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Authors: Maggie Robinson

BOOK: Master of Sin
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Andrew supposed he should wait to dispatch her at least until her trunk arrived. He couldn't send her out into the world looking like a ragamuffin dwarf. And if her belongings didn't come, he'd have to pay to outfit her from the skin out. That wouldn't be a problem—he had, contrary to her suspicions, plenty of money. More than he could spend in a lifetime here, for sure, even if he bought Marc every toy the child could ever want.
He sat at his desk composing another letter to Lord Edward Christie. His correspondence could not go out until the next boat came, but it helped center Andrew to write of his predicament. He might never even post these daily diatribes, for he counted on Edward's goodwill to stock Gull House with the necessities until he found his own man of business. Whom Christie would hire for him, just as he'd hired Miss Pernicious Peartree. It bedeviled Andrew that he had to rely on Caroline's husband, but he really had no choice.
Andrew hated to depend on anyone but himself. People were bound to disappoint, if not actually cause despair. He'd learned that at a very early age. His son must never know any fraction of the sorrow he'd experienced as a child. Andrew was all Marc had now, and for once, he would do the right and honorable thing.
Even here in this Scottish hellhole.
CHAPTER 6
“
W
hat is your Christian name, Miss Peartree?” He was tired of thinking of her so formally in his nightly fantasies. It was probably something prosaic, like Mary or Margaret, but he really had to know. It had become something of an obsession for him, but from the looks of her, she still wasn't going to tell him.
“I have not given you leave to call me anything but Miss Peartree, nor will I,” she sniffed. She crumbled a muffin and handed it to Marc. His son shredded it even further before he popped it in his mouth, fist and all. The boy was blooming and had put on weight under Miss Peartree's vigilant care. Mrs. MacLaren's fine, simple cooking helped, too. Andrew was getting somewhat stout himself. It was impossible to tell the effect on Miss Peartree, however. She was dwarfed in her borrowed clothes. Evidently the largest women on the island had pitched in to donate their shapeless cast-offs. If Miss Peartree stayed, he would have to order her something better than the rough homespun that hung from her tiny frame.
“Elizabeth.”
She did not respond except to cut a sausage in thirds for his son.
“Calliope.”
She pursed her lips. “My mother was not so fanciful, sir.”
“Jane, then.”
She shook her head and ate her eggs. “
Bene, e Marc
? So good.”
“Goo!” his son shouted.
“
Si
. Yes. Good.” Miss Peartree's radiant smile tripped Andrew's hard heart.
She pointed to her plate. “
Uova
. Eggs.”
“Eck!”
“Eat yours, love.
Mangia
.”
Marc shoveled his spoon into the eggs and got most of the contents in his mouth. “Goo eck.”
“You're making remarkable progress.”
“Marc is a remarkable boy,” Miss Peartree said modestly. “He is by far the best pupil I've ever had.”
“How long have you been at this sort of work, Miss Peartree? If you won't tell me your name, at least tell me your age.”
“A
gentleman
never asks a lady her age, even if the lady is in his employ.” She blotted her lips on her napkin. Andrew envied the linen.
“Ah, but I have the feeling you don't think me much of a gentleman.”
“It does not matter one whit what I think, Mr. Ross. I am interested in Marc, not you. And now that you've brought it up,” she said, lowering her voice, “I would appreciate it if you did not always
look
at me so. I thought I made that clear. We are still in our two-week trial period.”
Andrew feigned innocence. “What do you mean, Miss Peartree? Evalina? Alberta?”
“As if you'd like to gobble me up like Marc did his muffin.”
“Miss Peartree! I assure you I don't want to turn you into a pile of crumbs.” Now, to slather her with jam or honey might be a tasty treat indeed.
“And I have no wish to be turned,” she said with asperity. “But I do have an idea which I'd like to present to you if you could divert your attention to something serious.”
Andrew took a sip of blistering hot coffee. Mrs. MacLaren must know precisely what he wanted to do with his tongue and was discouraging him in the only way available to her. “I am all ears, Miss Peartree.”
“I believe it would benefit Marc if he could share his lessons with a few of the village children. They are as ignorant of the English language as he is. Lessons would be more in the way of play, of course. It would help socialize him, too.”
“The boy is not even three years old. Surely he's too young for school.”
“Of course. I'm not talking about giving Marc a slate and expecting him to write his numbers. But there is much he could do with two or three little ones like himself.”
Andrew looked at his son, who was placing a glob of egg on his spoon to carry to his mouth. The egg slipped between his fingers, and with determination Marc picked up the egg and tried again. Quite a bit of his breakfast seemed to be on him rather than in him.
“Isn't Marc enough for you to handle, Miss Peartree?”
“I'm sure I could manage a few more children for an hour or so a day, sir. For that matter, I would love to start a little school for the older children. Once I pass my trial, of course. When you hire a village girl to assist me. If you employed more people from the settlement and founded a school, you will increase your consequence here. It would behoove you to look after your people.”
His people! As though he was a feudal lord. The MacEwan owned the rest of the island, absent landlord that he was. The idea that Andrew had an obligation to anybody was ludicrous.
“I did not employ you to teach the world, Miss Peartree, just one small boy. Cecily. Sarah.”
Miss Peartree frowned at him, all traces of good humor gone. “What I am proposing would be of benefit to us all. You'd engender the goodwill of the islanders, Marc would have playmates, and the local children would have advantages. I'm perfectly capable of tending to Marc and instructing the others for an hour or two.”
“I cannot agree. Unless, perhaps—” He broke off, watching the hope return to her piquant face. “If you tell me your name, I might consider your idea.”
Miss Peartree crumpled her napkin and pulled Marc from his high chair. “I, too, cannot agree. There is no need for an employer to know anything so personal about his employee.”
“Good lord. It's only a name. You know mine. What if I had to write you a bank draft instead of pay you in coin? Is your name so awful you're ashamed of it? Griselda, perhaps? Horatia? Clytemnestra?”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Ross,” she said, clutching a sticky Marc to her chest. “If you have need of us, we will be in the nursery.”
She stomped off, or stomped off as loudly as someone her slight size could muster. She was just a little slip of a thing, and it was outrageous to Andrew that she could have provoked him so completely. He saw her glistening wet body rising from the bathtub in his mind's eye at the most inconvenient times, with the resultant effect.
She needed to go. There would be no school or houseful of children here for his son. He'd find some old battle-ax to care for Marc and keep him to the straight-and-narrow path he'd chosen in his newest incarnation. It was a jest of the vastest proportions that his lust had been so piqued by a girl who looked enough like a boy to pass for one, barring her magnificent fall of caramel hair. Andrew dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter and pushed himself away from the table.
How would he spend his day? It was storming again, storming always, it seemed. The ocean beyond the grassy point was gray-green and furious, the rain pelting against the wavy glass. His arm ached like the devil with the damp, but that was no excuse for him to skip his exercises. If he didn't do what his Parisian doctor ordered, his limb would atrophy—just as his brain was becoming stunted by the lack of stimulation here. He'd been in residence just a few days and already was regretting it.
But where else could he go to keep Marc safe? London was out of the question for so many reasons. People knew him there, knew his past and proclivities. His son would never have a fair chance, and Andrew feared the city's many temptations would wear down his resolve. If one skinny little virgin was driving him to madness, what would he do when faced with actual feminine pulchritude?
He rather thought he could resist the gentlemen now. For so many years he'd not cared where or how he took his pleasure as long as there was some. He'd become endlessly inventive and intrepid in his search for the fleeting moment of passion. But he'd always been happier when involved in a ménage, a soft woman to blunt the rough edges of a male lover.
It had been a revelation to discover that he was not totally Donal Stewart's creature. While nothing had ever been forbidden in his life travels, there were some acts that were preferable. But he was done with all that, done for the sake of his son. He had a hand and a brain, and that would have to do.
Andrew went into the library. All the books were on the shelves now, nothing from his collection of pornography, of course. He and Mr. MacLaren had finally hauled those up to the attics yesterday much to Miss Peartree's satisfaction, where hopefully a platoon of mice wouldn't munch on them. Andrew had spent a good bit of money buying the volumes and someday might sell them for a profit. At the time it had seemed money well spent, as anything to provoke his flagging interest in the sexual arts was welcome. He'd been half afraid then he was losing his touch, and therefore his financial independence.
In his experience, sin had paid very well. There was a roof over his head and his belly was full. He'd made some lucky investments, which now enabled him to live this life of relative comfort. Oh, Gull House was not comfortable yet, but it was his, and in time he could make it a home.
Andrew picked up the hard leather ball from the desk and set to squeezing. This activity was far more boring than sparring with a partner or riding or fencing, gentlemen's pursuits he'd engaged in to blend into society and keep fit. He'd much rather be squeezing Miss Peartree's sweet bum than the ball, and the pressure of his fingers changed when he imagined he was. It was not quite so onerous when his hands cupped creamy flesh rather than dry brown leather. If she were beneath him, he'd run his hands up her slender narrow back and lose them in her silken hair. Whisper sweet secrets in her ear as he took her from behind. Watch his shaft enter and exit with practiced grace. He knew just how to—
But no. He didn't think Miss Peartree would allow herself to be sweet-talked into anything. She'd probably be fighting him off like a little spitfire hedgehog, all claws and bristles.
That could work, too. His hand picked up the pace with the ball, rolling it in his palm in a feverish pitch until his cock threatened to burst through his breeches. In another minute his smalls would be wet and he'd be the victim of a diurnal emission. The ball skittered across his desk, where it thumped to the floor.
Good lord. What was happening to him?
Weather be damned. He found his greatcoat hanging on a peg by the front door. Mrs. MacLaren or someone had tucked a faded plaid scarf into the collar, which he wrapped around his neck as best he could with one working hand. Razor-sharp rain hit the top of his bare head the moment he stepped out the door. He could, he supposed, tie the scarf around his head like an old village woman. He'd be a laughing stock if anyone saw him, but he wasn't heading toward the settlement. If it caused a few goats' amusement, so be it.
Thus Andrew Rossiter,
gigolo extraordinaire
, toast of the Continent and the British Isles, roamed the cliffs of Batter Island wearing a plaid turban like an old blind dowager. How far he'd fallen. But if the price was keeping his son safe and whole, it was worth it.
He headed to the ring of stones that were all that was left of his Iron Age fort. A thousand years ago, men must have stood here just as he did, watching for Viking longboats. The Norsemen had raided, then settled, these islands for centuries, and the glint of gold and red in some of the villagers' hair was proof that their blood lived on.
Andrew had no idea who his father was. He fantasized it was some rich toff who spent at least fifteen minutes with his pretty mother, but he could as easily be the product of a back-alley coupling with a fishmonger with a few coins. He thought the former was more likely from the few words his mother let slip when she was into the gin. Her beauty was such that she had been very successful for a while, until illness stripped the flesh from her bones and taking care of a seven-year-old boy had proved to be too much.
Ah well. Life was full of crooked turns, and Andrew had taken most of them. Here he was at the edge of his land, buffeted by high winds, a straight shot across the Atlantic to the New World. Should Gull House's amenities pale, he could always start fresh with Marc there. In Boston or Charleston or some such city. He was less familiar with America than he was with the drawing rooms of the ton, but the naïve democracy of the United States might be perfect for him, the bastard-born son of a Scottish whore and his bastard-born son of an Italian duchess. It was something to think about.
If he went, would Miss Persnickety Peartree accompany him? Would he hold her over the railing, catching her gilt and umber hair as she puked? No, likely he'd be doing that with Marc, who was a very poor seaman indeed. The thought of more weeks on the water with the child brought forth a shudder that had nothing to do with the sluice of icy rain dripping down his neck.
For good or worse, this was his home now.
He turned into the wind, unraveling his unusual head gear. Catching it in the nick of time before it blew to Ireland, Andrew tromped along the cliff path, minding the slippery grass. One wrong step and he'd pitch below to the beach. While the sand was brilliantly white, he doubted it would be like landing on a cloud.
He'd have to speak to Miss Peartree about being cautious with Marc out-of-doors. One day the sun might shine again and the child would want to chase his own ball or a butterfly or a swooping bird. It might behoove Andrew to fence off a portion of the property for a play yard for the little boy so he couldn't escape from supervision on his short chubby legs. Add wood to the growing list—the island was virtually treeless.

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