Master of Sin Read online

  “I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so don’t ask me. My mother never set much store by instructing me in domestic arts. I expect a few bottles of your whiskey wouldn’t go amiss, though.”

  Andrew was rather fond of his solitary whiskey before bedtime, and sometimes even earlier. He wasn’t precisely drinking away his sorrows, for in truth he was becoming content on his rock, apart from his raging erection every time he thought of a naked Artemisia. His job was not to think of her, not to want her, not to have her. It would do Marc no good to lose the anchor in his new life, for Andrew really couldn’t see Miss Peartree acceding to be his mistress and his governess.

  “No pasta? What a pity. But the whiskey’s a good idea. I suppose you think I overindulge anyhow.”

  “It’s not my place to tell you how to spend your time, Mr. Ross,” she sniffed.

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  She put the mathematics book back. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. I acknowledge I may have been altogether too bold for a servant.”

  Andrew slapped a hand against his heart in exaggerated shock. “Pardon me. I think I’m having some sort of attack. I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Don’t tease. We got off on shaky ground. But we understand each other better now. I know you have Marc’s best interests in mind. You are doing the best you can.”

  “Faint praise,” Andrew murmured.

  “Not at all. All of us are limited in our own ways.”

  “I can’t imagine what your shortcomings are. Aside from the fact that you are—short,” he joked. But he liked his pocket Venus just as she was.

  “My mother was just my size. She hoped I’d gain some inches from my father’s side of the family, but obviously not. Were your parents tall? You’re a veritable giant.”

  “I never knew my father.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. Did he die when you were a baby?”

  “Something like that.” It would do no good to disclose to Miss Peartree just how lowborn he was. He’d spent too much time and effort trying to elevate himself from the muck.

  “I think Marc takes after you. I think he’s grown a few inches in just the few weeks I’ve been here.”

  Andrew had noticed that, too. “I’m putting more children’s clothing on the ever-lengthening list. Is there anything else you can think of to add to it? When the boat comes, I’ll send my letters off.”

  “I’ll have to think. Oh, I do hope my trunk comes this time. If it doesn’t, I’m afraid you’ll have to put some of my salary toward ordering proper clothing for me. I’m not a vain woman, but I don’t know how much longer I can go on this way.” She pulled at her bodice, exposing her smooth brown throat. “This itches like the devil. The wool must be mixed with wire.”

  Andrew wanted to say he’d unbutton her out of it immediately but held his tongue. “Just let me know what you need. Lord Christie can be depended upon. And Lady Christie is a renowned fashion plate. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind purchasing you a few things.”

  In fact, Caro would probably want nothing whatever to do with anyone he was involved with—he’d caused her enough grief in the past. But according to Edward’s letter, she was increasing now, and happy with her dull husband, so perhaps she had softened toward Andrew a little bit.

  He couldn’t go on begging favors from the Christies forever, though. He needed a contact on the mainland who could act as his factor. Hiring one would be the last thing he’d ask Edward to do for him.

  Miss Peartree stared dreamily at the library bookshelves. “How exciting. A party. From the invitation it looks like everyone on the island is invited. I haven’t been to a party since my mother and stepfather died.”

  “Now it’s my turn to be sorry. Were there no other relatives to care for you? I presume that’s why you have to earn your living.”

  “I have a stepbrother. He is the most loathsome man imaginable.”

  To Andrew’s sensitive ears, her clipped words concealed deep hurt. He’d wager once she had not considered this stepbrother loathsome at all. He was now an inch closer to solving the mystery of Miss Peartree.

  He wasn’t sure why he cared, unless it was out of sheer boredom. His governess’s past life was none of his business. He’d be a cur to meddle with her present, and she could not remain here in the future or he’d go irrevocably mad with lust for her.

  For that’s all it was. All it could be. Andrew couldn’t afford to love anyone, save for his son.

  “One’s family can be a trial,” he said neutrally, hoping for more, but Miss Peartree busied herself rearranging his books. It was foolish of him to want to stop her—he knew he was too particular with his personal things. It came of trying to exert some control over the chaos that had been his life, but he was master of his own island now, at least one-third of it. Until the MacEwan turned up before Christmas to collect his rents.

  Stephen MacEwan was probably laughing himself all the way to the bank for selling off Gull House and the surrounding acreage. Andrew could not imagine the bidding had been fierce, for who besides a desperate man fleeing from his past would want to live here? He wondered if the MacEwan would make an appearance at the ceilidh. The laird was spoken of with awe, but he hadn’t done much to improve the lot of his tenants as far as Andrew could tell.

  “I think I’ll take these upstairs if you don’t mind.” Miss Peartree clutched three worn volumes in her hands.

  “You’ll find them desecrated, I’m afraid. I often scribble notes on the margins.”

  “So it was you. I wondered.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I may not have gone to university, but I fancy that one should learn all one’s life.”

  At first he’d read to make sense of the conversations he was exposed to around ton dinner tables, but he discovered he had a thirst for knowledge, not all of it carnal. This development would have stunned Reverend Raybourne and all the other pinched-faced masters at Reverend Raybourne’s School for Boys, if the old buzzards were still alive.

  “Very enlightened of you. Most gentlemen care nothing for the classics once they finish school.”

  “I’m not like most gentlemen, I’m afraid.” He’d never spoken truer words.

  Miss Peartree dropped those long spidery lashes to her brown cheeks. “Thank you for the loan of your books. We will join you at dinner tonight if you have no objection.”

  Yes, she was definitely warming up, and Andrew wasn’t sure that was good. His self-control was a chancy thing. He nodded and went back to his column of figures.

  Her lemony perfume was all that remained of her, and before long that disappeared, too, beneath the scent of the peat fire in the library hearth. Scattershot sleet pinged against the window, and Andrew lit another lamp to dispel the gloom of the room. He was half-inclined to take a page out of his son’s book and sleep the afternoon away, but his bed was lonely enough at nighttime.

  CHAPTER 10

  The morning was as black as any day this week, so it wasn’t the sunshine that woke Andrew. But he’d heard the much-delayed boat was due this morning, and he was on a mission. He crept out of bed and dressed himself in the dark, forgoing breakfast, although he did light a roaring fire in the kitchen. He’d given Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren the day off so they could ready themselves for the party. It, too, had been delayed, waiting for the invited ferry passengers and the arrival of the MacEwan, clan chieftain and landlord of the island. The weather had been predictably filthy for days, but for the moment only the wind was blowing. Andrew clapped a fisherman’s cap on his head, having given up on his handsome beaver hat not going airborne, and marched down the path to the settlement. The sky turned to pearl gray as his feet left a trail in the frost.

  He was not the only early riser. Someone was even playing a squeezebox at this ungodly hour as the community—seemingly every man, woman, and child—was swarming at the dock. The ferry had landed already as well as the MacEwan’s private craft. Planks were being off-loaded from the latter, supervised
by a redheaded giant in a garish green kilt. His long hair was tied back with a leather cord, his beard was fierce, and a large silver badge glinted on his plaid. All he was missing was his broadsword, the picture of a rough highlander come to life. The man stopped his shouting and turned to Andrew. Andrew was tall but had to look up to meet the Scot’s eyes.

  “Are you the Sassenach who’s bought Gull House? I don’t suppose you’ve come to help us then with your crippled arm and gentlemanly ways.”

  The man’s English was excellent, the insult clear. Andrew’s “crippled arm” longed to punch the MacEwan in his face.

  “I was born in Edinburgh,” Andrew said stiffly.

  “You’re a long way from the wicked city now, my lad. So, how do you like the place out here? Quiet enough for you? Or is the ghost rattling his chains?” MacEwan grinned, revealing startlingly white teeth. He might be a savage, but his dental hygiene was undeniably good.

  “What ghost?” Andrew asked before he could stop himself.

  “Och, the old gent who owned the house afore you. The birder. It’s all nonsense, o’course, and has been a bloody trial to get anyone fool enough to buy the property. M’father tried for years. He must be smiling down at me from heaven for finally achieving what he could not. You’re happy in the place?”

  Andrew did not wish to engage in any way with the king of this little kingdom. After being called a cripple and a fool, he was not rising to the bait. He tried to catch the eye of one of the ferry crew but was unsuccessful. He was not about to stand here freezing to death any longer than he could help it, being quizzed and mocked by this shrewd-eyed stranger. “It suits my purposes. If you will excuse me—”

  The Scotsman laid a hand on Andrew’s arm to stay him. “That lawyer acting for you said as how you needed peace and privacy, but I don’t guess you bargained for this dismal place now, did you, you poor fellow?” The MacEwan slapped Andrew on the back and nearly knocked him over into the ice-speckled water. “But I won’t complain. Gull House has been empty since my father’s day. I was glad to be rid of it and the ghost, too.”

  Andrew had no ready reply to this confession and fought the urge to brush off the sleeve of his coat where he had been touched. He watched the men carry the lengths of planed wood up the hill, and his curiosity got the better of him. “What’s all this?”

  “The lumber? My contribution to the party. I bring it out every year. I’d leave it, but my other islands use it, too, for their own celebrations. Wood’s worth its weight in gold here, you know. No trees to speak of as far as the eye can see. My men and the islanders set up a kind of pavilion for the fete as you toffs might call it and then dismantle it the next day. Pretty soon the wood will be nothing but nail holes and fit only for the burn pile.” He laughed, showing more of his teeth.

  Andrew could hear hammering already. “Seems like a lot of trouble for a few hours of pleasure.”

  “Trouble? You’ve never been to a Batter Island ceilidh, that’s for sure. You’ll have the time of your life or my name isn’t Stephen Angus MacEwan. You’re Rossiter, correct?” He held out a large ungloved hand. Reluctantly, Andrew gave him his right one and was rewarded by an agonizing pain to his elbow.

  “The name’s Ross. There was a mix-up.”

  A bushy red eyebrow rose. “Don’t be trying to weasel out of your sales contract. I won’t take Gull House back even if the name is all wrong on the deed. It’s yours and you’ll die there.”

  “But preferably not today,” Andrew said, nonplussed by this pronouncement.

  “Of course not. Today is for living, aye? It must be a trial though to have a useless arm. Not convenient when mounting the ladies, I wager. But perhaps you let them ride you?” The MacEwan winked one brown eye.

  Andrew had had enough. No wonder Donal Stewart wanted to knock the bloody Scot out of him if this rudeness was acceptable behavior. “As I said earlier, if you will excuse me, I came down to see if my governess’s trunk arrived.” He crossed to the other side of the dock and was sure he heard the MacEwan snicker behind him. The chieftain resumed shouting in Gaelic, and Andrew put him firmly out of his mind.

  After some gesturing and a few shillings, he handed off a packet of letters and was in possession of an enormous battered black trunk, big enough to hide a grown man. Andrew looked at it with dismay. How he was to get it home when the island’s wagon was being used to off-load supplies and every man was in servitude to the MacEwan was an unforeseen difficulty. He was not about to beg the laird for help.

  Clearly, Miss Peartree had packed the trunk with boulders and lead weights. Andrew hoisted it up at an angle and dragged it behind him with his left arm, which soon felt just as afflicted as his right. The trunk bumped along over the uneven ground, rattling Andrew’s own white teeth. Once he got out of sight of the village, he let the trunk fall with a thud and sat down on it to catch his breath. He nearly slid off the hump, adding nothing to his black mood.

  He was in a temper. It wasn’t often he let anyone get the best of him, but Stephen Angus MacEwan had managed to needle him. Andrew saw it for what it was—he was an interloper who needed to be taught his place by the Alpha male of the island. All this talk about ghosts—absurd. The MacEwan was used to his godlike status as reigning overlord of this portion of the Western Isles and didn’t want Andrew to dream of intruding upon his territory.

  Andrew had no intention of interfering. He was entirely disinterested in the village and would have holed himself up completely from society if it were not for Miss Peartree and her desire to see the children educated. But if the MacEwan forbid a school for some reason, Andrew had no doubt the villagers would obey his command.

  So, Miss Peartree had better charm the laird tonight. And the thought of that did absolutely nothing to improve Andrew’s state of mind.

  “Miss Peartree!”

  Good heavens, he was thundering this morning. What could she have done now to deserve his displeasure? They had not even seen each other over the breakfast table. Mr. Ross was gone by the time she and Marc had come downstairs to have their raisin-studded oatmeal in the snug kitchen. He must have started the fire himself—he had given the MacLarens the day off to get ready for the ceilidh, though Mary had walked up from the village and was now scouring the porridge dishes, gesticulating with soapy hands and chattering incomprehensibly about who knew what. The MacLarens and others had family coming on the boat today, so perhaps Mary was reporting on this morning’s arrivals. The islanders had thrummed with energy and anticipation the last time she and Marc had ventured forth down the track. She was of the opinion that children needed fresh air, but lately the wind had been so fierce she worried the boy would be knocked off his feet and blown across the Atlantic, so they’d kept close to home.

  She left Marc with Mary and his blocks and stuffed cloth bear and hurried down the hall from the kitchen.

  Gemma could have wept with joy. Her worn black trunk stood in the empty hall, the initials G.A.B. inscribed in fading gilt. She’d taken a penknife to the “B” and removed the bottom bump to make it look as much like a “P” as possible when she had struck upon her scheme, but here at last was her missing life.

  “Oh! I’ve never been so happy to see anything in all my life!”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.” Mr. Ross’s disembodied voice came from the parlor, his velvet burr sending shivers down her spine. She looked into the room through the open doors to see him sprawled on the smelly sofa. He pulled the cap off his head, his damp blond hair sticking up every which way. “Forgive me if I don’t rise in the presence of a lady. Whatever have you got in that damn thing? Rocks? A dead body?”

  “Don’t be silly. Just all my earthly possessions.” She ran a hand lovingly on the curve of the lid. “Among them, real clothes, Mr. Ross. You will not be ashamed of me at the gathering tonight.”

  “I could never be ashamed of you, Miss Peartree,” he said softly.

  She felt her face go warm. Despite her every effort to rebuff him,
the man was uncanny in his ability to make her lose her wits.

  “But I, too, am very glad the trunk finally arrived. There are clues now.” His light blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

  She stepped into the parlor to see the twinkling up close. “What clues?”

  “Why, your initials, of course. G.A.P. Gap. Very unfortunate, as I can see no vacuity or lack when I look at you. But at least now I have some letters to work with.”

  “Perhaps this was my mother’s trunk,” she retorted. “Or I bought it secondhand.”

  “No, it’s yours. I’m quite convinced. Only a little thing like you would have so much stuff. Let me see. G. Something musical and Italian. Gabriella? Graziela? Or perhaps Germanic? There was that talk about Vienna. Gertrude? But you were born in London, so maybe it’s very English? Gussie? No, then you’d be an Augusta, and I simply can’t see that. Ah! I have it. Grace, because you’re so very full of it.”

  It was he who was so very full of blarney this morning. “Gertrude! Gussie! As if I would have ever permitted my mother to call me such names. I have already told you—”

  He raised his right hand, wincing a bit. It seemed he was recovering some strength to his injured arm, although his recovery was arcticly slow. How frustrating it must be for him.

  “Yes, you wish to remain a woman of mystery, your deep dark past buried. But I aim to dig down to the bottom of it, Miss Peartree. Gloria?” he asked, hopeful.

  Gemma bit her lip to stop from smiling. “You are reminding me of the Grimm fairy tale, where the little gnome’s name must be guessed.”

  “You are not a little gnome. Little, yes.” His eyes raked her, and she felt the familiar frisson. “You would make a fine climbing boy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I need to seek other employment. You have not threatened to sack me yet today, but it’s still morning.”

  “I believe if you could see your way to helping me get the trunk upstairs, I’ll keep you on at least another day.”