.
Good. She’d kept him at bay all through dinner, speaking in monosyllables and declining a warming tot of brandy to celebrate the end of 1820. She’d tucked Marc in bed and retreated to her room, where she armed herself with layers of off-putting clothing. Her final step was to lock herself in. She was not ready to discuss Andrew’s abrupt transformation.
He had proposed. Words that she’d wanted to hear for a month, but now that they had been spoken, Gemma’s heart was oddly disengaged. He was still wrong somehow, as wrong as he’d been when he denied she meant anything to him, as wrong as he’d been when he wanted to send Marc away, as wrong as he was to think he didn’t deserve happiness.
Perhaps she was being overly fussy. A proposal was a proposal, and Andrew’s was the first she’d ever received. Franz, to his credit, had never promised marriage—it had been Gemma who’d fantasized he was thinking the words he never said.
Gemma draped her robe onto a chair, crawled into bed, and drew the covers up around her ears. The quivering flames made a dozy random pattern in the ceiling, but it was not enough to lull her to sleep. In five minutes, she decided she was hot and removed one of the nightgowns. In another five, she kicked off the socks. After rolling around in the bed like a die tossed in a game of hazard, she pulled the last nightgown over her head, got up, and unlocked the door.
She was almost asleep when a shaft of light from the hall cut across the bedclothes. Andrew was at the door, holding a small glass oil lamp. Gemma blinked at the brightness.
“May I come in?”
“What choice do I have?”
He didn’t move. “You can say yes. Or you can say yes.”
“Just as I thought. I suppose you have a key for my door, too.”
“Yes. I would have been up earlier, but I had a devil of a time finding it. I’m glad I didn’t have to use it.”
Gemma sat up on the bed, clutching the quilts over her chest. “I’m not dressed.”
“I’m glad.”
He smiled then, and Gemma’s heart stuttered.
“Do you have the proper answer to my question, Gemma?”
“What question was that? I forget. You’ve said so much nonsense lately I barely listen to you.”
“I’ve been an ass. Don’t argue with me.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Gemma said dryly.
He came to her, placed the lamp on her bedside table, and sat down heavily. Gemma tried to stop herself from pitching into him and failed. His warm arm came around her, his lime scent engulfed her, and she whispered, “Yes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“N—nothing.”
“Between the crackle of the coals and the howl of the wind, I distinctly heard you say something.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Well, I’ve felt for weeks now this place was driving me mad. Now you’ve confirmed it.”
“What’s wrong with Gull House, precisely?”
Andrew scooted back on the bed and plumped pillows against the headboard, still managing to keep a hold on Gemma.
“There are numerous disadvantages to the property. It’s falling down faster than Mr. MacLaren can fix it.”
“He’s made considerable progress, considering the weather.”
“Ah, the weather. You asked what was wrong? Look out the window.”
Gemma didn’t bother to turn her head. “It’s too dark to see anything.”
“Exactly. Even if there was a moon, those damned clouds would obscure it. It’s always storming. A man likes to watch the stars when he can. I haven’t seen a star in ages.”
Gemma imagined Andrew as a boy, gazing up at a sooty Edinburgh sky. “I’m sure it doesn’t storm year-round. From what I’ve read in those bird journals, the weather becomes quite lovely. And the flora and fauna improve, too, with blossoming plants and the migration of geese.”
“Could have used one for our Christmas dinner.”
“We could celebrate Christmas in July again.” Gemma rested her hand on Andrew’s chest.
“The people here would think we’re cracked. But then, no one speaks English. Another point in its disfavor, and I’m too old to learn Gaelic.”
“Nonsense. One is never too old to learn anything. Education should be a lifelong occupation. And once my school gets going, the children at least will have some facility with the language.”
“That’s months and months away. Who do I talk to in the meantime?”
“Marc. And me.”
“You’ll grow sick of me.” He waited hopefully for her to deny it, but she wouldn’t. Not yet.
She felt his chin rest on her head and curled her body into him. He was very still, as if he didn’t trust that she was not fighting him off tooth and nail. Gemma watched the fire lick and tremble for some long minutes before she spoke again.
“I will consider this Caribbean business, but I think we need to make more of an effort to settle in here. The people have been very kind to you, and Marc is happy. It seems a shame to keep uprooting him.”
“This is the same argument you used about Marc going to the Christies. And how can you say the islanders have been kind? Think what they gave you to wear.”
“I have thought. And cursed over it, too. But they gave me what they had, even if it was stupendously ugly. I didn’t have to run about naked.”
“You’re naked now.” Andrew’s hand drifted under the quilt from her shoulder. She didn’t push him away when he found her nipple with casual exploration. She peaked between his thumb and forefinger, shivering.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admitted. Her body was in an utter state of confusion, first cold, then hot, now balanced between the two.
“I can fix that.”
She heard the desire in his sinful rumble. There lay the way to madness.
Abruptly, she extricated herself from his embrace. “Andrew, I know we are compatible physically. You know precisely what to do to cause pleasure, and any woman who marries you will be lucky indeed. But I want to be courted. I’ve never been. If anything, I courted Franz with silly letters and gifts. No one has ever taken the trouble for me.”
“Pardon?”
“You don’t have to love me—I don’t expect that. I know you’ve asked me to marry you because it’s the practical thing. I’m here; you’re here. I’m good with Marc. And for some reason I don’t repulse you. You’re looking for a steady life, and that’s to your credit. Really, I quite admire your change of heart.” Her words jumped around the room like drunken grasshoppers. Andrew stared at her in shock, watching her lips move as she rambled on as if he couldn’t quite hear her. “But if I marry you, I want to remember the days before everything turns to tedium. I want my heart to flutter. I want stolen glances. I want poetry.”
What she really wanted was an entire new brain. Her speech sounded absurd even to her own ears. But she wanted to give Andrew time to adjust to his newfound quest for respectability. This sudden turnaround made her nervous. If it didn’t stick, marriage to him would be heartbreaking, because while he did not love her, she was hopelessly, helplessly in love with him.
“You want poetry.” He spoke as if he were rising to the surface from a deep well.
Gemma nodded. “I don’t expect Shakespeare, but any few couplets will do, even if you copy them out of one of your books.”
“This is ridiculous.” He rolled off the bed. “We suit, Gemma. We can make a go of a marriage, even through the ‘tedium,’ as you call it. Why dress our relationship up with poetry and flowers? Flowers,” he snorted. “Just where do you recommend I get some?”
“There will be plenty of wildflowers in the spring.”
“Spring! I don’t want to be stuck here indefinitely waiting for you to consent to marry me.”
“Andrew, stop your pacing
. We barely know each other. Yes, yes, I know,” she said hastily, “we have carnal knowledge of each other. And it is—extraordinary. But we’ve been at odds more often than evens. You want to make a fresh start—well, I suggest you start with me. Show me that you want me.”
“Damned ridiculous,” Andrew muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I suppose you won’t let me fuck you, either.”
“Would you say such a thing to a woman you’d just met?” she asked, giving him a glacial stare.
“We haven’t just met, you little fool! You want me to play games with you, when all my life I’ve had to, one way or another. Pretend to be someone I’m not. Do things I didn’t want to. I’m a bloody master at playing games, Gemma. I doubt you could hold up under them. I’d have you eating out of my hand and on your knees in a day. But that’s not how I want it to be. It’s—it’s more of the same, and I won’t stand for it!” He slammed the door behind him.
That didn’t go well. What a speech! Gemma picked her nightgown from the floor and shoved her head into it. She was right. She knew it. Andrew needed to analyze why he thought this marriage was a good idea. So far, she was not convinced that he was convinced.
Perhaps by spring, she wouldn’t even love Andrew anymore if he didn’t do better than this. It would pain her to deny him her body, but it was for the best. She didn’t mind a marriage of convenience—but damned if she were to be used without some sop to her woman’s heart.
Andrew threw back a brandy and waited for it to burn some sense into him. He had proposed marriage once before, and it had been even more disastrous than this. When Nicky lay dying from his self-inflicted wound, Andrew had asked Caroline to marry him. The look of horror on Caro’s face had driven him to drink then, too. Andrew had loved Caro, but Nicky had loved him, and there was no way to rescue any kind of respectability out of that triangle. And when he’d helped Nicky at the end—Caroline could not forgive him or herself.
What he’d done at twenty was his greatest sorrow, worse than what had been done to him before and after. He’d been so sure it would guarantee him a trip to hell, what did it matter how he lived his life from then on?
But now—now he had a child to raise. A child he couldn’t give up no matter that virtually any other man would be a more proper father and role model than he.
He thought Gemma understood his flaws. He’d been honest enough. Brutally honest. Even after hearing it all in its bare, warty truth, she’d said she loved him, stupid little thing. She was usually so levelheaded. No-nonsense, apart from her weakness where he was concerned. So why was she insisting on a false courtship, with honeyed words and trinkets of affection? Of course he wanted her—thoughts of her had tormented him for weeks. Months, now.
But love? Andrew couldn’t do love. And Gemma needed to understand that.
He swallowed the dregs from his glass. A man who kept whiskey in his bedroom was not a man you could depend on. He owed more to Marc. And to Gemma if he expected her to marry him. Shoving the stopper back into the decanter, he stared into his fire until thin gray light pierced the ever-present clouds.
He went to the window. The sea was flat and calm, shimmering silver. There had been many New Year’s Days in his life where he’d been up to see the dawn, muzzy-headed and thoroughly debauched. Today was slightly different, although the weight of his past still fractured his thoughts. He needed an hour or three of sleep before he tackled 1821.
This year would bring the coronation of the king, a man who’d overstepped his own bounds for decades. If George could elevate himself, perhaps Andrew could, too. The subjects in his tiny island kingdom were few but challenging. If he was equal to the task of changing a filthy nappy, surely he had it in himself to crib a line of poetry and wait for Gemma to fall.
It wouldn’t take long. Andrew’s fabled charm was rusty from disuse, but he’d buff it enough to accede to Gemma’s foolish wishes. Then they’d leave this inhospitable spit of land and seek their fortune under a tropical sun. He longed to see Gemma’s dusky skin deepen, her adorable freckles spread like stars in a clear sky. He’d kiss every one and make her glad she’d agreed to be his wife. Marc would thrive under her motherhood. When he was old enough, he could go to school in the Americas where there was little chance to discover his less-than-savory background. Andrew would find new ventures in which to invest in the New World to keep a roof over their head and food on the table.
He ignored the rumble of his stomach. He wasn’t ready to see Gemma in the kitchen yet, to watch her burn the toast or lump the oatmeal while she “helped” Mrs. MacLaren. Andrew hadn’t yet decided what his first tribute would be—best to sleep on it for a few hours. This was the first day of the rest of his life, and for once, he wanted to get it right.
CHAPTER 24
Gemma groaned. She could have stayed in her warm bed forever, could understand why people turned to laudanum to blur the edges of their days away. But Marc was calling with his usual note of pride.
She scrambled into her robe and thick socks without a thought to her vanity and watched him climb out of his crib like a little blond monkey. She made her usual fuss, applauding and praising, then spruced him up for breakfast. She held his hand as he walked downstairs. He was proud of that accomplishment, too, and she was relieved he was becoming so independent. He was getting too heavy anyhow to carry down the flight of stairs, and Gemma had been terrified of tripping over her overlong skirts and plunging them both to death or dismemberment.
The house was unusually quiet, the fireplaces gone cold. Odd. Generally Mrs. MacLaren and her husband had arrived by now. Gemma didn’t think Andrew had given them the day off, although perhaps he had. They may have indulged with their family welcoming in the new year, too. Fiddles and whiskey could have put a damper on their steps up the rise to Gull Cottage.
The boat was due to arrive today, finally taking away the MacLarens’ guests. Perhaps they were saying their good-byes, although usually the crew unloaded the boat of its cargo and spent the night in their cramped little cottage down by the quay to sail on the morning tide. Mary wouldn’t be coming at all today—she’d caught a cold from her little brothers and Gemma had told her to stay home, taking pity on her as well as trying to protect Marc from illness. Whether Mary could rest in a household full of sick little boys was anyone’s guess.
Gemma wouldn’t wait for the MacLarens to come to start the fires. She could see her breath indoors, although the sky was pale blue and the wind had ceased wailing. She told Marc to sit back a safe distance from each fireplace as she coaxed the coals to spark, then laid kindling and peat in the grates.
Next on the agenda was breakfast. Gemma really was a dreadful cook, but there was half a loaf of yesterday’s bread and water to boil. Marc would be satisfied with some honey and butter on untoasted bread and milky tea. As for herself, she was not hungry at all.
She’d been up hours wondering what Andrew would say to her when he came downstairs. He’d been so angry. If he had slept as little as she had last night, he was likely to be a bear, even less willing to sweet-talk her as a courting swain.
Was she selfish to insist on something more than pure lust as a basis for marriage? Most women would consider themselves fortunate and settle for the kind of unbridled sex Andrew was more than capable of. Had spent an eternity perfecting. A lifetime spent in his bed would weaken the morals of anyone. But Gemma had let lust rule her life once before. Some might have called it calf-love, but she’d been very determined to lose her innocence to Franz. As the daughter of a courtesan, she was completely cognizant of the repercussions of desire. This time, she needed something less physical and more—mental? Was that the right word? She wanted to be more than just a body beneath the covers that temporarily subdued Andrew’s demons.
Her disjointed thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the kitchen door. It was far too early for company, not that anyone from the village ever plucked up the nerve to come up here. Gemma tied her robe a bit tighter and pulled the doo
r open.
She recognized one of Mr. MacLaren’s sons, the one who spoke a few words of English. He was a shepherd on one of the other islands, a solitary life that enabled him to teach himself some handy phrases. She had danced with him at the ceilidh, and he’d tried out every one with her. But this morning, he was not trying to shyly charm her. Once he finished blurting out the reason for his visit, he refused a cup of tea and hurried back to his mother’s house.
Andrew came down a few minutes later, fully and exquisitely dressed. His hair had been dampened and the curls brushed down, his shirtpoints jutted to his cheekbones, and his cravat was tied in something so complicated Gemma had never seen its like. She was acutely aware that her old robe was sticky from Marc’s honeyed fingers as he sat in her lap, finishing his breakfast.
“Who was that on the path?”
“One of the MacLaren sons. David, I think. He said his mother has broken her leg or hip—I’m not sure which, and they’re taking her off to the mainland today to stay with another of her sons, the one in Oban. She needs a doctor. Apparently, she slipped on the path when they were walking home last night, and poor Mr. MacLaren carried her all the way to their house. At her age, such a thing can be dangerous.”
“I’ll go. See what I can do.” Gemma nodded. She would have done the same as soon as Marc finished his breakfast. He grabbed his heavy coat from a hook near the back door and disappeared down the hallway. She heard him rummage about in his study, the sound of drawers opening and shutting. From her snooping experience, she knew he kept money between the pages of the old birder’s journals. That fact had given her some comfort—if she were ever forced to leave without a reference or salary, he might not notice a pound note or two missing. Now that she was officially a thief and a fraud, stealing from Andrew had not seemed so very awful. If she had to resort to such a thing, he would undoubtedly deserve it.
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