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Authors: Maggie Robinson

BOOK: Master of Sin
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Gemma was spared from finding out whether her dramatics were successful when the kitchen door blew open. “Mamma!” Marc cried, bundled up in Mrs. MacLaren's arms. His face was scarlet, and Mrs. MacLaren made a vain attempt to wipe away the snot under his little nose. “
L'ho mancata!”
He burst into tears. Gemma dashed across the room and grabbed him, wet and lumpy, kissing his cheeks and murmuring in Italian.
Mrs. MacLaren erupted in a torrent of Gaelic. The commotion was loud enough to rouse the MacEwan from the parlor. He towered over the housekeeper as she gestured, pointing first to Marc and then to Andrew. MacEwan nodded sagely.
“What's the matter with him? Is he ill?” Andrew asked, a touch of panic in his voice.
“Not at all. Mrs. MacLaren said he was fine, playing with her grandchildren until you showed up. Then he decided he missed Miss Peartree. And you, I suppose. He's been shrieking his head off ever since you left the village. She thought it best to bring him home.”
Gemma snuggled with the boy. He'd called her mamma, said he missed her. Andrew couldn't possibly turn her out today. He'd have to have a heart of stone.
“
Grazi, bambino
,” Gemma whispered in his ear. “Thank you.” Marc gave her a snotty kiss and hiccupped.
“See here. I know you think it's none of my business, Ross, but that child will have a fit if you send Miss Peartree away. Just look at them, like a Madonna and child, if the baby Jesus was wearing a sweater. I'd think twice about dismissing her.”
“As you said,” Andrew ground out, “it's none of your business. I'll see to my own servants.”
“And that's another thing.” MacEwan threw an arm around the housekeeper protectively. “Mrs. MacLaren will return tomorrow. Her nerves are quite overset what with Marc carrying on so and all the revelry last night. She's going home to take a nap. That's if her grandchildren can quiet down. Marc evidently spurred them on to a bit of a riot.”
A muscle twitched in Andrew's cheek. “Bloody wonderful. I suppose we'll manage.”
MacEwan grinned hugely, reveling in Andrew's obvious discomfort. “Well, I'll just get my hat and gloves and escort Mrs. MacLaren back home then, aye? I'll be out again in the spring to collect the rents. Keep warm over the winter. Miss Peartree, it was pure pleasure meeting you. If you need anything, anything at all, I'm at your service.”
“Th-thank you,” Gemma said faintly. With a few whispered words to the old woman, he left with her by the front door. Marc burrowed down into Gemma's shoulder, ignoring the tension in the kitchen.
“I'll just bring Marc upstairs,” she said, breaking the silence.
“Don't think this is the end of it,” Andrew growled. “You'll leave in two weeks. No stratagem will change my mind.”
We'll see about that
. With a brisk nod, Gemma left him alone to stew.
CHAPTER 17
H
e'd waited in his empty library. Waited and drank until his empty stomach rebelled and his mind emptied of everything save the pain in his gut.
He listened. The house was never quiet—there was always the rattling of window frames, groaning floorboards, the blasting wind and splashing water outside. But right now it was as still as it was apt to ever be. Hours ago he'd heard Gemma sing to Marc—Italian lullabies mixed with snatches of songs that seemed familiar to him. Her voice was as sweet as the rest of her.
She would be asleep by now. It was safe to go upstairs and spend the night staring at the bedroom ceiling rather than the library ceiling. There was a damp patch that he could focus on by candlelight. Perhaps the whole bloody thing would fall on his head and put him out of his misery.
He took off his boots and climbed the thinly carpeted stairs. It wouldn't do to wake his son. He had refused a nap all day, clinging to Gemma like a monkey, afraid to let her out of his sight. Preventing Andrew from having a civil conversation and laying down the law about the rest of the time that remained. He wondered if Gemma had used his son as some sort of shield.
No. Her feelings for Marc were genuine. She'd worked wonders with him in the month they'd been stuck out here. He was now sleeping through the night. There had been no night terrors or accidents. He babbled in English. All Gemma's doing, not his father's.
He pushed open his bedroom door and paused on the threshold, his heart stopping along with his feet. The firelight in the grate flickered, revealing an odalisque rivaling any artist's rendition.
Gemma slept in his bed, her hair braided to the side and tied with a scrap of green ribbon. Her narrow back and bottom curved in invitation. If she woke and looked over her shoulder at him, he would be undone.
The covers were folded back neatly. The exposure—this revelation—of her body was not accidental. She must know the image she presented anyone who walked through the door. But there was no one but Andrew to discover her, no one but Andrew to tempt beyond bearing.
The bloody girl wouldn't take no for an answer. It was as if she'd lost all her facility with the English language even as she taught it to Marc. Andrew had been blunt. Dismissive. Cruel. About the only thing he hadn't done was take his fists to her, and only because if his hands drew near, they would forget to be instruments of pain and turn to her pleasure. His pleasure, too. She'd lit a spark within him he had thought long extinguished.
Gemma might be an orphaned courtesan's daughter with a rackety upbringing, but she deserved more than Andrew could give her. If she wasn't so bloody pigheaded, so bloody perverse, so bloody
perfect
—
She turned in her sleep, one small hand still tucked beneath her ear. She was on her back now, her chest rising and falling, her nipples stiff from the cold room despite the fire. Andrew stared as the shadows danced across her creamy skin, flitting fingers pointing to each gentle curve, each tiny chocolate birthmark, each gilt strand in her loosely bound hair. He'd been so wrong about her before. She wasn't simply brown all over, but bronze and gold, almond and apricot, chestnut and copper.
“Get out.” He'd intended to bark, but his mouth was so dry his voice was barely above a whisper. She slept on, her face as innocent as a child's, her straight brows relaxed. She seemed to think the better of her position in her dreams, and presented him her lovely arse again as she rolled to her side.
If she wouldn't get out, he would. He stumbled down the stairs like a blind man in perpetual darkness. He should have gone to one of the spare rooms, but it was too late to mount the stairs again when it would only lead him closer to Gemma.
The parlor fire had died hours ago. Andrew worked it to feeble flames and sat down on the sagging couch. Gemma had slept here when she first came. He could, too. With more whiskey anything was possible. There was a bottle now here as well as his library. One in his bedroom. Several in the kitchen, always at hand for a man who was trying to drive his demons away. He poured himself yet another glass, then set it abruptly back on the table.
Overindulgence in spirits had never been one of his sins. In the past, he'd needed his wits about him to make sure events unfolded in precisely the ways he wished them to. Drink was for the weak or the merry, and he was neither. Marc was too young to notice he had an incipient sot for a father, but Gemma would know. She'd seen him in his cups since that misbegotten
ceilidh
, bit her beautiful lip but said nothing. She had to know she was the reason for the current fall from his graceless state.
No. He couldn't blame her. She had some misguided notion that her love would heal him, as if a quarter of a decade of sin could be erased by a faerie's solemn kiss.
Andrew had not let her utter another word about her dismissal, and now she'd taken matters into her own hands and into his own bed. It was Christmas Eve, and she lay like a present, already unwrapped.
He knew now what it felt like to be buried inside her. To touch her bare, dusky skin. To smell the lemon fragrance as her body heated. To hear her call his name. To watch her come apart. He was denying himself what he most wanted, but he could not give in to his desire again. In a little more than a week he would never see her again. Best to have their one night to savor as he spent the rest of his life doing penance.
Marc would be fine. Andrew would find another relative of Mrs. MacLaren's to help young Mary with his son. The child would forget Gemma soon enough.
But would Andrew? He'd carried a torch for Caro for years. He was steadfast, in his fashion, still able to satisfy others sexually while he fantasized about his first love. But Caro hadn't once intruded in his mind the other night. It had been Gemma, and only Gemma.
He buzzed her name between his lips, able finally to put a name to the piquant little face and body that had so enthralled him. It suited her. She was like polished topaz, golden amber. Citrine. Cat's-eye. Cut perfectly into spare angles and planes.
Groaning, he picked up his glass again, swirling the liquid. The color reminded him of Gemma's eyes.
He was simply going mad.
What state would he be in a year from now, alone with Marc and makeshift nursemaids? He pictured himself wizened and wild eyed, his arm still useless. He'd not be fit to be anyone's father.
Maybe Caro and Christie could take the boy, hire Gemma back, and raise him as their own. Caro loved children, and Christie would see it as his Christian duty to save Marc from his sinful father. Marc would lead a normal life with a normal family, not be set adrift on Batter Island to be forever in isolation.
It was the ideal solution—Andrew wondered why he'd not thought of it before. He'd write the letter tonight. He drained his glass and set it on the rug.
Could he give up his son? He had before. But then, Marc had been an abstract infant, faceless in Giulietta's occasional letters. Now he saw himself in his son, the Rossiter cleft in his chin, his fair curls, his ice-blue eyes. Someone vigilant was needed to protect him from the predators that were sure to be drawn to Marc's angelic good looks.
Virtuous Edward Christie would do better than amoral Andrew Rossiter. He may have changed his name to Ross, but he was still the same man underneath.
Andrew felt more than a moment of regret, but he went into his library and penned his plea by candlelight. Any favor Christie owed him had long been returned, and asking this was surely too much.
The words did not come easily, and he went through several sheets of foolscap until he got the right tone. The clock struck one. Some happy Christmas, when he was giving his only treasure away. But it would take weeks to hear back, and then the answer might be no.
Without the responsibility to protect Marc, he could go anywhere. Be anybody. The thought should have lifted his spirits, but it did not. Instead, he was strangled in a kind of sorrow he'd never before experienced.
The kind of sorrow that made one's life seem pointless.
The kind of sorrow that made one desperate. Reckless.
The kind of sorrow that pushed one into the arms of the willing woman waiting for him upstairs.
He would deny himself everything. Later. His child. His woman. He'd go back to his old life, collect his money, breeze by without a care in the world. But tonight—
It was Christmas. A night of stars and miracles.
He left the ink to dry on his letter and navigated through the dark house. His door stood open as he'd left it, a spill of firelight into the hall. To his great disappointment, Gemma had pulled his coverlet up. The sound of her even breathing told him she slept, unaware of his presence or his desire. But she was not here by accident, by a wrong turn, or by mistaken invitation. She knew what his intentions toward her had been and had defied him, unrolling nude like Cleopatra from her rug. But she'd wrapped back up. He would have to remedy that.
He dropped his wrinkled clothes to the chair, wishing he'd availed himself of a bath earlier. Gemma would have to take him as he was, punchy from too little sleep and too much whiskey. He wiped a hand over his face, feeling the golden bristles that had been undisturbed by a razor since the night of the
ceilidh
.
If he thought to turn himself into a beast to repel her, he'd failed, for here she was, lit by flickers of light, her lips set in a dreamy smile. No matter how he'd growled at her the past few days, or ignored her as if she wasn't even there, she had paid him no mind. Took no offense. Went about her business as though they lived in a normal household and he was a normal master. As though the threat of banishment didn't loom. As though they had not spent a few blissful hours in each other's arms before Andrew ripped himself away.
Which he was determined to do again. Gemma Peartree was leaving after the new year. He would grant himself one more chance to feel her body against his, to slip inside her, to lose his loneliness. But he didn't dare taste her mouth again, for his thirst would not be quenched so casually.
Peeling the covers back, he fitted himself behind her, drawing her bottom to his rampant erection. She made a happy sigh and wiggled against him. He feasted on her shoulder and neck as his right arm curved around her to reach for her curls. He might not have full use of it, but he could still bring her to orgasm with a few well-placed flicks and circles of his thumb. He pictured her pink bud in his mind's eye, wished it was between his lips. She would be sweet and tart on his tongue. But again, like her kiss, one taste would not be enough. He settled for the smooth flavor of her back, her earlobe, her throat, nibbling as he stroked her. She was slick, wet, ready. When her muscles contracted and her bud trembled on his fingers, he coated himself with her juices and thrust deep within.
His hand returned to her center, holding her captive, spurring her to ride through wave after wave. She clenched around him, pulling him along to her tide.
Time and tide tarry on for no man.
Andrew could do nothing but follow her to the bottom of the sea, drowning in breathless sensation, struggling to keep his head clear enough to withdraw against her soft bottom. Instinctively she pressed hard against him, simulating as best she could the stricture of her silken inner walls. He savored the rush of his seed, his hand cupping her slight breast, his troubled mind untangling too briefly.
Andrew had never felt such comfort. All the more reason for this to never happen again, for it would become impossible to keep walking away. He could not let her innocent ardor wear him down.
“Merry Christmas,” Gemma whispered. A flare-up of coals hissed and popped in the fireplace. She settled against him, relaxed, while every nerve in his body went on alert. She would expect capitulation after this, deserved it. But he could not allow himself to trust the happiness. It would curdle, constrict them both once daylight shone upon his many sins.
But it was still dark, a scattering of diamond-bright stars visible through the windows. He held her to him, his chin resting upon the top of her head. She smelled of lemons and soap and sex. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, and in minutes was fast asleep.
 
Gemma felt the rise and fall of Andrew's chest against her back, the weight of his arm around her waist. She had taken a risk but had been rewarded. Since the night of the
ceilidh
, Andrew had vacillated between chilly reserve and imperious bluster. All her efforts to talk to him had met with failure. Either he said too little or too much, and never looked her in the eye. He refused to consider any other alternative than her leaving on the next sail.
But tonight he'd taken her bait and joined her in bed. Joined
with
her. Even in the odd position of being on her side, so far from his lips, unable to watch his face, she had gloried in his every stroke. Andrew filled her so completely, his touch so sure, she could not imagine her life without him in it.
Without him inside her.
Gemma frowned in the dark. Once she'd felt the same about Franz. But that was before she had been so thoroughly mastered by Andrew. Even being the daughter of a courtesan, Gemma had been naïve when it came to evaluating sexual prowess. She realized now that sex with Franz had been more of a triumph for her mind than her body. Too eager, she had orchestrated her own seduction, assuming it would end in marriage. Marriage was the ultimate goal of any young girl, especially one like her who'd been raised in such unconventional circumstances. Gemma had yearned for respectability—and yes, boredom. But thank goodness she was not tied down to her Austrian stepbrother.

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