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Authors: Maggie Robinson

BOOK: Master of Sin
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“I don't even know your damn name,” he muttered. It began with a “G.” He hoped to God it wasn't Giulietta.
“Pardon me? Ouch, you've stepped on my slipper!”
Couples were coming at them from all sides now, trying to elbow them and even kick them away. Andrew realized that he and Miss Peartree were still under the kissing ball, monopolizing it without following the rules. No wonder the other dancers were disgruntled.
“I'm going to kiss you again. Better this time,” he said softly.
“What?” she shouted up at him.
He didn't explain further, but leaned down to brush her lips. It would be so much better if they were horizontal—kissing the tiny Miss Peartree was bound to give him a crick in his neck or a hump in his back. Age him before his time. For she was so fresh he felt ancient, as though all of his practiced arts seemed to be failing him.
Her lips were soft and warm. This time she didn't rear backward, but slipped a small hand around his collar to draw him down. There seemed to be a hot current from her tongue to his groin. He felt bathed in light, his skin receptive to the slightest touch. Her little freckled nose pressed against the side of his, setting his face aflame—he must be as red as the coals in the braziers. His neck cloth choked him, his jacket felt miles too small, his breeches strangled his manhood. He stood mummified as
she
kissed
him
with artless abandon, her eyelashes fluttering on her brown cheeks as he watched, cross-eyed and wild.
He could have kissed her forever except the blasted MacEwan slapped him on the back again. His teeth clicked against Miss Peartree's, and he steadied her before they both disgraced themselves any further and fell to the floor.
“Well now, Mr. Ross, you've stood here long enough with the lass. You're in the way of all these good people who want their share of romance. Shame on you. It's not as if you can't do this very thing at home when you're all alone. Save some of your kisses for the rest of us, Miss Peartree, won't you? It's only fair.”
Not meeting anyone's eye, Miss Peartree put a shaky hand to her mouth as though she wanted to verify it was still there. The music continued to screech in the background, and Andrew's head buzzed with whiskey and noise and anger.
“Mind your own business, MacEwan.”
“Laddie, everything that happens on this island is my business,” the Scotsman warned. “If your little lady wants to set up a schoolhouse here, it's best the mothers don't think she's some kind of strumpet, rubbing up against you like a cat in heat.”
“Oh!” Miss Peartree said, looking mortified.
“Now, now. It's a party, and all of us have spent some time under the kissing ball. Don't fret. I brought it myself on my boat for just that purpose. But it's time you danced with me again, aye?”
“You've danced with him enough,” Andrew said to her.
“
He
asked.”
She sounded hurt. Andrew knew her social success was his doing—he'd ignored her, left her to the wolves while he drank and felt sorry for himself. “I think we should go home. Several people have left already.” Though how they could sleep with the racket at their doorstep would be a Christmas miracle.
“Perhaps that's best.”
“Are you both mad? If you leave now, everyone will think you're off to finish what you started. No, no. Let Miss Peartree have a few more turns on the dance floor. The party's not quite over yet. Ross, you might ask some of your neighbors to dance. Don't be such a snob, sitting in your chair and looking down your nose at the simple folk. You
do
dance?”
“Of course.”
“Get to it, then. I'll take care of Miss Peartree.”
It was futile to argue. Andrew recognized with annoyance that MacEwan was right. If anyone could reinstate Miss Peartree to Batter Island society, it was the laird himself.
Another few minutes. He could manage. Despite MacEwan's exhortations, he had no interest in touching another woman. Andrew snaked his way around the merry stragglers and parted the canvas flap to exit the pavilion. A blast of cold air and a swirl of snow jolted him awake, reminding him the walk home would be wet and uncomfortable. He'd better find their coats and his son. He hadn't been at all hungry, but should compliment Mrs. MacLaren on the spread and have a last fortifying drop of whiskey if there was any left.
Most of the men were either in the pavilion dancing or snug in their own beds, but there were still a few outside clustered around the whiskey and ale, ignoring the falling flakes. Andrew nodded and filled his cup. He smiled to himself as they stopped talking—though he and Miss Peartree might be the subject of their gossip, he couldn't understand a word. Let them natter on. But he sensed their discomfort and his own. He was a stranger and always would be. Even if he learned their language, he'd never fit in.
He downed his whiskey in one gulp, then entered the cottage. The tables had been well sacked and women were carting the leftovers away. Mrs. MacLaren came up to him instantly and threw her arms around him. She must have been at the whiskey, too, Andrew thought wryly. She held a finger to her lips and led him to the pile of coats on her bed. There was Marc, with two of Mary's little brothers, curled up fast asleep like a trio of puppies. A bleary-eyed Mary kept vigil over them.
Andrew found his and Miss Peartree's outerwear. He shrugged into his coat and then walked around the bed to untangle Marc from the clothing and other little boys. Mrs. MacLaren stayed his arm.
After some fierce whispering and a show of shivering, he gathered she was offering to keep Marc for the night in her cottage. The idea had appeal. It was snowing, not hard yet, but that could change any second. The walk in the dark would be difficult enough without carrying a cranky child ripped from a warm bed. Andrew wished he could crawl into the bed himself.
“Thank you. It was a lovely party,” he said, kissing Mrs. MacLaren on her wrinkled cheek. She beamed up at him like a schoolgirl, understanding his meaning even if he spoke English.
Now it would be up to him to make Miss Peartree understand what the future held. They spoke the same language, but Andrew had a feeling she would not understand a word he'd say.
CHAPTER 12
G
emma had offered to help clear up, once the MacEwan had finished burnishing her reputation. Dogged, the laird had taken her around the dance floor until the last note of music, making small talk with the islanders. He translated the conversations, although Gemma was uncertain of his accuracy. The musicians had scattered, and most everyone save for MacEwan's men had left for the warmth of their own cottages.
Go now, Mrs. MacLaren gestured, practically pushing Gemma and Mr. Ross out the door. A hush had fallen on the island, along with a pristine carpet of snow on the ground. Tiny flakes were tumbling from the sky, confirming Mr. Ross's weather prediction. It looked to snow all night.
Marc wouldn't be coming back with them—he'd be cozy and safe while they would fight Mother Nature in the dark. But if they stayed, they'd sorely try the MacLarens' hospitality. There was room in their cottage for the sleeping toddler and his little cohorts, but with all the MacLaren family here for Christmas taking up every nook and cranny, it would be rude to commandeer a bed.
With a somewhat lecherous wink, Lord MacEwan had invited them to stay the night and sleep on the floor of the pavilion with all the other bedless revelers, but sleep would be impossible. With the tacked canvas walls and freestanding camp stoves, it might be warm enough, but never proper for Gemma to spend the night with all those men. It was far too late to wander about the settlement knocking on doors to see who might have space for them, and Gemma was afraid she'd get the door shut in her face if she asked.
She had misbehaved. Badly. She supposed she could blame it on the punch. It had been a lovely pale pink color, concealing the strength of the wine within. She may as well have been drinking blood-red burgundy for the effect it had upon her. She had danced too much, laughed too much, sang too much, kissed too much. The bracing air was not enough to banish the lingering muzziness from her head.
But, oh! If she were honest, the punch had nothing to do with her euphoria. She'd felt like Cendrillon from the Perrault fairy tale, minus the pumpkin and the mice. Never had she been the center of attention as she was tonight. Her mother's dress had made a miraculous transformation of her dull little body, and the color was absolute perfection, catching the light and turning to molten fire.
The look on Mr. Ross's face when she'd come down the stairs earlier this evening was worth every bloody pinprick of the needle to her fingers as she'd altered the gown. But he'd quickly masked his response and turned into an icicle, so proper and stiff she wondered if he had a broomstick up his arse.
Until the kisses.
His first had taken her by surprise, though it was little more than a jealous kiss of possession. He'd glowered through the night watching her dance with and get kissed by beardless boys and withered fishermen. Their kisses were hesitant, wet or lusty, all profoundly unmoving. Andrew's second—well, there were no words in
any
of her languages to describe it.
It was thorough, mind-immobilizing, mind-
obliterating
. She'd half-forgotten her own name. It was as if she'd never been kissed before, which was ridiculous since nearly every man present had caught her under the kissing ball, and Franz had once made her lips—and most every other part of her—a priority.
They climbed up the path, Gemma holding tight to Andrew's arm before the wind sent her flying. The lantern swung at a crazy angle with each step, illuminating the snow that eddied around them like shimmering fairy dust. Encased in frivolous velvet, Gemma's feet were frozen before they'd gone very far, becoming so numb she slipped and slid, almost bringing Mr. Ross down with her.
With a grunt he stopped, put the lantern on the ground, and swooped her up into the crook of his left arm, squashing her hat in the process. She buried her nose in his woolen greatcoat, smelling cold air, whiskey, and lime.
“You'll have to hold the light,” he shouted, tipping her down to pick it up.
“Don't drop me!” She giggled. She wrapped one arm around his neck and held the lantern out in front of them with stiff fingers. Like her useless shoes, her satin gloves were inadequate for the weather. She should have dressed in a more practical fashion, but she had only concerned herself with looking pretty.
She had impressed everyone but her employer.
Gemma should have known better. She'd tried to catch Franz the very same way, gilding the lily so she was irresistible, and look where that had gotten her.
She would not think of Franz now, not when she was right where she had dreamed of being for weeks—in Mr. Ross's arms, even if he carried her like a sack of potatoes and refused to do more than mumble and curse. Each time they hit a bump on the path, he swore under his breath and held her a little tighter. She closed her eyes and curled into him, relishing the contact. Layers of fabric separated them—his gloves, her cloak and dress, petticoats, and stockings—but still she felt his tender imprint on her body.
His long strides got them home fast, and she was almost sorry when he dropped her abruptly to both frozen feet at the front door of Gull House. He lifted the latch and waited like a gentleman for her to enter.
For one moment, Gemma wished he'd pick her up again and carry her over the threshold like a winter bride.
Would he ever marry again? He was so solitary a wife could probably not ever penetrate his reserve.
The house was pitch-black and cold. Gemma placed the lantern on the hall credenza, reluctant to remove her layers. “It was a lovely evening, wasn't it?” she asked, brushing snow from her cloak before she hung it on its hook. Her bonnet was as ruined as her slippers, but she set it on the table to dry.
He occupied himself with his own coat, not meeting her eye, then dropped his gloves next to her hat. “It was all right.”
“Come now! You must admit it was very merry—all the pipes and violins, and you seemed to enjoy the whiskey.”
“Whiskey is a universal language,” he said grudgingly. “And I've had too much of it. Good night, Artemisia.” He left her standing in the shadowed hallway without another word.
She watched him climb the stairs, his back erect as though he hadn't carried her home all that way through the storm. He was so very, very handsome with glistening snowflakes in his golden hair.
Gemma wanted to brush them off as she had her cloak, twine her fingers into the damp curls that were forming. Trail a fingertip from between his frowning brows to the cleft of his chin. He would catch her finger as she passed his lips, suckle it as she wanted him to suckle her breasts. Her most private of places.
Now that would make it a very fine end to the evening indeed.
They had the house to themselves. And she had her trunk at last. She smiled, picked up the lantern, and danced up the stairs after him, nearly tripping.
Careful, Gemma
. He wasn't there to catch her now.
Andrew's room was so cold he could see his breath. He got his fire going, wondering if he should go to Miss Peartree's bedroom and get hers started as well.
There led disaster. Let her do it herself. She was probably getting undressed this minute, her taffy-brown hair falling down her back. The sight of her anywhere near a bed would be his undoing. No, it had been hard enough carrying her home. He hadn't trusted himself to speak, had done his damnedest to ignore her little sighs as she snuggled against him.
Flirting was second nature to him—possibly even first—but anything that could happen with Miss Peartree would doom them both. He was determined to stop playing any more teasing games. They were torturing him.
No more kisses under the mistletoe.
No more Miss Peartree.
She'd been irresistible tonight, like a metallic flame. Each time she moved, the witchy gown changed color, from amber to chestnut to russet. The candlelight had picked up the golden embroidery of her bodice, a bodice tight enough to push up what little bosom she had and accent it with sparkle. He'd been helpless to avoid looking at her and the topaz teardrop necklace that pointed the way to heaven.
Her dress and her jewels were not those of an impoverished governess. Andrew sensed a deeper mystery here, one he could not afford to investigate.
If her appearance had shocked him, the islanders were swept away with stupefaction. He was not at all sure after watching her dance and laugh and sing that they would view her school scheme with any favor, no matter how Stephen MacEwan rehabilitated her character. She was unlike any teacher he had ever imagined and far too dazzling for the straightlaced simple folk who lived on Batter Island. The women, young and old, had turned sour as the night wore on. Their men, on the other hand, emboldened by whiskey and blinded by accurate eyesight, had responded differently. They'd tripped over their feet to beg a dance with her.
Stephen MacEwan, that blasted barbarian, had singled her out, his ruddy face shining with lust every time he spun her around on the floor. There had been far too many kisses beneath the kissing ball. Andrew would not be surprised if tomorrow didn't bring a flock of suitors to his door, probably the bloody MacEwan himself, his hairy knees exposed for all the world to see. Andrew would turn them away without remorse.
Despite his pledge to her to keep her on, he would have to turn her away, too, and soon.
After Christmas. Marc was too young to know the holiday, and Andrew had not much reason to have room in his heart for God, but for once he wished to keep Christmas as others did. There were no holly or ivy or fir boughs to be found on this windswept crag, but Mrs. MacLaren and Miss Peartree had made fruitcake the other day, swapping cheerful insults as they wrapped the loaves in brandy-soaked cheesecloth. In addition to her artistic inclination, Miss Peartree was also crafty, making paper chains and an intricate set of folded stars for the parlor mantel. The house was beginning to feel festive.
He imagined himself as head of the family at the table carving a roast goose, Miss Peartree and his son opposite, candles bright. She might be wearing the bronze dress, a paper crown on her head. She would smile like a benevolent queen, and after the meal—
Ah, there was no point in carrying the thought any further. Likely, Miss Peartree would be pushing the goose around the gravy on her plate, claiming that she never ate meat. Marc would probably turn his own little nose up at the non-Italian fare. A gust of wind would blow down the dining room chimney, leaving them sputtering with smoke and coughing their heads off.
He struggled with his well-tailored clothing, both arms nearly useless after carrying Miss Peartree home, though she was hardly a heavyweight. Hiring a valet to help him was out of the question—he'd not subject another soul to Batter Island, and somehow he could not see pressing one of the fishermen to temporarily assist him in his bath or remove his wet boots or shave off his stubble. Andrew rubbed his jaw, wondering if his beard would be as formidable as MacEwan's if he let it grow. A beard might serve as camouflage if he had to return to England for any reason. He'd draw the line at wearing a kilt, though.
Sitting at the edge of his bed, he massaged the sore muscles, seeing Gianni's triumphant face in front of him in the darkness. He must be enjoying his dukedom despite the death of his henchman. If there was a God, Gianni believed Andrew and Marc had perished in the Mediterranean.
In a way, they had. No one would think to look for them here—it was the only benefit of the isolation. Perhaps one day he and his son could leave, once he was sure that all traces of his past were buried.
But even with a bushy beard, someone was bound to recognize him if he went to London. He'd lived an indiscreet life within his select circle. Everyone knew what Andrew Rossiter was capable of. Masterful at. Edinburgh held too many memories of dashed hopes and weakness. So even if he hid himself in some tiny rural hamlet, discovery was possible. The British Isles were not so very large, and gossip seemed a national pastime.
Best to stay here until the boredom was so acute he was forced to take action. Marc could be sent away to school, as all young gentlemen were. Andrew might travel on the Continent again. By then, his hair would be silver and the Batter Island wind would have weathered his face and no one would know him or want him.

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