She lifted her eyes to his. He returned her gaze, his blue eyes as clouded as a frosted windowpane. She knew what he wanted—what he needed—without any words. Slipping from his hold, she pulled her nightgown over her head and bent to take him in her mouth.
She’d not had much practice—Andrew had been assiduous in seeing to her needs as their courtship progressed, and she’d let him take the lead. But her mamma had advised her that every man would fall eternal victim to a woman’s mouth—it was the ultimate mark of acceptance, of completion. A man need do nothing but receive, and that itself was a gift of great price—to take the reins from him, to take control yet subjugate herself thoroughly.
Andrew seemed to have no objection to her uncertainty or her clumsiness, his hand threading through her hair not so much in guidance as in blessing. She tasted salt and soap, and something darker, earthier. His body was no longer cold from his time under the stars—the heat of him as she stroked him and cupped his stones spread over her own skin, dancing like teasing darts of flame, flushing her cheeks and her breasts. She trembled at his power as he lay so still on his back, her power over him. A strangled sound escaped—from whom she wasn’t sure.
She concentrated on every swirl of her tongue, every movement of his manhood, as he responded to her touches. A tender grazing of teeth, the resulting hiss of pleasure. A gentle squeeze, the tightening of her cheeks around him. His taste, his scent, was addictive, his breathing ragged, the sight of him sprawled beneath her exquisite in the firelight. His bright eyes were open as if he didn’t quite believe what she was doing. She smiled up at him through her curtain of hair, and his face reflected his pure desire.
There was no barrier between them, nothing to slow the inescapable pleasure for both of them. Some might find this an odd way to seal their engagement, but Gemma knew she was blotting out other nights, other partners who’d sought Andrew’s soul. He had ceded that soul to her, if he only knew it. And when the torrent of his seed erupted on her tongue, she drank greedily, heedless of any sin. She was a courtesan’s daughter.
And a woman in love.
CHAPTER 27
February brought a break in the weather and activity in the harbor, as the island fishermen returned to the sea to catch cod and ling. The ferry resumed its hop between the islands and Mrs. MacLaren returned home, but not to work. It was Gemma who went down to the village with Marc to bring a pan of Andrew’s chowder and fluff the pillows. The woman even seemed happy to see her, so homesick she had been.
The island was waking from winter, though still mortally cold at night. But Andrew kept Gemma on fire with his touch and entertained with his plans for their future.
Unfortunately, in order for the future to become the present, he felt obligated to go to the mainland for a stretch. Passage needed to be booked, real estate purchased, funds transferred, the fate of Gull House settled. All these tasks would keep Andrew busy in Glasgow for some time. There was a possibility he might even go to London if the weather cooperated and the roads were clear.
It was decided that Gemma would stay home with Marc, who would not fare well with all the inconveniences of travel. So with the greatest reluctance one drizzly morning in February, Andrew passed his apron on to Gemma, packed a small trunk, and set off for civilization. Gemma waved to him from the dock, watching the ferry sails turn to specks before she trundled back home with a wet and cranky Marc.
Each time they returned, the crew had delivered plenty of supplies sent by Andrew for Gull House—food and books and newspapers, clothes for Marc and drawing material for Gemma. She had plenty to occupy herself in the days to come, if she could but push her loneliness aside.
It wasn’t like her to be mopey. Her mother wouldn’t have tolerated it. To Francesca Bassano, every moment was to be savored, to be greeted with joy. Gemma reminded herself of that as she scrubbed the blackened treacle from a baking dish. She had been foolish enough to try to make a pudding for Marc. He was napping now, digesting the indigestible, poor lamb. Gemma blew a wisp of hair off her forehead and attacked the pan with Francesca-like vigor. Her mother had always encouraged her to go all out—it was just Gemma’s luck that she seemed to be perfecting the very worst possible ways to cook.
Andrew had been gone a mere four weeks, but it seemed like a lifetime. There had been a letter from him in the mail that the crew had delivered yesterday, which she had read so many times she could quote it from memory.
It had been a very satisfactory letter, filled with practical facts but also embellished with lovely turns of romantic flights of fancy. At the time it was written, Andrew was negotiating for a piece of property on Antigua and was fairly sure his offer would be accepted. And he missed her—so much that he described in minute detail things about her person even she was not aware of. Andrew Rossiter had not omitted a freckle or a fold, nor what he planned to do to them once he returned. He made mention of chartering a boat, not waiting for the ferry in his impatience to get his hands and other parts of him on her again. Gemma supposed he could walk in at any second and wished he would, although a bath for her was definitely in order. She smelled and looked like a charwoman.
A stack of out-of-date newspapers had come along with his letter. They were folded on the bench near the hearth, ignored as Gemma had mooned over Andrew’s missive. She dried her hands on her apron, collapsed in the rocking chair, and picked up a paper. The fire was fitful at best, but she was too tired to lift one more stick of wood at the moment. Mary would be by tomorrow to give her some respite, and she could wait to be warmer then.
If Andrew were home, he might be standing behind her rubbing her shoulders. But knowing him, he wouldn’t stop his rubbing so far north. She smiled at the thought of his large, capable hands moving down her bodice to cup her breasts. She felt her nipples pucker with desire.
Good lord. She was now completely unsuited for celibacy, not that she had ever claimed to be pure. Franz had seen to the details of that, but Andrew had worked his way into her heart so that her entire being thrummed with passion. For this, at least, her mother would be proud. Gemma was going all out—was hopelessly in her lover’s thrall and very glad of it.
The Scottish newspaper was more than a month old. There was a boring article on the presentation of a paper before the Highland Society of Scotland, touting the marvel of a wheel odometer, whatever that was. Gemma supposed if Andrew planned on becoming a plantation owner she should bone up on farming and surveying techniques, but today was not the day. She skipped through an equally obscure article filled with legal terminology over the disposition of 316 boxes of sugar. That vast amount would sweeten quite a few cups of tea, which prompted her to put the paper aside and get the kettle on.
She rummaged through the other papers for news in London and was rewarded by the mention of her father speaking before the House of Lords concerning the King of the Two Sicilies. Surely one Sicily was enough? There was still grave unrest in Europe—perhaps it was best that they seek their fortunes on the other side of the world.
And the thought of actually being hot for a change had some appeal—perspiring from the sun rather than the labor she had immersed herself in since Mrs. MacLaren’s accident. Of course Andrew was welcome to labor all he wanted. He might be forced to bare his chest as he worked in his fields, and that was a delightful image to hold on this gray March afternoon.
Gemma drank her tea and read every word of the newspapers in the dim afternoon light, even the boring bits, grateful that Franz had not placed an advertisement anywhere accusing her of theft. Even he must realize that her mother’s valuables rightfully belonged to her. No Bow Street Runners had turned up on the ferry landing, and if she was lucky, he’d never find her on Antigua as Mrs. Andrew Rossiter.
Gemma closed her eyes, imagining herself standing at an altar with Andrew, a bouquet of spring blossoms trembling in her hands. She supposed it was silly that a church wedding meant so much to her, but she was determined to start anew. In deference to the father who ne
ver wanted their daughter, Gemma’s mother had raised her in the Anglican church. Andrew’s horrible guardian had been a hypocritical, strict Scots Presbyterian, but Andrew had no preference. He had pretty much reconciled himself to ending up in hell, but Gemma had other plans for his afterlife.
Sin could be, would be, forgiven. Gemma had spent some time on her knees in contemplation and came to the conclusion that Andrew was reformed. She harbored no worry that he might be tempted and reverting to his past ways in Glasgow as he arranged for their future. He loved his child too much and seemed content enough with Gemma, if his letter was any indication.
Setting the newspapers down, she went to the sideboard, where a fresh sketch pad and charcoal pencils intermingled with twine-wrapped romance books. Andrew had been thoughtful in his shopping for clothes for a rapidly growing Marc but had not gotten around to sending her any ready-made dresses. Gemma drew her chair nearer the fire, lit a lamp, and added a few more sticks of wood. She was going to design her wedding dress, one modest ruffle at a time.
A few lonely nights later, Gemma stirred uneasily in her half-sleep. She missed Andrew’s warmth, his steady breathing, most of all his lovemaking. She couldn’t seem to settle herself without him.
He would be back soon, probably earlier than the next scheduled ferry. That certainty gave her a smile, and she slipped her hand under the pillow to touch a corner of his letter. The folded sheet was tearing at the seams, so often had she read and re-read each line. For a man who had derided romance as all lies, he’d been unsparing in his declaration of affection.
Or at least desire. That would have to be enough for Gemma at present. Love could come later, under a sultry lemon moon.
They might have children together, playmates for Marc. Babies Andrew would know from birth to make up for what he missed before. Gemma grinned thinking of a small mob of towheaded, azure-eyed children chasing each other in a lush tropical garden. Andrew would be in the thick of it, childish mischief his most pressing problem. His painful past would fade with the blessings of fatherhood and marriage.
Was she being naïve to dream that Andrew could have an ordinary life? She hoped not.
Some minutes later, when she had nearly convinced herself to stop thinking, she heard a thud below stairs and blinked in the darkness. The windows rattled as usual with the brisk spring wind. Something must have fallen from a shelf. It couldn’t possibly be Andrew, come home in the middle of the night. Even if he’d arranged for private transportation, not many men cared to navigate the Sea of Hebrides after dark. Currents could be treacherous, winds unpredictable, rock outcroppings like giant teeth waiting to bite into the bottom of a boat.
And she knew without a doubt it was not any Gull House ghost come to prove his existence.
Gemma sprang out of bed, not bothering with her dressing gown. She thrust a paper spill into the waning fire and lit a candle to check on Marc.
Silly. He was spending the night with Mary and her brothers, no doubt sleeping peacefully in their bed, his precious stuffed bears tucked under his chin, lots of little arms and legs entangled. The silence and emptiness of the evening had driven her to bed much earlier than was usual—no wonder she’d had such trouble lulling herself to sleep.
Hurrying barefoot down the stairs, her heart beat a tattoo of excitement. It would be just like Andrew to take a risk to surprise her, to chart his course back home under a starry sky. But it was well past midnight and a most foolish thing to do. She was afraid she was about to deliver a very wifely lecture once she’d kissed him senseless.
“Andrew?” she called, reaching the bottom step. “Is that you?”
There was no reply. The front door was bolted just as she had left it, locking up being an old habit. It was rather silly when the inhabitants of Batter Island were the least materialistic people she knew. They were not apt to creep in and steal. But sleeping alone in the house had made her a bit nervous. Not for the first time did she wish for a canine companion. A dog would be good for Marc, too. She and Andrew had discussed it but never settled on a breed, or whether to get a puppy or a full-grown animal. Gemma was not overly fond of the process of housetraining a dog—it was hard enough getting Marc weaned away from his nappies. Now the acquisition of an animal would have to wait for the move across the ocean. She’d not have a sturdy Scottish dog but something from the New World.
Standing in a pool of light from her candle, Gemma listened to the house groan and creak around her, just the usual Gull House symphony. She’d been spooked for no reason. Tomorrow in the daylight she’d probably find a picture that had fallen from a wall or a book that had slipped from the arm of a chair. She was halfway back up the stairs when she heard a hissed whisper.
“Maledizione!”
“È calma.”
At least two men. Italian men.
Her entire body felt leaden. For too many seconds she stood in the hall, her feet frozen to the flagstones. And then she flew up to Marc’s room, as far down the hall as she could get from the top of the stairs. His cot was mercifully empty. She prayed he was safe where he was, oblivious to the danger downstairs. Frantic, Gemma ran to the dresser and fished the key out of the top drawer where she had hidden it from Marc’s busy fingers. She locked the door, put the candle down, and, using strength she didn’t know she had, shoved the dresser against the door. The slide made a grinding noise as wood hit wood, announcing her presence to the men below as clearly as if she had screamed. Marc’s toy trunk and other bits of furniture joined the pile. Gemma’s arms shook and back ached with strain as she waited for the footsteps up the stairs.
But she heard nothing but the rapid beating of her own heart and the buzzing in her ears.
Gemma tried to remember every word Andrew had said about the di Manieros, which wasn’t much. He had been loath to revisit the incident that wounded him and made him out to be a hero in Gemma’s eyes.
There had been a murderous cousin who was now the duke, one who had wanted Marc’s death as well as his parents’ to ensure his succession. A man who had tried to kill a child and would stop at nothing to do so. Was he one of the men downstairs, or had he sent assassins to act for him?
Gemma had nothing to bargain with. Her mother’s jewels were in her nightstand drawer, easily accessible to everyone in the house but her now that a mountain of furniture stood in front of the door. There was no escape, unless she intended to climb from the window onto the roof of the kitchen ell.
It was pitch-black out. The slate roof was slippery. She was barefoot and practically naked. It was not a plan that held much promise at the moment.
Think, Gemma, think. She struggled to sit still in the padded chair near Marc’s fireplace. The hearth was cold, but nothing would be hot enough to erase the icy fear that clutched at her, preventing sensible thought. The house that had been so noisy was now quiet as a graveyard, the only sound the steady buffeting of wind.
How had the Italians found them? Did Andrew’s trip to the mainland somehow trigger their discovery? It didn’t really matter—the men were here.
She would not tell them where Marc was—could not let them harm him. She had a bloody vision of them going cottage to cottage, searching for the child among the islanders. There were many fair-haired children in the village, proof that Viking lust had left its trace. How many children would be hurt before someone gave Marc up to them?
No, Gemma had to keep the men here at Gull House somehow. Surely she could reason with them, explain in Italian that Andrew had no intention of setting Marc back into the dukedom’s path. If they wanted money, Andrew had plenty of it. They could wait until he returned—
There was a scuffling sound in the hallway. Gemma reached for the fireplace poker, watching her hand tremble uncontrollably as she did so.
“Artemisia.”
The voice was raspy. Rusty. But undeniably Andrew’s. He had not called her that name for months, not since the first night she allowed him into her body.
Gemma rushed to the j
umble at the door. She heard a sickening thwack. A suppressed groan. A few Italian curse words and then a vicious chuckle.
“Tell her to open the door.”
“You heard them. But don’t do it.” Andrew’s defiance earned him more attention. Gemma closed her eyes but couldn’t cover her ears, both hands gripping the poker.
“Idiota! We’ll burn the bloody house down no matter what, you fool. Get your slut and your bastard out here. Now.”
Andrew said nothing. The men conferred in rapid Italian, each word causing Gemma’s hope to sink like a stone into a well of despair. They were going to kill them all—from the conversation, Andrew was half-dead already.
“Marc isn’t here,” she said in clear, slow English. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr. Ross.” She lay the poker down and began the task of pushing the furniture aside, finding it far more difficult to move now that she was truly frightened. Time seemed to pass in liquid amber, her every movement sluggish and slow. She ignored the shouts on the other side of the door, mostly because the pounding of blood in her ears muffled their meaning. She would break Andrew’s heart and save his life if she could in a few minutes and needed all her fractured wits about her. There was no point in succumbing to threats or thoughts of imminent death. Fate would decide her future.
She would not confront those monsters in a transparent nightgown. Grabbing Marc’s blue knitted blanket, she tossed it over her shoulders like a shawl, then fell to the floor. The scent of little boy gave her confidence, and it proved an ideal place under which she could conceal the poker. She put the key in the lock and turned the knob.
Her heart stilled at the sight of Andrew’s face. He must have fought for his life—the life of his son—and lost. She didn’t care if he ever regained his male beauty—he was hers. She loved him. Now more than ever.
But she had to hurt him, too.
Master of Sin Page 26
