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Authors: Maggie Robinson

BOOK: Master of Sin
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“Mr. Ross!”
So she had felt his manhood rise despite the swaths of fabric. How could he help himself when an angel fell from heaven into his arms? Sweet-smelling, delicate, delicious. He could do nothing less than cushion her against him, pressing her to his needful body. He'd had no contact with anyone warm and willing in months and months.
He glanced down—perhaps she was not willing after all. She had her troll face on, her lips turned down in scorn and her golden-brown eyes mere slits. He put a finger to her blushing cheek. “You needn't look at me like that. I saved your life, you know.”
“Let me go this instant!” Miss Peartree spluttered.
“I want to make sure you're perfectly all right. Perhaps you twisted an ankle?” Andrew asked hopefully. He would gladly pat her down to her toes to check for any infirmity, get his hands under that dress to touch the electric velvet of her skin.
“My ankles are no concern of yours.” She struggled against him, causing the most delightful friction. “You're doing it
again
.”
“Doing what?”
“
Looking
at me!”
He smiled, completely smitten, helpless to resist her even if she looked like she wanted to skewer him with a hatpin. Thank God she was bare headed, her lovely streaky hair whisper-soft beneath his hand. “Well, I can hardly do anything else. You're right here. Quite close. Within kissing distance.”
Miss Peartree's lips snapped shut and disappeared inward, leaving an angry line on her rosy face. Andrew felt a rather vicious pinch to his midsection and very grudgingly released her.
“You could say thank you.”
“I could, but if you hadn't been at my heels like the hound of hell I might have been more careful.”
“Hound of hell? Now you're exaggerating. I simply wanted to watch my son wake from his slumber. My intentions, Miss Peartree, were entirely honorable. Fatherly. I may have come to my responsibilities late in life, but I assure you I take them very seriously. Marc is
my
son, you know, not just your charge.”
She had the grace to look a bit shame faced, so he continued. “I thought we were getting along well, with plans for the school and what-not. Since we seem to be stuck with each other for the time being, let us not waste any time in arguing.”
“I wasn't arguing.”
“You are arguing right this minute, Arianna. Alicia?”
She looked quite ready to pinch him again. “Shall I carry you to prevent further injury, or can you manage on your own?” he teased.
She snorted and marched up the stairs.
“You might, you know, tug up your dress and display some ankle so you don't trip on your skirts again. I promise I won't look.”
“Hah.”
She knew as well as he did his promise was hollow. He would have to master himself soon or he would go mad. He watched the voluminous fabric sway as she stumbled up the steps, bracing himself for another accidental encounter. But alas, she made it to the top of the stairs without incident. He heard Marc down the hall, singing to himself in his crib. It was an Italian song Miss Peartree had sung to him, her voice surprisingly lush coming from so slight an instrument.
Andrew could not remember a time his mother had ever sung to him. Perhaps she had, and other, less pleasant memories had layered and crusted over his early years making them impenetrable. Molly Rossiter had fallen so deep in poverty that her looks and spirits had deserted her, and then she had deserted him. Andrew owed his male beauty to her, but his survival skills were all his own.
He watched as Miss Peartree lifted a sleep-flushed Marc from his bed, his yellow ringlets damp and tufting. Andrew had decided to keep his own hair shorn; no point in looking like an angel when one had fallen so very far. There were no more lovers to exclaim upon his curls or run their fingers through his sex-rumpled hair—unless he could somehow persuade the nameless Miss Peartree to abandon her virtue and good sense.
A winter in this wild, desolate place just might do it. When Andrew set his mind—and his body—to it, all manner of things were possible. But it was best to keep Miss Peartree safe from his predatory nature. It was the least he could do to thank her for the miracle she was working with his son. As his dreams reminded him, it was far too late to work any miracles with him.
CHAPTER 8
G
emma snuggled with Marc close against her breast, wishing it was the father instead of the son she held so close. It had been a very near thing on the stairs, falling down and into Andrew Ross's embrace. She had let her temper get the best of her as usual and been rude to her employer once again, but really—he had taken advantage of her helplessness and her hideous dress and her own confusion.
Although she'd vowed to be wiser, it was futile not to want Andrew Ross. He was all attractive sin, wit, and mystery. He'd held her so carefully, his clear blue eyes looking down straight into her soul. He smelled of lime and oatmeal soap—and good enough to eat, really. If she ever wanted to devour a gentleman, Andrew Ross would be at the top of the menu.
She wondered about his unhappy marriage and his need to hide on this island. It wasn't as if this was his ancestral home or he spoke the language or he loved the wintry weather—if anything, it must make his poor damaged arm ache like the devil. She saw the white lines around his mouth, watched his eyes flash with discomfort every time he jarred it or attempted normal activities. It must be torture to hold his own child and hard on his pride when old Mr. MacLaren was far more capable than he was to make ordinary repairs.
Though she ached for him, she was careful not to show it. It had become a difficult chore to be as rude to him as she was. And now that her job looked secure—at least for two weeks, although she was sure he was only teasing—she would be shut up in this house with him all winter. He was temptation incarnate.
A gust of wind rattled the window frame. “No!” cried Marc.
She carried him to the window. “That's right. It's snowing again. Pretty, yes?
Bella
? White.
Bianca
. I don't imagine he ever saw snow before coming here,” she said to his father.
“No. He lived on the Mediterranean coast. Every day was filled with sunshine and gentle bay breezes.”
“It sounds like heaven.” Gemma imagined picnics, replete with wine and exotic foods. Andrew Ross might peel her a grape as she dozed on silken pillows under the sun.
Fat chance of that. She was a courtesan's daughter. No matter how pretty a word
courtesan
was, it simply meant whore. No decent man would ever want her.
Although there were many moments when she thought Andrew Ross was not decent at all.
“We should go out. Build a snowman. There seems to be enough of it on the ground.”
Mr. Ross raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that's wise? What if Marc catches a cold?”
“Poo. I'll dress him warmly. Fresh air will do us all good. We cannot spend the entire winter indoors. We'll go mad. What do you say, sweetheart? Do you want to play outside?
Farla vuole giocare fuori?”
Marc clapped his chubby hands and wriggled to get down.
“All right,” Mr. Ross said reluctantly. “I'll meet you downstairs in half an hour. I'll tell Mrs. MacLaren to make us some flasks of tea, some warm milk for Marc.”
“Goodness, we're not trekking through the Alps.” Gemma laughed.
“Nevertheless, I don't want Marc to catch a chill. May I remind you there's no doctor here? He's only just recovering from his journey. I don't want to take any chances.”
Gemma bit her tongue. It was clear Mr. Ross was a concerned parent, if overprotective. But a little boy needed exercise and activity. Since there were no leafy parks here in which to promenade with Marc, the wild outdoors would have to do.
She changed Marc's nappy and layered him into so many of his clothes he could barely stand up. Bringing him next door to her room, she did the same to herself, until she was weighted down with yards of ugly fabric. Once she was satisfied that no frozen tongue of wind would pierce her defenses, she carried Marc down the stairs carefully. She would not want to fall into his father's arms again. She might never find the strength to extricate herself.
 
Every time he saw her lately, he had to refrain from laughter. Miss Puffy Peartree minced down the stairs looking like a poor homeless waif who wore every bit of clothing she owned, layer upon layer of unmitigated ugliness. His son was little better in circumference, padded against the cold, although at least his clothes had been purchased from the finest French clothier. Andrew had put on several coats and scarves himself. He imagined he looked just as ridiculous as his two companions.
“We've sustenance,” he said, gesturing with a basket. “Are you sure this is wise? Going out in the middle of a storm?”
“Absolutely! And I wouldn't even call this a storm. For once there's white, fluffy snow, not miserable needles of sleet. I haven't seen this much snow since Vienna.”
Here was an intriguing tidbit to add to the paucity of his knowledge on the subject of his nameless governess. “I thought you said you lived in London.”
Miss Peartree shrugged. “I've lived in lots of places. My mother traveled quite a bit in her later years and took me with her when she could.”
“Did she perhaps give you an Austrian name? Heidi? Analiese?”
“Mr. Ross!” she said warningly, but her lip curved upward.
“All right, all right. I thought it was worth a guess. You are a stubborn chit. Let's go then.” He made a show of taking a deep breath and girding his loins before he opened the front door.
They stepped out into a fairy world of snow frosting the usually bleak landscape. Great fat flakes fell, slow and silent, almost warm to the touch in comparison to the usual Batter Island precipitation. They walked a little ways from the house, the crushed shell path hidden by a thick blanket of drifting snow. Miss Peartree set Marc down with care. The snow was over his knees. He took a step and toppled down instantly.
Instead of crying, the little one laughed, his little hands flailing through the crust of snow. The sound was so rare and so precious, Andrew's heart squeezed. Miss Peartree joined in. Her laughter was rare and precious, too, transforming her face into something so pure Andrew had no words for it.
“Ah, look at you, my love.” Miss Peartree brushed Marc off. “Are you all right?
La sono bene?
Come, and I'll help you up.”
Marc giggled and crawled through the snow, perfectly happy as he was. He displaced a great deal of snow for a little boy, making a convenient track for the adults to follow.
“
Sono un cane
! Grr. Woof, woof!”
“He says he is a dog.” Miss Peartree smiled. “Perhaps you should think about getting him one. He sometimes talks about the puppy you left behind, you know.”
It wasn't as if Andrew could have gone back to the villa for it, what with Gianni's goons waiting to kill him. Poor Marc escaped with only the clothes on his back, and those exquisitely embroidered things had been left at the fisherman's cottage in exchange for serviceable traveling gear. Nothing remained of Marc's old world, and there was nothing Andrew could do about that but try his best to create a new one.
“That's a good idea. Perhaps someone here has a pup I can buy.”
Miss Peartree scooped up a fistful of snow and tossed it into the air. “I've seen very few dogs here. Those I have seen are working animals, herding the sheep. Pet dogs are a luxury most of the islanders cannot afford. It's hard enough to feed themselves, you know.”
Andrew bent and began to roll a ball of snow. “It's a brutal life here, isn't it? I wonder why they stay when they could live anywhere.”
Miss Peartree looked down at him, her sharp little chin pointed, a snowflake melting on her cheek. “One might say the same for you, sir.”
“Just as your name is your own, my motives are mine,” he said curtly, dropping to his knees. He concentrated on packing a largish block as a base for a snowman, and not on Miss Peartree's bright brown eyes, which seemed capable of stripping his thin gentlemanly veneer clean away. “Come, Marc. Help me.”
“Piccolo cane, aiutare suo padre,”
Miss Peartree coaxed. With one last bark, Marc crawled over and sat down. He patted extra snow at the bottom, and Andrew praised him lavishly. Miss Peartree gave up her probing and started the second, smaller ball. They all worked together, Miss Peartree chattering to Marc in Italian with an occasional English word thrown in. Andrew tried not to feel left out, although it was something he was used to.
He could not remember a time when he felt he belonged. As a child, someone in Donal Stewart's household always reminded him of his humble origins. At school, he was set apart from the well-connected young lordlings as the ward of a tradesman, rich though Donal was. Nicky had taken advantage of Andrew's isolation and moved in for his easy conquest. When Andrew later prostituted himself—he could not call it anything else, really—he was simply the hired help, paid for his services yet not truly part of society for all the books he read and the clubs he belonged to. He was a man without a country, a misfit, certainly not a gentleman for all the airs he'd practiced for the past twenty-five years. He licked a snowflake from his lip in an attempt to remove the bitterness from his mouth.
He lifted his eyes from the misshapen clump of snow. Miss Peartree was obviously not reflecting on any sad past. She and Marc were rosy cheeked and laughing, their eyelashes silvered with melting snow. The snowman was coming into lumpy reality, its head listing precariously. Miss Peartree removed one of her scarves and tied it beneath the top snowball to better anchor it.
Marc clapped his hands.
”Pupazzo di neve!”
“That's right. Snowman. He needs more than my scarf, Mr. Ross.”
Andrew stuck a gloved hand into his breeches and pulled out a few coins. Why he still carried money with him was a bit of a mystery, as there was no place to spend it here. The village shop seemed never to be open any time he ventured down the track to the settlement.
But old habits died hard—he'd never be caught short, always have something to bargain with and stave off disaster. It was paramount that he never be poor again.
“Eyes,” he said to Marc, pressing them into the snowball. “Nose.” The child stood wide eyed in a lazy swirl of snow as Andrew tapped his own. “Now, what can we use for the mouth?”
Miss Peartree reached under her bonnet and pulled out a curved tortoise shell comb, releasing a charming amber curl in the process. Andrew stifled the impulse to tuck it back up. Or tear off his gloves and twist it about his finger. Or bury his nose in its fresh, lemony scent.
“Fearsome teeth,” she said, showing her own. “
Denti.
He shall be the most ferocious snowman on the island. Here, Marc. Do you want to do it?
Farla vuole farlo
?”
Marc reached up but was not quite tall enough. Miss Peartree raised an eyebrow at Andrew. “Your papa will help.”
Andrew lifted his son and steadied him as he stuck the comb into the snowman's face. “Well done.” Holding the boy with his good arm, he took off his own hat and placed it on the head at a rakish angle. Marc giggled and snatched the hat off, putting it on top of his knitted cap. The hat fell over his face, making him giggle even more.
“Peek-a-boo,” Andrew said, lifting the hat.
“
Il nascondiglio e cerca
. Well, that's really ‘hide-and-seek.' I don't know how to translate peek-a-boo,” Miss Peartree said, her eyes dancing. She put the hat back on the snowman. “A perfect work of art, don't you think? I think this calls for a celebration.” She opened the picnic hamper and gave Marc his jug of warm sweetened milk. Marc took it, snuggling into his father's chest to drink. He immediately dribbled a goodly quantity down Andrew's front, but he didn't mind.
“Can you manage your tea one-handed, or do you want to put Marc down?”
Andrew didn't need tea at the moment. Having his son in his arms warmed him in ways he hadn't dared hope for. “I'm fine. You have yours. You're not too cold?”
“No! It's just glorious, isn't it? There's such a hush—the landscape is so perfect and silent. Even the ocean seems quiet today.” She uncorked her flask and took a sip. “Do you want your hat back? You've gone quite white on top.”
Andrew shook some of the snow from his hair. “As I said, I'm fine. In fact, it seems warmer today than it's been in ages. The wind must be on holiday for us.” Apart from the odd gust, it had been almost pleasant to be outside, the snow falling like soft balls of cotton fluff.
The ocean beyond the verge of lawn was flat and gunmetal gray. Not even a seabird's cry broke the spell of the gently spiraling snow. Curious, Marc raised his pink face and opened his mouth, catching a snowflake on his tongue. Andrew was obliged to do the same to share the moment. The snow melted, and Andrew swallowed the crisp taste of winter—such a simple thing. Something he'd never experienced before in all of his many exploits. He winked down at his son, and Marc gave him a tentative smile.

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