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Authors: Maggie Robinson

BOOK: Master of Sin
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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 jumble 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.
She clutched the blanket firmly in place with one hand and looked up at the men who towered over her. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We've come for the little brat.” The shorter of the men knocked her away from the door frame. “Where is he? What have you done with him, eh?”
Gemma looked at Andrew. Only Andrew. Her voice softened. “He is dead, Mr. Ross. You remember he was unwell when you left. He died of a fever. I am so sorry.”
Andrew's blue eyes had been beaten nearly shut, but he blinked and then stumbled backward, nearly taking down the brute who kept hold of him.
“No.”
“I did not know how to reach you, or when to expect you. He's buried in the churchyard. I can take you there when morning comes.”
“Che dice?” What did she say?
This from the man who had a knife at Andrew's ribs.
“Il ragazzo è morto. Bene. Un meno di uccidere.” The boy is dead. Good. One less to kill.
Gemma shivered but pretended not to understand. She twisted her hands in the fringe of the blanket, not having to pretend distress.
“Who are these men, Mr. Ross? What do they want?”
Gemma hoped Andrew would understand what she was doing. But he was so brutalized it was impossible to tell.
“Did he not tell you what he really is,
mia cara
? A man who sticks his
pene
into anything. He sold his own son to my cousin to pass him off as a
duca
, to rob me of my inheritance. My birthright. I am the true
duca
now.” Gianni spat on the floor, far too near Gemma's bare feet. “I heard your ‘Mr. Ross' and the child had escaped after I sought my vengeance. That is not even his name, you know. He has deceived you as he has deceived everyone.”
Gemma feigned shock. “How horrible. But poor little Marc is dead. You have nothing to worry about now. You can leave the island today and take me with you. If he is what you say he is, there is no reason for me to stay.” She gave Andrew a contemptuous look. “I suppose you never planned to marry me, either.”
Gianni laughed and lifted a strand of hair from her shoulder. Gemma willed herself to stand still and look the young man in the face. His black eyes were soulless. “Oh, he did. He had a special license in his pocket when we took him. It was his mistake. His undoing, the trip to get it.
Errore stupido
. I had my spies on the lookout for him everywhere. You are Miss Bassano, yes?
Lei parla l'italiano
?”
Gemma did not fall for the trap. “I am Miss Peartree. Artemisia Peartree. Who is this Miss Bassano, Mr. Ross?” He'd gone to get a special license. He would have had to give her true name to the archbishop's representative, but by calling her Artemisia in front of the
duca
and his minion upstairs, he had tried to protect her. Distance himself from her. The lies they were both weaving for each other made her head ache.
“The woman I love,” Andrew mumbled.
“Well!” Gemma stamped a foot. “I should have known better than to believe such a pretty face! But you're not very pretty at the moment, Mr. Ross. Even if you are a liar, you need some bandaging. You,” she said to the man guarding Andrew, “bring Mr. Ross downstairs and tie him to a kitchen chair so you can sit down and relax. I think we can all do with some tea. Perhaps even a dram of whiskey. Our Scottish whiskey is considered very fine, Your Grace, but I imagine you're used to wine. We haven't any, I'm afraid. But I can make you all a sandwich and we can wait for the sunrise. You can see for yourself the boy's grave, and then we can leave this place. And good riddance, I say. Did you come by a private boat, Your Grace? Is your crew waiting for you? We should get a message to them.” She paused for breath.
Gianni stared at her as if she were a bedlamite. And if things went bad she would be. Or dead.
“È una donna matt. È troppo stupida di sapere che siamo qui per,”
Gianni mumbled to his cohort. Yes, she was a crazy woman, but knew perfectly well why they were here.
“Andare di sotto, Paolo. Vuole cucinare per noi.”
She had not promised to cook, merely make sandwiches, but an idea began forming that was rather compelling. She brushed by the men in the hallway and bounded down the stairs, hoping no knives would be thrown at her back. She practically raced to the kitchen, where she shoved the poker behind the pantry door. The men were on her heels—at least Gianni was. It took a bit longer for the other fellow Paolo to get poor Andrew down the stairs.
“Signorina
,
”
Gianni said, a bit breathless, “we have not come here for a tea party.”
Gemma dropped the blanket and smiled as coquettishly as she knew how. “Why of course you haven't. You came to teach Andrew Ross a lesson, and I believe you have. You've beaten him to a pulp.” Andrew had been dragged to the kitchen bench, where he was slumped over the table. His minder stood over him, the knife shining in the lamps that Gemma was lighting as she flitted about the kitchen like a drunken butterfly, giving the men a show of her too-slender body. “But the man has just lost his only son. I think that's punishment enough, don't you? He won't bother you about dukedoms in Italy or anywhere else. Look around you, sir. He has nothing. He lives in the middle of nowhere. How did you get here, anyway?”
Gemma chattered, undoing a few buttons of her nightgown. She pumped water into a kettle and filled the stovebox with coals and anything else she could bring to hand, including one of Marc's ragdolls that had somehow wound up in the kindling. As she shut the damper, she prayed the duke had lived such a life of privilege that he'd never been near a kitchen range before and would have no idea what it was she was doing.
“
Fermare per parlare!
Be quiet, you foolish thing. I have come to kill my enemy, and I will kill you, too!”
“How positively banal. We are not in some melodrama, Duke. Andrew Ross is not your enemy, and you are most certainly not going to kill me. I have nothing to do with any of this. Tell me, do you want ham or chicken?” She batted her eyelashes, feeling rather desperate. Her mother would be doing this far better than she. “Help yourself to the whiskey on the sideboard. I'll just go into the pantry to get the soup—”
“Stop!” Gianni roared. “Sit down and shut up.”
Gemma turned to him, eyes blazing. “How dare you, sir! Forgive me for taking umbrage, but I am not one of your Italian subjects to order about! You are in my country now and have no authority over me whatsoever. I've offered you sustenance, and perhaps something more—” She slid her hand down the worn linen of her shift in a provocative manner. “And what do I get but uncouth behavior? No wonder your cousin sought to exclude you from his line. You come into my home in the middle of the night with threats and knives. Why, you've probably got a gun, too!”
As she feared, Gianni pulled a pistol from his breast pocket. It was small, but lethal enough.
“How smart you are for a governess.” There was a loud popping sound behind her, and Gianni startled. “What have you done with the stove? There is smoke.”
“It is an old stove. Temperamental. There is always a little smoke in the beginning.” Billowing black clouds belied her words, and she grinned inwardly. They would not be sitting in the kitchen for long, or indeed anywhere in the house. “There is a tool in the pantry I use when it acts up like this.” She looked pointedly at the gun. “If you will permit me to get it?”
“I will go with you.”
Even better. Then she wouldn't have to run across the kitchen floor, wielding the poker like a bayonet.
The pantry was as dark as the underside of hell. “Now, where did I put it? Perhaps you should fetch me a candle, Duke. I cannot see a thing.” Gemma could feel him hesitate behind her. “I swear I won't hit you on the head with a crock of pickles. I'm not ready to get myself shot quite yet.”
“La sparerò comunque. Dopo che la violento.” I'll shoot you anyway. After I rape you.
Lovely. Well at least her flirtation had been successful, or he was attracted to crazy, angry women.
She positioned herself behind the door, the cool metal of the poker shooting through her blood as she raised it as high as she could. She would have just one chance to get this right. Gemma waited for the telltale flicker of candlelight. Her job became easier as Gianni coughed and sputtered entering the storage room.
“Where are you, you bitch?”
Well, that kind of language was unnecessary. Gemma drove the spike end down as hard as she could against the back of Gianni's dark head. Both the candle and gun slipped from his hands as he fell to the floor. An alarming quantity of blood gushed from the wound, but he rolled on his back, his face murderous.
It had been too much to hope that she had killed him, but he screamed in pain as the fire from the fallen candle licked at the sleeve of his coat. She did not bother to stamp it out. Gemma snatched the gun up and bolted him into the pantry. The latch would not last forever—it was not meant to keep criminals incarcerated, but small boys from helping themselves to too many sweets.
Andrew had lifted his head from the table, his expression dull. Gianni's man held the knife to his throat.
“Fare cadere il coltello o la sparero.”
The man's eyes widened at Gemma's command of Italian. But he didn't drop the knife.
“You will not shoot me,” the man replied in his language. Gianni howled behind the door. “Let the boss out or I will kill your lover.”
“Parla l'inglese
?
”
He shook his head.
Gemma had to make sure. “Your mother is a whore.”
There was no response.
“You can fuck me on the kitchen table if you let him go.”
“Jesus, Artemisia.” Andrew seemed to be repressing laughter.
“Andrew, Marc is safe. Alive. Do something.”
He didn't have to be asked twice. He twisted on the bench, the knife skimming his throat. Droplets of blood appeared instantly, but he reared and butted Paolo backward. The goon landed flat on his back, his head making a grim chunking sound. The knife skittered across the stone floor. Andrew stumbled from the bench to grab it and ground Paolo's hand into the floor with his boot. The man did not even flinch—he was out cold.

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