Master of Sin Read online

  If he thought to turn himself into a beast to repel her, he’d failed, for here she was, lit by flickers of light, her lips set in a dreamy smile. No matter how he’d growled at her the past few days, or ignored her as if she wasn’t even there, she had paid him no mind. Took no offense. Went about her business as though they lived in a normal household and he was a normal master. As though the threat of banishment didn’t loom. As though they had not spent a few blissful hours in each other’s arms before Andrew ripped himself away.

  Which he was determined to do again. Gemma Peartree was leaving after the new year. He would grant himself one more chance to feel her body against his, to slip inside her, to lose his loneliness. But he didn’t dare taste her mouth again, for his thirst would not be quenched so casually.

  Peeling the covers back, he fitted himself behind her, drawing her bottom to his rampant erection. She made a happy sigh and wiggled against him. He feasted on her shoulder and neck as his right arm curved around her to reach for her curls. He might not have full use of it, but he could still bring her to orgasm with a few well-placed flicks and circles of his thumb. He pictured her pink bud in his mind’s eye, wished it was between his lips. She would be sweet and tart on his tongue. But again, like her kiss, one taste would not be enough. He settled for the smooth flavor of her back, her earlobe, her throat, nibbling as he stroked her. She was slick, wet, ready. When her muscles contracted and her bud trembled on his fingers, he coated himself with her juices and thrust deep within.

  His hand returned to her center, holding her captive, spurring her to ride through wave after wave. She clenched around him, pulling him along to her tide. Time and tide tarry on for no man. Andrew could do nothing but follow her to the bottom of the sea, drowning in breathless sensation, struggling to keep his head clear enough to withdraw against her soft bottom. Instinctively she pressed hard against him, simulating as best she could the stricture of her silken inner walls. He savored the rush of his seed, his hand cupping her slight breast, his troubled mind untangling too briefly.

  Andrew had never felt such comfort. All the more reason for this to never happen again, for it would become impossible to keep walking away. He could not let her innocent ardor wear him down.

  “Merry Christmas,” Gemma whispered. A flare-up of coals hissed and popped in the fireplace. She settled against him, relaxed, while every nerve in his body went on alert. She would expect capitulation after this, deserved it. But he could not allow himself to trust the happiness. It would curdle, constrict them both once daylight shone upon his many sins.

  But it was still dark, a scattering of diamond-bright stars visible through the windows. He held her to him, his chin resting upon the top of her head. She smelled of lemons and soap and sex. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, and in minutes was fast asleep.

  Gemma felt the rise and fall of Andrew’s chest against her back, the weight of his arm around her waist. She had taken a risk but had been rewarded. Since the night of the ceilidh, Andrew had vacillated between chilly reserve and imperious bluster. All her efforts to talk to him had met with failure. Either he said too little or too much, and never looked her in the eye. He refused to consider any other alternative than her leaving on the next sail.

  But tonight he’d taken her bait and joined her in bed. Joined with her. Even in the odd position of being on her side, so far from his lips, unable to watch his face, she had gloried in his every stroke. Andrew filled her so completely, his touch so sure, she could not imagine her life without him in it.

  Without him inside her.

  Gemma frowned in the dark. Once she’d felt the same about Franz. But that was before she had been so thoroughly mastered by Andrew. Even being the daughter of a courtesan, Gemma had been naïve when it came to evaluating sexual prowess. She realized now that sex with Franz had been more of a triumph for her mind than her body. Too eager, she had orchestrated her own seduction, assuming it would end in marriage. Marriage was the ultimate goal of any young girl, especially one like her who’d been raised in such unconventional circumstances. Gemma had yearned for respectability—and yes, boredom. But thank goodness she was not tied down to her Austrian stepbrother.

  Comparing the two men did not set Franz in a flattering light. From his unfortunate history, Andrew seemed to know how to do everything that Franz did not. Gemma wished she could discuss his expansive sexual skills with her mother so she could arm her own arsenal of sensual persuasion.

  She would have to rely on snatches of memory. Her mother had been frank to the point of sometimes frightening the impressionable, inexperienced Gemma. Francesca had described all manner of physical acts possible between a man and a woman, between two women, between two men. Or, Gemma shuddered, more than two in any combination thereof. According to Andrew, he’d been a willing participant in such schemes.

  Nothing she could ever do with Andrew would be wrong, but she didn’t want to share him with anyone, no matter their gender.

  She was jealous.

  She—she loved him.

  And she also knew with all her heart that Andrew felt something for her, something he fought against. How to turn his flight from feelings to freedom to love for both of them?

  Gemma couldn’t trick herself into believing she was the answer to every man’s prayer. She was sharp tongued and plain as a hen peacock when she didn’t borrow the cock’s feathers. She had, as Andrew pointed out, the body of a climbing boy, utterly devoid of roundness in any of the accustomed places. Despite once having had a lover, her practical knowledge didn’t really amount to much. She was no femme fatale.

  But perhaps that was just what Andrew needed. Gemma was like a slice of crisp, tart apple, meant to cleanse his palate after a heavy and indigestible meal.

  She giggled silently at the absurd metaphor, not wanting to wake him. He’d fallen asleep instantly, oblivious to the sticky semen on their bodies. Snuggling into him, she let the cadence of his breaths lull her to her own dreams, secure for the moment. It was Christmas morning, and all was well.

  CHAPTER 18

  Andrew fought his way up through the layers of semiconsciousness, as though he was swimming against rough waves to the shore. There was something warm and soft—and snoring?—draped over his body, weighing him down.

  Gemma.

  Still asleep. He was wide awake now, his hand entangled in her hair, his erection pressed into her belly. They had passed the night together, or what remained of it after he had lurched upstairs. The room was smoke gray, the sky beyond the windows equally so. Too late for regrets, too early to rise and break the peace.

  Marc would be rising soon enough, wondering if La Befana had filled his stocking with sweets. When they were still speaking civilly as employer and governess, Andrew had asked Gemma about Italian Christmas traditions. She’d told him the story of the lost old woman who looked for the Christ Child and left her gifts with every child she came across. In time Marc would benefit from both Father Christmas and La Befana. This year presents were in somewhat short supply, but when he went to live with the Christies—

  Andrew swallowed. He’d had a touch too much to drink and had been beset with a kind of madness, yet the idea still had undeniable merit in the light of day. His past had poisoned any chance of him being a proper father. He’d tried, but deep in his heart Andrew knew it was hopeless. He simply wasn’t worthy to be trusted to raise an innocent child. His son would adjust to his new life with the Christies—look how quickly he’d taken to Gemma. But what had seemed like the most beneficial solution to his problems last night gave him no relief today.

  He was a master at compartmentalizing his thoughts, and he swiftly pushed the fate of his son out of his mind. Better to concentrate on the girl in his bed.

  Last night was meant to be a singular occasion, a temporary truce between his conscience and his needy soul. If he had to, he could claim the whiskey blurred his boundaries—he still tasted its bite on his tongue. But he was entirely sober now, blood singi
ng beneath the surface of his skin, hot and wanting what he shouldn’t.

  Once more.

  And then, that would be the end of it.

  He’d resisted for days.

  He’d resist again.

  He skimmed his fingers down her spine, touching each bump. Stirring, Gemma gave a muffled groan and tried to roll off. He could not permit that. He cupped her bottom and brought her closer, whispering nonsense in her ear. Women liked nonsense.

  He was unprepared for the elbow to his gut.

  “Let me up!” Her voice was husky, sin itself. Letting her up was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He relaxed his hold and she scrambled off the bed, a blush on her sleep-wrinkled cheek. In pointless modesty, or perhaps because she was cold, she covered herself with her hands. Andrew stared anyway.

  “I have to—you know,” she said. Her discomfort was acute and rather endearing.

  “The chamber pot is behind the screen.”

  “I can’t go here!” Gemma said, scandalized. As though every inch of her was not now on display, although it was too dark to see much. As though he hadn’t explored her rather thoroughly twice now.

  Soon to be three times, he hoped.

  She needed privacy. Very well. He could concede that.

  “Do whatever is necessary,” he shrugged. “And then I want you back.”

  “For how long?” Her voice was sharp, all traces of sleep-lust gone.

  “Pardon?”

  “For how long, Andrew? For a quick fuck? For the day? For the next week until you put me on the boat?”

  Yes to all of them. But she was asking for a promise he couldn’t give.

  “Just come back. We’ll argue as long as you want then.” She could slice him with her tongue, but he wouldn’t change his mind.

  She blundered about the room, searching for her dressing gown. He watched her belt it as if she’d never take it off again. What happened to the houri in his bed? An attack of conscience? Smart girl. She was wise to have regrets.

  She fled the room, and he took advantage of her absence to take care of himself and stir up a fire. It was brutally cold without the warmth of Gemma’s body near his. His manhood was suffering along with the rest of his goose-pimpled skin. By rights, he should go downstairs and light the stove and hearth in the kitchen, too. Mrs. MacLaren was not due until later to fix the Christmas luncheon. She still had her houseful of company to take care of and was probably just as anxious as he for the ferry to come to rid herself of responsibility.

  Batter Island was lucky in that it had a deep harbor and a long pier. Most of the other islands could not be serviced by the ferry without passengers rowing out to it and goods rowed back in. It would be much easier to walk Gemma down the dock than watch her bob off in the distance in treacherous water toward the waiting vessel, her little brown hat flapping in the wind. He might even feel the urge to dive in after her, and that would never do. If the temperature of the water didn’t kill him, the current might sweep him out to be dashed on the jagged rocks that ringed the island like rotten witch’s teeth.

  She would leave—he had willed it to be so. But right now he waited for her return from her room. He’d worry about the kitchen fire—and her departure—later.

  Andrew climbed back into bed, bringing the covers up to his whiskery chin. It would do no harm to have her once again. He’d make her understand.

  If he could understand himself.

  She was taking an inordinately long amount of time to freshen herself up. He listened for any sound of Marc, who usually babbled a bit in his cot before he was lifted out for breakfast. The house was quiet, the sky lighting fractionally. What was keeping her? Impatient, Andrew threw the covers off and put his robe and slippers on. He padded down the hallway. Gemma’s bedroom door was open, but she was not within. He paused at Marc’s door, but heard nothing.

  A pop and crackle below told him she had decided to warm the house herself, for which he was grateful.

  But not as grateful as he would have been if she’d simply come back to bed.

  “Gemma?” he called at the bottom of the stairs. No answer. The parlor fire was flickering, casting shadows on the small pile of presents heaped on a wingchair.

  She was probably in the kitchen, stirring oats or making tea. He wandered down the hall, stifling his annoyance. Passing the library, he noticed she had lit the fire in there, too. And she was still there, frowning over his desk in the corner.

  “What are you doing? I got tired of waiting for you.”

  She looked up at him but didn’t return his smile. “What’s this?”

  She held out his letter to Edward Christie. The room was just bright enough so he could read his own scrawl quite clearly. Damn him for not sanding and sealing it last night.

  But he’d been anxious to get back upstairs. Get back to her.

  “Are you in the habit of snooping in my personal things, Gemma?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said without shame. “I’ve been snooping ever since I met you, every chance I got. I kept trying to find something that would help me understand you. But this”—she dropped the letter to the desk—“I don’t understand this at all.”

  “It’s perfectly self-explanatory. I even made provisions for you.”

  “You truly would give your son away?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet her revulsion and horror were plain.

  “Why not? I did it before. For the money he brought me from the Duca di Maniero. It’s for the best, Gemma. I don’t know what I was thinking trying to raise him myself. I’m unsuitable in every way to be a father. Christie has children. Three and one on the way. Marc would have a normal family life. Be with other children. Proper children for the son of a duke.”

  “But what about my school? He’ll have plenty of chances to make friends if you let me stay.”

  “Fishermen’s and crofters’ children,” he said dismissively. “You said yourself I’m the only gentleman on the island. And now you know I’m not even a gentleman, but a male whore. Marc would have advantages I cannot give him. And you are not staying,” he added.

  Gemma looked as gray as the light that enveloped her. “You cannot do this, Andrew. You cannot give up your child and send me away as though we mean nothing to each other.”

  “Oh, spare me the drama! I have told you and told you what kind of man I am. Don’t be such a naïve little idiot.”

  Gemma flew at him, her fists pummeling his chest. It was like wrestling with a squirmy tortoiseshell kitten, but at last he set her back with some difficulty. “Really? Do you think assaulting me is going to make me change my mind? What will you do? Bite me next?”

  She punched his bad arm with a vicious jab. “I’ve not yet begun to assault you, you great fool! You are not the man you think you are, Andrew.”

  He cocked a brow, ignoring the throb of pain radiating from his shoulder to his elbow. “What manner of man am I, Gemma?”

  “You love your son. As you were never loved, so perhaps you don’t think you know how. Loving is not about money or possessions or position in society. Lord Christie could give Marc the moon, but it wouldn’t be better than living here with you. Marc has come so far—and so have you. And then, there’s me.”

  Her smug wisdom dared him to contradict her, so he did.

  “You have nothing to do with this.”

  “I suppose you didn’t want me back in your bed this morning?” she asked, scornful.

  “What if I did? It means nothing. You are someone who can scratch my itch, Gemma, nothing more. The fact that I fucked you after you threw yourself at me again only proves what a bastard I am.”

  Gemma shook her head. “You are deluding yourself, but I know the truth. We can raise Marc together, Andrew. We need not marry if you don’t wish it. I don’t care what people think. But you cannot give up your son and return to your old life. You’re better than that.”

  “Better? I’m disabled. With this arm I’ll have to be propped up on a mo
unting block to service my clients.” He was deliberately crude, hoping to shock her. Instead, she shocked him.

  “We managed. Quite well.”

  Oh, lord, but she was difficult. Stubborn. Stupid. He opened his mouth to tell her so.

  There was a thud from above, a shriek, then the patter of footsteps.

  “Oh, goodness! He’s figured out how to climb out from his cot!”

  Gemma disappeared up the stairs, her robe flying behind her. Andrew followed, sure that since there was no continuous screaming, his son had survived his descent. Marc was already in the hallway, clutching his bear and his blanket. Andrew could smell the reek of his nappy from yards away.

  “Emma! Papa! Stapag!”

  “Oatmeal,” muttered Gemma, sweeping his damp son up in her arms without flinching or apparent need of a clothespin for her nose. “Did you know the Gaelic word comes from the Norse stappa? You have a book in your library.”

  He did? One he’d never felt the need to read, obviously, although now that he lived out here, he should familiarize himself with the island’s Norse roots.

  No. He was leaving. Gemma was leaving. Marc was leaving.

  “Buon Natale, Marc,” Gemma said. “Happy Christmas! We’ll go downstairs and see what La Befana left you as soon as we clean you up.”

  Andrew felt misgivings when he heard the “we.”

  “Go fetch some water. There’s some warming on the stove.”

  Miss Peartree was back, ever practical, snapping out orders. Andrew wondered how she could transform so thoroughly from the role of jilted lover to nursemaid. He went downstairs to do her bidding, returning with a pitcher and some towels he found drying in a corner.

  At the sight of him, Marc screamed, “No bath!”

  “No indeed. Just a little wash-up,” Gemma said soothingly. “What a big boy you are, to get out of your crib! Bravo! But every morning you should call for me first, so I may watch you do it. I will clap my hands like this!” She repeated the sentences in Italian, putting Marc’s chubby fists together to clap.