Master of Sin

by Maggie Robinson

  “I sense a moral coming.”

  “Of course. Everything Caterina told me had a point, even to making me look up names of flowers,” Gemma said. “Now, are you going to let me finish?”

  “I can’t wait,” Andrew murmured. Her bodice was now down and her nipples swollen and luscious from his attentions.

  “The woman turned and gestured to them. They were now in front of the most beautiful mansion in all the world, equal to the garden they had walked through. And there was music—the most beautiful music they’d ever heard.”

  “Is nothing just average in this story?” Andrew asked before fastening his lips on Gemma’s left nipple.

  She inhaled sharply but continued. “Nothing. Everything is the most beautiful, the most wonderful—oh! I don’t know if I can finish the story if you keep doing that.”

  “Try,” Andrew whispered into her skin.

  Gemma cleared her throat. “The boys followed the woman up the stairs to where the musicians played. They were all masked and played like angels. The woman turned to one boy, then the other. She danced with each of them, spinning them around and around in the room until they were dizzy and happier than they’d ever been in their lives. The only thing that would make them happier, they decided, would be to see the face of the woman who had given them such pleasure. Ahh.”

  “Go on.”

  “Um.”

  “Pleasure was your last word.” He suckled hard and felt her go slack in his arms.

  “They begged her and b-begged her to remove her veil, and she just laughed, the most beautiful laugh in all the world. She gave them wine to drink—”

  “The most delicious wine—”

  “Y-yes. And the most delicious food. The boys were drunk and their stomachs were full, but she made them dance with her one more time. This time she held both their hands, and they danced from one end of the ballroom to the other.

  “The clock struck midnight, and the boys realized they had been gone all day without a word to their parents. And they still did not know what the woman looked like. They got down on their knees and pleaded for a kiss good-bye. The wine had made them bold, you see, and the woman had bewitched them. She laughed again and tore off her veil. To the boys’ horror, she was a skeleton. She had no eyes, no nose, just a hideous mouth that laughed and laughed at them. And then she bent to kiss them, and they died.”

  Andrew reluctantly stopped what he was doing. “Good heavens. That’s grisly.”

  “Oh, yes. But instructive. See if you can figure out why Caterina told it to me.”

  “For the flowers, so you would know your horticulture.” Gemma nodded. “To warn you that not everything is as it seems. To never follow strangers. And—let me think. Not to drink to excess. Not to kiss skeletons.” He returned to his earlier task.

  “Very good. Oh, that’s very good.”

  He feasted for a while, then came up for air. “And to be careful what you wish for. Although I’ve wished for this, Gemma, for more nights than I can count. I’m not at all sorry.” She lay pliant as he removed each piece of wrinkled clothing. “Promise me you won’t tell that story to Marc.”

  “I p-promise. What will you promise in return?”

  “This. And this. Every night. And I keep my promises, Gemma. Always. I don’t make many of them, but when I do”—his tongue swept ruthlessly down her belly, pausing every few inches for a gentle nip—“I honor my obligations.”

  And making love to Gemma was one obligation that was pure, unadulterated pleasure.

  CHAPTER 26

  Their evenings had taken on a different atmosphere now that Gemma had agreed to return to Andrew’s bed. There was less geography and more ghost stories. Instead of sitting in the library for hours after supper, they climbed the stairs, with or without books, and lay in each other’s arms, whispering in the dark. It had become a point of pride for Andrew to try to top Caterina’s lurid Italian folktales, and then top Gemma with his sinfully beautiful body. She had nearly forgotten why she’d held him off for so long, but the end result was they knew each other better.

  Andrew was now her friend as well as her lover. He’d been completely honest in revealing each raw detail of his previous life, and though she’d flinched inwardly, Gemma showed nothing but acceptance. She was waiting for the perfect moment to tell him she’d marry him but was in no hurry. In between the frank conversations, he continued to surprise her with sweet if not spontaneous romantic gestures. Once she agreed to marry him, he might stop trying to woo her, and treat her like every other wife she’d ever observed—respected but not cherished. Gemma was filing away each sentimental memory for the future.

  She might even overcome her fear of great hairy spiders and slithery snakes and move with him to a hotter climate. Goodness knows she’d unearthed plenty of braw Scottish spiders right here as she swept corners and dusted.

  It was odd that she felt such an attachment to Gull House despite its imperfections. When she’d first been directed here, exhausted from travel and missing her trunk, she thought the dwelling was a grim, forbidding place. It hadn’t helped that Mrs. MacLaren had looked at her as if she had two heads, and the two weeks Gemma had fended for herself had done nothing to improve her affection for her new surroundings. But now it really did feel like home, drafty hallways and all. When there wasn’t rain or snow or fog to obscure the view, the expanse of ocean was breathtaking. Inside the house, each room now held a happy memory of Marc playing or Andrew exercising his considerable sensual prowess. If she could learn all those other languages, surely she could learn Gaelic and act as translator if they stayed here.

  If she could find someone to instruct her. Mary was willing, but she was more interested in picking up English than teaching Gemma. If anyone wanted to leave Batter Island, it was this thirteen-year-old girl, who saw a brighter future for herself than becoming like her mother, providing son after son to help with the fishing.

  Gemma turned down the bedcovers. Andrew would be up in a few minutes, sooner if the weather worked into him. It was bone-chillingly cold, but he’d gone outside to look at the stars. For once the night sky was clear, a black velvet blanket sparkling with diamonds, a fat moon leaving a pearlescent path on the rippling ocean and lighting the glowing snow. He’d invited Gemma—a proper amorous offer if there ever was one—but the cold February air had deterred her from accepting. Instead of wrapping herself up in layers of clothing, she wanted to get undressed and fall into Andrew’s bed.

  She went to the window and saw him at the point, his hatless head thrown back as he looked above. Her fingers itched for a pencil; instead, she watched while he stared as the universe wheeled overhead. She wondered if he felt humbled or perceived himself as the master of his own little universe. It was possible to feel both, she supposed.

  She pressed a hand to the icy pane of glass and shivered. Yes, it was much too cold. After stirring up the fire, she poured each of them a small glass of brandy and brought the tray to the bedside. His drinking didn’t worry her anymore—the blackness that had overcome him when he felt inadequate to parenting and loving had gone.

  Not that Andrew had admitted he loved her. And she had wisely held her own tongue as well. Gemma didn’t speak of Fate and love. Destino. There was no point in adding pressure when she was watching him grow before her eyes. He even looked much less careworn, more carefree. Andrew laughed more, and if he was still too stubborn to realize he loved her, time would cure him of that. She would work herself into his heart if it was the last thing she ever did.

  The draft from the window drove her to get undressed quickly, put on her warmest nightgown, and dive under the pile of blankets. Her body was so ready for Andrew that even the brush of the flannel gown puckered her nipples. She was bone-weary, but never too tired to deny herself what she needed—Andrew’s cock and tongue and fingers working in concert to make her see her own set of stars behind her eyelids. Her anticipation was keen—she was, shamelessly, her mother’s daughter.

&
nbsp; Andrew’s footfalls on the stairs only increased her desire. She raised herself up on an elbow as he entered the room. He was still in his greatcoat, his hair scrambled from the wind, his cheeks ruddy.

  “Do not dream of touching me until you’ve warmed yourself,” she warned.

  Standing over her, Andrew chuckled. “You should have come. The cold wasn’t so bad.” He stripped himself of a fur-lined glove and reached for her cheek.

  She darted back. “I mean it! I’ve only just gotten comfortable myself.”

  “Drink your brandy. That should help.” Andrew passed her the glass and picked up his own, drinking it in one swallow. He then proceeded to give Gemma an agonizingly slow show of divesting himself of his clothing. Every button was caressed with deliberation, every garment folded with precision. Gemma knew he was teasing her and denied him satisfaction by sipping her drink, focusing on the fireplace instead of the golden man before it. He was almost too perfect to look at anyway—like staring at the sun, Andrew Rossiter could burn one’s eyes with his beauty.

  He swung his long legs into the bed and drew her to him. “It was a perfect night, Gemma. I don’t know when I’ve seen so many stars.”

  “I’m sure there are pictures in one of the books downstairs.”

  “Secondhand knowledge. Nothing beats seeing them overhead. Makes one feel like a very small part of history. Imagine primitive men trying to make sense out of their everyday existence. Charting the cycle of the moon and watching the tides. It quite boggles the mind.”

  “I suppose we’re lucky to live in the modern age.”

  Andrew snorted. “There’s not much modern about Batter. The people here are doing just what their great-great-great grandparents did. More greats than that. There’s plenty of Viking blood here, and before that Pictish warriors defending their territory. Fighting and fishing and farming for centuries.”

  “Don’t forget the sheep.”

  “No, indeed. Although they blend in rather nicely with the snow at the moment.”

  “Marc will love it here in the spring. All the lambs sprinting about.”

  Andrew gave an exaggerated sigh. “You persist in tying us to this rock forever, don’t you? I should think you’d like to be someplace warm. Why, your body is colder than mine, and you’ve been inside the whole night long.” To prove his point, he pressed her to the length of him, his hand sweeping down her side and settling on her bottom. His skin was warm and scented with crisp air and lime.

  “I’m ready for my story,” she said, snuggling into his heat. “Nothing too scary, mind.”

  “Spoilsport. All right, since we’re on the topic of sheep, I’ve an appropriate story. This happened a hundred years ago, somewhere in the Western Isles. An old shepherd rowed his sheep ashore one silent summer night. I defy you to say that three times, by the way.”

  “An old shepherd rowed his sheep ashore one silent summer night. An old shepherd rowed his sheep ashore one shilent shum-mer—oh, very well.” She giggled. “Go on.”

  Andrew kissed her temple. “The shepherd was running away from the island he’d lived on for half a century. Just him and his sheep for decades. He was a bit of a hermit. In his youth, he’d fallen in love with a beautiful girl who had no use for him. He had a squint, you see, and a very casual acquaintance with soap and water. The girl married someone else, and the shepherd moved to an island far out in the Sea of Hebrides, as far as he could sail with a boatload of sheep without falling off the edge of the earth.”

  “The earth is round.”

  “He didn’t know that. Remember, he was just a simple, unwashed shepherd. All was normal, year after year. He tended to his sheep on the island and shipped them off to the mainland when the time came, having very little to do with any humans. Then everything changed the night of the summer solstice—the longest night of the year. It was then that the shepherd awoke in his hut to the sound of women’s laughter.”

  Gemma yawned. “Witches, I suppose.”

  “So the shepherd thought. He crept out of his hut and followed the laughter. Soon it was all around him, but he couldn’t see a soul. But he could feel them—their warm breath on his neck, their hands slipping under his shepherd’s smock. He tried to beat them off with his crook, but the laughter only grew louder.”

  “I should think he’d welcome the attention. Fifty years is a long time with only sheep for company.”

  “Come now. Don’t be so sarcastic. Our shepherd’s heart was pure, but the night was dark and the magic overtook him. Before he knew it, he was stretched out on a stone, naked as the day he was born.”

  “And the witches had their wicked way with him.”

  “Who’s telling this story? Now, where was I? He was frightened half out of his wits but whistled to his faithful dog to come to his aid.” Andrew took a breath and blew softly into Gemma’s ear.

  “You never mentioned a dog.”

  “All shepherds have dogs. It’s a requirement.”

  “So there was a dog as well as the sheep in the boat the old shepherd rowed ashore on the silent summer night.”

  “Precisely. The dog came running, barking his head off.”

  “I would have thought the dog might have barked earlier. When the witches began to laugh.”

  “He was a sound sleeper, exhausted from chasing sheep all day. His hackles rose, and he growled like the most ferocious lion, frightening the witches away. But not before they marked the shepherd with a cold witch’s kiss. Right about ... here.”

  Gemma permitted Andrew’s amorous assault on her throat. She’d hide the mark from Mary tomorrow with a scarf, although the whole island must know by now that Gemma and Andrew were sharing a bed. And it wasn’t just because the nights were cold and they could bundle together. Andrew had become a sort of addiction—Gemma could see why he’d been so successful in his previous career.

  Satisfied that he’d demonstrated the alleged power of the witches, he continued. “The only sign that they had ever been there beside the bite to the shepherd’s neck—because, after all, he couldn’t bite himself now, could he?—was the trammeled grass all around the stone. When the shepherd climbed down, his feet froze to the ground. He knew if he stayed they would find him again, so he packed up all his belongings at daybreak and rowed and rowed until the sun set, passing one neighboring island after another. He rowed until his arms ached and his heart was about to burst. When he could row no farther, he stopped at a settlement and begged the islanders to let him graze his sheep. He told them about the witches and showed his mark, which was a huge mistake.”

  “What did they do to him?”

  “Oh, they let him stay but made him keep away from the village, remain far up on the crags with the seabirds. They thought he was cursed, you see. So there was the poor shepherd, near people for the first time in fifty years but lonelier than ever. He died alone, with only his faithful dog for company.”

  Gemma wrinkled her nose. “Andrew, this is a terrible story, and I’m having difficulty finding the moral to it.”

  “There is no moral. It’s just a tale told about the islands. No one is quite sure which island the witches inhabit, but it keeps young fishermen from exploring too far afield.”

  “Like the stories about the Blue Men.”

  “Aye. You don’t want your boat to stray into the Stream of the Blue Men. They’ll drag you and your boat down.”

  Gemma settled into the crook of Andrew’s arm. “We’re afraid of strange places, aren’t we? We make up goblins as an excuse to stay put. Stay safe.”

  “I see you’ve found the moral after all.”

  “Andrew Rossiter! I am not afraid of new places! I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “So you are. But my bed is not so strange anymore. Batter is as familiar now as an old boot. It’s time for greener pastures, Gemma. Sunshine.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “What say you? Let’s row from one island to another.”

  Why not? There was no earthly reason to stay here, working her fingers t
o the bone. She tried to remember what sunshine felt like on the top of her head. Imagined water that was warm enough to bathe in. Gemma felt a pang at the thought of her school, but maybe Mary could be persuaded to come with them—she could improve at least one life.

  “We wouldn’t make the same mistake the shepherd did. No one would have to know about our pasts. And we’ll need to get a dog when we get there. For Marc.”

  The look on Andrew’s face was comical. When he shut his mouth and could get his lips to work again, he said, “You are telling me that you’ll marry me, aren’t you? I was expecting more of a fight.”

  “No more fighting,” Gemma whispered. Only loving.

  She brushed the dimple on his chin, his golden stubble tickling her fingertips. He captured her hand and kissed her palm with a fierceness that told her everything she needed to know. And then his lips covered hers, seeking, searching, finding his own answer in the sweetness of her tongue. Gemma’s every pore was open to receiving him, to joining him on whatever journey they would take together. To islands, wherever they were. To beds, hard and soft. To the solemn ground when God was done with them. There would be days of delight, and days of despair, but they could get through any difficulty as long as they had each other.

  Gemma’s blood sang and Andrew swept her nightgown up over her thighs, his hand heading unerringly to where she needed him most. She felt the burst of moisture as he stroked, his tongue and fingers tangling her thoughts until there was nothing left but feeling. Another nip to her throat, a finger thrust in her passage, a thumb at the pulsing center of her universe. She touched him back, reveling in his smooth hot skin. His cock jutted against her hip, so close yet too far. Gemma grasped him, barely able to wrap her small hand around his magnificent thickness. In minutes it would somehow miraculously meld into her, but for now, she pressed her thumb on the bead of fluid at its tip. Andrew groaned his satisfaction, turning so she could gain greater access.