Master of Sin Read online

  Stephen MacEwan, that blasted barbarian, had singled her out, his ruddy face shining with lust every time he spun her around on the floor. There had been far too many kisses beneath the kissing ball. Andrew would not be surprised if tomorrow didn’t bring a flock of suitors to his door, probably the bloody MacEwan himself, his hairy knees exposed for all the world to see. Andrew would turn them away without remorse.

  Despite his pledge to her to keep her on, he would have to turn her away, too, and soon.

  After Christmas. Marc was too young to know the holiday, and Andrew had not much reason to have room in his heart for God, but for once he wished to keep Christmas as others did. There were no holly or ivy or fir boughs to be found on this windswept crag, but Mrs. MacLaren and Miss Peartree had made fruitcake the other day, swapping cheerful insults as they wrapped the loaves in brandy-soaked cheesecloth. In addition to her artistic inclination, Miss Peartree was also crafty, making paper chains and an intricate set of folded stars for the parlor mantel. The house was beginning to feel festive.

  He imagined himself as head of the family at the table carving a roast goose, Miss Peartree and his son opposite, candles bright. She might be wearing the bronze dress, a paper crown on her head. She would smile like a benevolent queen, and after the meal—

  Ah, there was no point in carrying the thought any further. Likely, Miss Peartree would be pushing the goose around the gravy on her plate, claiming that she never ate meat. Marc would probably turn his own little nose up at the non-Italian fare. A gust of wind would blow down the dining room chimney, leaving them sputtering with smoke and coughing their heads off.

  He struggled with his well-tailored clothing, both arms nearly useless after carrying Miss Peartree home, though she was hardly a heavyweight. Hiring a valet to help him was out of the question—he’d not subject another soul to Batter Island, and somehow he could not see pressing one of the fishermen to temporarily assist him in his bath or remove his wet boots or shave off his stubble. Andrew rubbed his jaw, wondering if his beard would be as formidable as MacEwan’s if he let it grow. A beard might serve as camouflage if he had to return to England for any reason. He’d draw the line at wearing a kilt, though.

  Sitting at the edge of his bed, he massaged the sore muscles, seeing Gianni’s triumphant face in front of him in the darkness. He must be enjoying his dukedom despite the death of his henchman. If there was a God, Gianni believed Andrew and Marc had perished in the Mediterranean.

  In a way, they had. No one would think to look for them here—it was the only benefit of the isolation. Perhaps one day he and his son could leave, once he was sure that all traces of his past were buried.

  But even with a bushy beard, someone was bound to recognize him if he went to London. He’d lived an indiscreet life within his select circle. Everyone knew what Andrew Rossiter was capable of. Masterful at. Edinburgh held too many memories of dashed hopes and weakness. So even if he hid himself in some tiny rural hamlet, discovery was possible. The British Isles were not so very large, and gossip seemed a national pastime.

  Best to stay here until the boredom was so acute he was forced to take action. Marc could be sent away to school, as all young gentlemen were. Andrew might travel on the Continent again. By then, his hair would be silver and the Batter Island wind would have weathered his face and no one would know him or want him.

  Too exhausted to hang up his clothing, Andrew slipped under the comforter and waited for the tension to leave his body. But there was no rest for the wicked until he took his manhood in hand and pumped the dream of Miss Peartree into clearer focus, her bronze dress dropping from her shoulders. The firelight would limn her from her gold-brown hair to her bare feet, every inch of her available to his imaginary exploration.

  He thought of all the places he was desperate to touch. The odd allure of her collarbone, where he could kiss the indentation. The beauty mark high on her left cheek, a permanent tear. The scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her slim hips. Her flat belly. The heavenly dark tangle between her thighs. He grew stiff picturing her beneath him, her legs parted. He would watch as he disappeared inside her, the honeyed heat of her passage enveloping him.

  His strokes grew urgent, his need great. He wanted to see the bliss from his kisses in her eyes again. He wanted to make her come, call his name, spiral into toe-curling spasms.

  His own orgasm ripped through him, starbursts of light and shadows behind his eyelids. He was fairly certain he’d been quiet, his gasping breaths muffled by the crackling fire and blowing wind. What would Artemisia say if she knew what he’d just done? Would she hold him in disgust, or offer herself up to sate his hunger?

  Andrew vowed never to find out. Somehow, he’d get through the next few weeks, biting his tongue from telling her his fantasies, clenching his fists so he’d not be tempted to touch her. She was nothing to him, after all—just a little brown scrap of girl. If he weren’t so damned lonely, she’d have little appeal.

  Or so he told himself, rolling in the bedding until he finally fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  Gemma didn’t knock, but turned the doorknob as quietly as she could. If she lost her nerve, Andrew Ross would never know she was here. The light from her candle spilled into the room, bright enough already from the flickering coals in the hearth. She blew out the candle, then set the pewter holder atop the tall dresser and padded barefoot across the moth-eaten carpet.

  He was dead asleep on his back, his breathing heavy, punctuated now and again by a rumbling snore.

  Gemma smiled. He had a rather ordinary, manly vice. So he wasn’t completely perfect, although in sleep he looked like a fallen angel, the chiseled planes of his face and the dent of his chin shadowed with the beginnings of a gilt beard. He’d tossed the covers off the bed and his physical beauty took her breath away. He was dusted with golden hair everywhere, his cock nestled in a thick thatch of it. Even in repose it was huge. Gemma could only imagine what it would be like erect when she made love to him.

  For she would. She’d found nothing to prevent her from doing so. Whatever mystery he protected from his past, she had come to trust him.

  Everyone had their little mysteries, even she. This time—this man—would be different. She was a woman now who knew her own mind and heart, not a silly besotted fifteen-year-old. She had tried to guard herself against Andrew Ross and had failed utterly. His kiss was her undoing. The wine punch may have emboldened her, but her head now was crystal-clear, her thoughts bright as the sparkling icicles that clung to the roof. Sharp. Dangerous.

  And bound to fall and break. But he meant for her to leave—she could feel it. It didn’t matter how good she was for Marc anymore. She was bad for him.

  Did she remind him of his wife? Tempt him beyond restraint? Annoy him so much he wanted to throttle her? Gemma knew he felt something, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. His kisses had proved that.

  There would be no youthful clumsy coupling tonight. Gemma was quite sure Andrew Ross was a master of seduction. Even when he distanced himself from her, she sensed his innate sensual power. She knew he fought against it and wondered if he wished to spare her reputation. As it was, she was as good as ruined here, sleeping night after night with only a toddler for chaperone. Marc slept like a cherub now, his bad dreams a thing of the past. She was proud of herself for supplying him with the security to dream in peace.

  Now if she could do that for his father. She’d heard Mr. Ross—Andrew—pace of a night, had heard him call out in distress more than once. She wasn’t fool enough to think warm milk with honey and whispers would assuage whatever wounds he had buried within. There was something dark beneath his glinting gold façade, something tainted behind his teasing.

  His wife must have hurt him deeply.

  What would it be like to be married to Andrew Ross? Gemma wanted to know—wanted to be. She had slid into love for him and his child far too easily. But if he was determined to send her away, as she was very
much afraid he was planning, at least she would know a night of bliss. It was the only Christmas present she wanted.

  She moved silently toward the bed, the pounding of her heart vying with his heavy breathing. With the utmost gentleness, she placed a hand on his warm shoulder.

  And found herself thrown backward on her bum to the floor, Andrew Ross shouting a string of curses.

  “Leave me be, you damned pervert!”

  Gemma struggled to her feet. Unbelievably, he seemed to be still asleep, thrashing with the pillows.

  “Fuck it! You’re dead. I watched you die. Some might even say I killed you. Go back to hell and wait for me. I’ll be there soon enough,” he mumbled.

  Gemma didn’t dare to touch him again. “Andrew, wake up,” she said, modulating her voice as if she were reassuring a child. “You’re having a bad dream.”

  He shot up from the mattress, hands cupped over his member. At first, he looked at her as though he hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. Then she shrank back a step when she saw the blaze in his eyes.

  “What are you doing here? Is Marco all right?”

  “Marc is in the village, Andrew, remember? Mr. Ross,” she amended. Impossible to think of seducing him now, although she wished she could relieve his agitation as she did his son’s. The man before her was far different from the collected gentleman she knew. She’d seen him imperious, she’d seen him playful, but tonight he was a stranger who scared her.

  He talked of murder.

  Some might even say I killed you.

  “You. You touched me.” His voice was as cold as the air outside.

  Gemma swallowed. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. Y-you were having a bad dream.”

  He shook his head. “No. I know exactly what happens when I—” He broke off, giving her a twisted smile. “As I recall, my dream was very pleasant tonight, not my usual sort of nightmare at all. Believe me, I wake up on my own from those. But you touched me and I thought—Jesus. Get out of here right now, Miss Peartree.” Glaring at her, he pulled the covers up swiftly, as though he had only just realized every inch of him was visible.

  “Who did you think I was?” Surely he could not have thought she was his wife. The words he used had been filled with venom, hatred. His phantom attacker could not be the woman who bore Marc. And he could not have killed his own wife, could he?

  He rubbed his injured arm as he so often did. The long scar over the shattered bone was livid against his skin. “It doesn’t matter. Go away.”

  “You can talk to me. Tell me anything. I’ll understand.” If he admitted to being a murderer, she was nearly prepared to forgive him. He probably had valid reasons. Unhappy people were often pressed to do the unthinkable.

  Lord, she was far gone, making excuses for the inexcusable.

  “Look. You understand nothing, and you never will.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I’ve lived in many places, speak all those languages. I understand a great deal about people, men in particular.” She toyed with the fringe of her shawl. “I’ve observed all sorts of things. Unusual things. For all you know I’m the daughter of a courtesan.”

  There. She’d said it.

  He snorted in disbelief. “Most unlikely. You’re no woman of the world. An innocent girl like you cannot possibly imagine the life I’ve led.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “My God, Miss Peartree, do you know what time it is? You stand there half-dressed, expecting a midnight confession and who knows what else. So we danced. So we kissed beneath the mistletoe. It meant nothing.”

  She knew he was lying, whether to protect her or himself she hadn’t a clue. “It meant something to me.”

  “Have you no shame? I’m sure one of the other men you kissed tonight might be more accommodating. Why don’t you go back in the storm to find out and leave me alone! Lord MacEwan won’t turn you away.”

  She stood her ground. “I don’t care about Stephen MacEwan. I care about you. Something happened. Whatever it was, it has left you—I don’t even know how to describe it. I watch you wrestle with yourself. Over Marc. Over me.” She lowered her voice, uncertain of her next words. “Part of you knows how good it would be between us. You flirt. You touch me with your eyes. And then you freeze up. The other part just pushes me away.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that tempting, believe me. I’m—I’m just bored.”

  Gemma lifted an eyebrow. “You are?” She unwrapped her shawl, heard Andrew’s sharp intake of breath. Beneath the fringed shawl she wore her mother’s favorite sheer nightgown, a peach confection embroidered at the neckline with tiny rosettes and seed pearls. She was as good as naked. Gemma knew he could see everything, as she had just seen him. She untied a ribbon, letting the fabric fall from her shoulder, felt her nipple pucker in the chill of the room. Andrew averted his eyes, but not before revealing his unexpressed desire by licking his beautiful lips.

  She cupped the slight swell of her breast, remembering her mother’s decidedly unusual advice. “Let a man know what you want from him, cara. Do not just lie there like a dead thing waiting for him to make all the moves, do all the work. A man needs a bit of direction, especially at first. Be bold. Be shocking. We women get what we need so very rarely, and I blame foolish rules for it. If wives were not so cold, we courtesans would have no business. Not,” she would interrupt herself, “that I want you to follow in my footsteps, Gemma. I wish you to be a happy wife, and your husband even happier.”

  Like Franz, Andrew was not going to marry her. Like Franz, Andrew was going to send her away. Unless—

  She closed her eyes and screwed up her courage. Gemma had been so much younger when she tried this approach on Franz. It had worked, but she was convinced he would have bedded her for spite no matter what she said all those years ago. In the end, she had just been a way for Franz to express his displeasure with his father’s marriage and satisfy his male urges conveniently at home. She was surprised to feel no pain at the recollection of being used then, but perhaps that was because she was so nervous now.

  She was not her mother, whose soft Italian-accented voice could make even reading a dull shopping list sound wicked and provocative. Nevertheless, she began, her voice getting stronger with each word.

  “I want you to kiss me here, Andrew. I want to feel the warmth of your mouth on my nipple. You’ll make me so wet with just one kiss to my body. I’m telling you this, but you’ll want to make sure. Your fingers will slip between my legs and feel what you do to me. Only you.”

  This wasn’t quite true, but he didn’t need to know about Franz. Not yet. In any event, Franz had been a better lover in her dreams than he was when she was awake. She had forced her body to respond, convinced herself that any attention he paid her was sufficient, because she was in love.

  What an idiot she had been.

  Was she any better now? She would soon find out.

  “And I’ll want to touch you, feel the velvet and strength of you. You’re hard for me already. Don’t deny it.”

  She had gotten through her absurd little speech without a stutter. She opened her eyes to see the anger blazing on Andrew’s face. He tore the blankets from his body. “Fine! You see how you tease me. I’m rock hard. Happy? Get out now, Miss Peartree, while the getting is good. A man like me doesn’t care who he fucks. Men. Women. It’s all the same to me.”

  She dropped her hand and stood very still. “What do you mean?”

  “Do I need to spell it out to you? How do you think I made the money to buy this property, shithole that it is? On my back, on my knees, bent over a chair so I could be buggered more easily. I was corrupted by my so-called guardian. He picked me off the street when I was seven years old and gave me a taste for sin. When he died—in my bed, I might add, while I did not hurry myself to give him his medicine—I discovered that women weren’t so bad, either. I almost fell in love, but thought the better of it. No. What am I saying? Let me be h
onest. She wouldn’t have me, especially after I killed her brother when he botched the job himself. That’s two deaths at my door. Shocked yet?”

  He waited for her to say something, but her tongue was frozen to the roof of her mouth. Would she be his next victim? No one would hear her scream.

  “But I digress. Here’s what’s really important. I fucked for my living, Miss Peartree. Did anything—anything you can imagine and more—for a watch fob I could pawn or a trip to the country or a stock tip. Sold myself—for a considerable fortune—so that the Duca di Maniero could have an heir. Sold my own child, and I had no right to him. I never would have seen Marc again except that Giulietta wanted my seed once more so she could have another baby. Only I and my magic cock would do. She and her husband were both quite in love with it,” he said bitterly.

  He was in torment, no longer erect, his blue eyes clouded. Gemma was ashamed she had so thoughtlessly brought him to this confession, but how could she ever have guessed such dark secrets?

  He spoke of perversion. And death. These were things that could not be made right by one night of naughty nightgowns, saucy words, and slow lovemaking. She slipped the nightdress back up, the ribbons wrinkling between her shaking fingers.

  His son was indeed his, but Giulietta? Gemma had heard of the di Manieros. When she was alive, her mother always longed for gossip from home. Mamma had followed the Italian aristocracy through the newssheets, which often arrived weeks late. She would remark on people she once knew, or even once bedded. Francesca Bassano had moved in exalted circles once she gave up her virginity. Then the Earl of Barrowdown met her at a party in Venice and had installed her as his mistress in chilly London.

  Gemma remembered the young duchess was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in all of the Italian states. “You never had a wife, then?”

  His face shuttered. “Who would have me? No, I’ll never marry. And until you came, I was resigned to this new life of abstinence and duty.” He had covered himself again, and she followed suit with her shawl, feeling like an unwanted virgin sacrifice.