Gemma wiped Marc’s sticky face and fingers and then went to take stock of the pantry. If Mrs. MacLaren wasn’t here to feed them, Gemma was very much afraid she would be enlisted. She didn’t much care for what she ate, but Andrew and Marc would not be satisfied with cold bread forever. She lifted the lids off crocks and sniffed at the contents. If she was judicious, she could probably get them through the next week on what Mrs. MacLaren had put by.
Gemma didn’t think Andrew’s library boasted a cookery book, and even if Mrs. MacLaren had left her written recipes—if in fact she was even literate—Gemma could not have read them. Once Mary recovered from her sniffles, she could make some basic dishes to keep their bodies and souls together. Mary was a capable child—she’d shown great aptitude in everything. But Gemma couldn’t turn the running of Gull House over to a thirteen-year-old girl.
She pictured the inhabitants of each of the cottages down below. There were far more children than adults, and few women with whom she’d feel comfortable enough even if they could spare the time to work here. She’d called the community “kind” to Andrew, but their feelings were much kinder toward him and his son than they were to Gemma.
Maybe Andrew was right. If they went across the ocean, they might have an easier time of it. But there was no point feeling sorry for herself right now. She’d just have to make the best of it in the kitchen. She knew her way around a fire, and that was half the battle, wasn’t it? Fresh eggs and milk were delivered every couple of days, and eggs were easy.
She blushed, remembering Andrew’s taunt about the New Year’s egg, watching the egg white form the letter of the man you were destined to marry. If Andrew had his way, no eggs would be necessary.
She chattered to Marc as she searched through the supplies, turning her quest into a lesson, supplying the English and Italian words for everything she found. Marc dutifully repeated them but would not be satisfied with a menu list forever. She needed to dress and get on with the business of playing with Marc.
And wait to see what Andrew would say and do next.
Hours later, he let himself in the back door. The kitchen was warm but empty. Andrew had spent the morning pressing money upon the MacLarens and writing a letter to the only physician he knew in Scotland, a bisexual fellow named Larrabee who owed him a favor. The money he enclosed would ensure that Larrabee remembered. Andrew had been Peter Larrabee’s secret for several years every time the man came down to London without his wife. They’d shared an odd sort of friendship, and Andrew was certain if Mrs. MacLaren needed anything out of the ordinary, Larrabee would see to it himself or arrange for someone else to. Peter spoke Gaelic, an added bonus for the MacLarens, who’d made very few trips in their lifetime off Batter.
It had seemed insensitive at the moment to inquire in the village about a replacement for his cook-housekeeper, and no one had volunteered their services. Andrew had done for himself for years, although he’d had plenty of dinner invitations to keep him from total starvation. His social life had been incredibly full—Venetian breakfasts, afternoon teas, routs, cotillions, and midnight suppers. There was always a need for an attractive extra man in his devilish circle, and Andrew had made sure there was a need for him specifically.
He poked at the stove, stomach growling. He’d left before breakfast and refused all offers of sustenance at the MacLarens’ cottage, which was confusingly crowded. Travel trunks were heaped about everywhere, and Mrs. MacLaren’s daughters-in-law were withering under her direction between some rather blood-curdling groans to pack up what she needed for her departure to Oban. The woman’s leg might be broken, but there was nothing wrong with her tongue. She had enough pep left to give Andrew a smile and thank him for his help, then ordered a son to see him out. He’d spent the rest of the morning walking in what had been the best day in ages, cold but clear, the sky above a dull, bleached blue. It was more vigorous exercise than he’d had since the walk home in the blizzard.
Or in his bed with Gemma.
There was last night’s soup left over and a heel of bread. He heated the pot, cut himself a slice of cheese, and poured ale into the single pewter tankard he owned, one that had come with the odd assortment of kitchen equipment belonging to the house. Gull House’s original owner must have been even more solitary than Andrew was.
He was just sitting at the table when Marc burst into the room, a harried Gemma trailing after him.
“How is she?”
“She’s in considerable pain, but very tough. She was frightening the wits out of her grown children when I left.” He dipped a spoon into the broth and swallowed. “There’s hot soup in the pot, enough for both of you, I think.” He busied himself with his meal while Gemma set Marc in his high chair and gave him a small bowl and a handful of crackers.
“Nothing for you?”
“I—” she rubbed her hands nervously. “No.”
He couldn’t very well sit here eating while she hovered. He was supposed to be wooing her, taking care of her. What would a gentleman do for his lady? “Come sit down and join me, Gemma.” Andrew rose from the table and ladled soup in a bowl. “You must eat. I insist. This may be the last decent victuals we have for a while.”
Gemma’s dimple appeared for a flash and then was gone. “I’ve taken inventory. I think we shall be all right for a while, if you don’t mind very plain fare.”
“How plain?”
“Well,” she said, finally obeying him and unrolling her napkin on her lap, “I’ve never made bread, but I’m willing to try. There are quite a lot of root vegetables, and jars and crocks of all sorts of things. Some hams. Cheeses.”
“Then we shall eat like kings. I can cook, you know.”
She looked doubtful.
“It’s true. Many years ago I lived with two friends. Orphans. We didn’t have a pot to p—puree in,” he amended, with a quick glance at his son. “I had a bit of skill in the kitchen, and before we were able to hire a cook, I shared kitchen duties with my friend’s sister.”
The color leached from her brown cheeks. Yes, she remembered his confession from that first night of sex. God, he’d been a fool, telling her his darkest secrets. He hadn’t gone into detail then, but he didn’t want her to dwell on the fact that the man who had asked her to marry him might be considered a murderer in some circles. So he launched into a breezy recitation of all the dishes he knew how to fix. She kept her eyes on her bowl, occasionally fishing something out and putting it to her lips.
“So, if you want to be courted, I can do it with food, Gemma. I’m told I make an excellent pie crust. Light and flaky.” He winked at her.
“I thought the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.”
“I can teach you so you can turn the tables on me.” He got up and carried his bowl to the sink. Marc raised his arms as he passed.
“Finito, Marc? All finished? Uh-oh, I see a carrot. Quick!” Andrew plucked the vegetable up and pretended to eat it.
“Mine!” Marc opened wide, and Andrew dropped the bit in his son’s mouth. “Good boy. You’ll grow big and strong. Grande e forte.” He freed the child from his chair. Marc headed immediately for the tower of blocks that had a place of honor in the corner.
Gemma put her spoon down. “You’ve been fibbing about your Italian language skills.”
“Not really. I know a few words. Bacio means kiss, for example. I can think of a few places I’d like to kiss.” He leaned over the table and touched the beauty mark on her left cheek. Gemma blinked, her long lashes brushing his finger. “Here,” he whispered. His finger drifted to the corner of her lips. “Here, too.” His thumb stroked the soft flesh beneath her pointed chin, and he lifted her face to him. “Really, I’d like to kiss you all over as I think on it. You would taste much, much sweeter than pie.” For a second he thought she was yielding—she had a drugged look in her wide brown eyes. No, they weren’t altogether brown. There were gold bits, floating around enormous black irises. She blinked, her feathery brown lashes tipped w
ith gold, too.
“That was well done. But there will be no kissing,” Gemma said, her voice not entirely firm. Progress.
“As your suitor, I would expect some token of affection. Perhaps you’ll let me kiss your hand.”
Gemma stared down as he took her hand in his and turned it palm up. He traced the lines with an edge of fingernail. “Hm, what do I see here? A very long life. A handsome gentleman. A trip over water.”
Gemma snatched her hand back. “You can’t read palms!”
“How do you know what I can do? As you said, we barely know each other. Give it back.”
When she made no move to do so, he took her fist gently from the table and pressed a kiss on each knuckle. Her hand trembled at each point of contact.
“Now then.” He uncurled her fingers and touched her palm with his forefinger. “This is your lifeline. It’s very long, deep and unbroken. No illnesses to speak of. No tragedies. You will live to bedevil me until you are an ancient crone.”
“That sounds like a fate worse than death for you.”
“Not at all. It’s a vast improvement on what I expected early in life.”
“Did you ever have your palm read?”
Andrew laughed. “I did. And then I learned how myself. I told you, I lived with a brother and sister in their family home in the wilds of Cumbria. A ramshackle place, but we fixed it up as best we could. Then we ran a sort of hotel, providing amusement for members of the ton with too much money and too few morals. We hired a fortune-teller once for the entertainment of our guests, and I persuaded her to teach me her tricks.”
“I can only imagine your method of ‘persuasion,’ ” Gemma said, sniffing.
“There you would be wrong. She was an ancient crone herself. It’s rather obligatory in her line of business, you know. But she took one look at my palm and took pity on me. Apparently a palm reader can read the past as well as the future. She told me I’d need all the skills I could acquire to get ahead, and then proceeded to instruct me on fate lines and the Mount of Venus. You’d be amazed how many earls and countesses want a simple answer to their problems, and a few readings of their palms brought me closer to amassing my own fortune.”
“You told them what they wanted to hear.”
“Of course, just as I am acting the love-struck beau as you requested. I always do what is expected of me to further my ambition.”
Judging from her gasp, he’d gone too far. He didn’t mind exerting his charm, but having to force it was unexpectedly irritating.
“I don’t want you to lie to me!”
“What is courtship then, if not a shiny false face presented to lull the object of desire into submission? I want you, Gemma. That should be enough without me jumping through hoops. I’m tired of life on the stage. I’d like to be myself. Whoever that is, with whatever faults I have. And there are many, as you know.”
Gemma worried a lip with two small white teeth. “I see I was wrong in what I asked of you. I’m sorry, Andrew.”
“Then you’ll marry me?”
To his disappointment, she shook her head. “I don’t want a shiny false face. I simply want us to get to know each other better. You can dispense with poetry. But a palm kiss would be quite lovely.”
“I won’t want to stop there.”
Gemma eyed Marc, who was occupying himself by building blocks up and then knocking them down. “I probably won’t want you to.” She sighed. “But we owe it to ourselves not to make any more mistakes. I want to know that you don’t see me as just some port in the storm, Andrew. I’m afraid you convinced me altogether too thoroughly that what’s been between us is just a convenient dalliance. I’m finding your turnabout a little perplexing.”
Andrew found it perplexing himself. But he didn’t want to deal with rational thought now while Gemma sat in her chair looking up at him with hope in her eyes. Instead he brought her palm to his mouth, expelling a breath of air on its surface. Then his tongue drew a slow circle on the center of her hand, his lips pressing down, his fingers kneading hers. She tasted of honey and soap. He replaced his mouth with his finger and swirled over the spot where he’d kissed her, following the lines etched into her little brown hand. “I see palm trees,” he said gruffly.
“You do not.”
“I’d like to. When Marc takes his nap, come into the library. I can show you some maps.”
“Oh, all right. I might learn something. You know how I value education.”
He did. And there was so much he wanted to teach her.
CHAPTER 25
The wintry days were busy. Poor Gemma was up to her gilt-tipped eyelashes in one domestic chore after another, cementing her grudging respect for Mrs. MacLaren. Her hands were rough, her back was bent, her nose was red from sneezing through the dust. She still looked adorable to him.
The kitchen was the one place she was spared from tending to—true to his word, Andrew was wooing her with food. When Mary was finally well enough to return, he commandeered her away from the nursery a few hours a day and made her his assistant, slicing and dicing. Gemma seemed to enjoy glimpses of him as she bustled about. She was not put off by his rolled-up sleeves or the sheen of perspiration on his throat as he patiently explained things to Mary as if she could understand him. And actually, the girl was beginning to.
Mary was Gemma’s first island success. As she expanded Marc’s vocabulary, she always involved Mary. The little maid was even picking up Italian. Gemma said she thought it all boded well for any school she might start.
If they stayed.
He had not won her over to his tropical island retreat as yet. But any school she dreamed of would have to wait. Just the day-to-day living was proving to be a challenge. Gemma was far too immersed keeping Gull House clean and caring for Marc to have time to worry about anybody else. Including, unfortunately, him. He was still kept at broomstick’s length from her, and he was growing impatient.
They had fallen into a routine at the end of the day, once Marc was in bed. It was their courting time, but utterly devoid of romance no matter how high Andrew turned up his charm. Instead they sat together before the fire in his cozy library talking of mundane things, often with geography books in their laps. Gemma was sometimes so exhausted she fell asleep sitting up in the worn wing chair in the middle of one of his sentences, like tonight. The girl knew how to deflate one’s sense of consequence.
It was toward the end of January, a night of inky darkness inside as well out. The supply of candles and lamp oil was running a little low, and Andrew had not wanted to be wasteful. A single candle flickered at his elbow, casting the room into smoky shadow. Fierce storms had prevented the boat from returning since it ferried Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren to the mainland, a usual winter occurrence according to Mary. It might be another month or more before the regular trips resumed.
He had been spoiled from the age of seven on by having some measure of comfort—there had been no worry about candles or coal in Donal Stewart’s opulent house. For years Andrew had convinced himself the trade-off of being warm and fed was worth what happened beneath the covers every night. Even as a child, he’d been supremely practical. The son of a whore had to be.
So he understood Gemma’s reluctance to settle for second-best, to be the practical choice, the port in the storm as she called it. And in truth, there was nothing much practical about her. She couldn’t cook, was opinionated, bossy and, although every inch of her drove him to distraction, she was not a great beauty. She’d disappear in a drawing room full of feathered plumes and silks, jewels, and décolletage. Nevertheless, he was determined to marry her and take her away from this frozen wasteland as soon as the weather improved or she woke up, whichever came first. If he could, he’d snap his fingers and transport them instantly across the ocean.
He thought of nudging her, to watch her wide brown eyes blink in confusion like a sleepy fawn as she emerged from her exhaustion. Instead, he gently took the book from her lap and set it face down on his desk. He ha
d carried her before—she weighed so little it was barely a strain to his bad arm. He slipped a hand around her waist and gathered her up against his chest. She gave a little huff and buried her face in his shirt, making no protest as he blew out the candle and headed down the hall.
She was warm and soft and smelled of lemons. When he got her to civilization, he’d make sure she always had as many bottles of scent as she needed. No expense would be spared to get a dressmaker to design clothes to set off her petite figure to advantage, to buy as many gothic novels as she wanted, to make her feel secure and treasured. Thorny though she might be, Gemma was his rose, and he took another breath of her hair as he carried her up the stairs.
Why deposit her on her own bed when she would awaken to a chilly room? Far better for her to remain tucked into him to share his bed tonight. His fire was dependably roaring, his mattress big enough. He would simply loosen her laces and take off her slippers, spread her scented hair across his pillow, and listen to his heart pulse with desire as she lay beside him. Andrew was almost sure he could control the urge to skim her skin with a fingertip, trace the line of her pointed little chin down the column of her neck to her sharp collarbone. He would certainly not push past the fabric of her bodice and palm a perfect swell of breast, her cocoa nipple jeweled against his hand. He would not bend to part her lips and taste her—
“Mmph!” Her fist flailed on his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I am kissing you, Gemma. It’s long overdue. You can pretend to be asleep and let me.”
“You would make love to a corpse?”
“If the corpse was you. I’ve been good too long, Gemma. Night after night we sit together talking when all I want to do is fuck you.”
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