Master of Sin Read online

  “Bavo! Bavo!” the child said, grinning. He was so busy clapping his hands he held still for the nappy change.

  She was clever, getting Marc to look before he leaped. Playing up to his inborn male pride, yet getting him to do exactly what was best for him. But that tactic would not work on Andrew.

  Since Marc was awake, there was no question of repeating the intimacy with Gemma. Perhaps that was just as well. He would find his self-discipline and exercise it as he used the hard leather ball he got in Paris.

  “Do you suppose Marc remembers last Christmas?” Gemma asked, buttoning his last button.

  “I doubt it. I can hardly recall what I was doing myself.” He’d been quite alone for the day, his so-called friends in the bosom of their families. Andrew’s presence would have shined a light on their unusual tastes.

  “I was in Vienna, skating on the Danube. It was glorious. Here, can you manage to carry him downstairs? There’s something I want to get from my room.” She didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Well, little chap, so you want some oatmeal. We’ll leave that to Miss Peartree, but I believe I can toast you some bread.” Marc curled into Andrew’s chest, clutching the collar of his robe. No doubt they’d be considered quite indecent if they had morning visitors—the only one of them dressed properly was Marc.

  The kitchen was warm thanks to Gemma’s efforts. Andrew set Marc down in his high chair and fussed with bread and tea leaves. He’d made do without a manservant for years, due to the nature of his profession. Most servants were too high in the instep to work for a male prostitute, no matter how well paid they’d be. Quite frankly, there was too much Scots blood in Andrew to countenance throwing money away on a judgmental valet when Andrew could fend nearly adequately for himself.

  He was joined by Gemma within five minutes, and they worked in tandem and in awkward silence, placing bowls of oatmeal and plates of toast on the table. Andrew had half an idea to take his breakfast into the library, but one look at his son’s jam-smeared face changed his mind. There would not be too many more mornings to witness such greedy, innocent pleasure.

  Andrew checked the clock on the dresser. Soon he’d be banished from the kitchen when Mrs. MacLaren came to prepare their luncheon. Gemma would help her, having the final say as she always did, even though Mrs. MacLaren couldn’t understand her. When Gemma went with Marc to the Christies, at least she’d be surrounded by people who spoke her language. Offered some civilization. She and Caroline might even become friends.

  Marc tapped his spoon on the side of his empty dish. “Regale!”

  “He wants his presents,” Gemma explained to Andrew. “What do you say, Marc?” she asked, stern.

  “Per favore! Pease!”

  “Now that you’ve asked nicely, we’ll go into the parlor. Are you ready, Andrew?”

  He stared down at his toast and cup of tea. He had no hunger for anything but Gemma’s body, and that was denied to him. But at least he could watch her face when she unwrapped Caroline’s latest novel. He lifted his son from the high chair, and Marc scampered off down the hall.

  Gemma folded her napkin into neat squares. “I’ll clean up after. Mrs. MacLaren will give me the devil for going about her kitchen and leaving a mess.”

  “We did have to eat breakfast.”

  “You didn’t actually have much. Do you feel all right?” Gemma asked.

  What a question. No, he was sick at heart but really didn’t see the need to explain.

  “I’m fine. A bit tired.”

  “After last night, I should think so,” she said saucily.

  He was happier when they were not speaking. “Gemma, it won’t happen again.”

  “Andrew, you remind me of the wind, blowing north and south. You were perfectly ready to bed me earlier.”

  “It was a mistake. All of it has been a mistake.”

  “If I believed you, my feelings would be hurt. Come along, before Marc rips open everything. He can’t read the tags yet, you know.”

  Andrew felt like he was flinging verbal darts that missed their target. Whether Gemma was well armored or simply side-stepping, it was obvious she didn’t accept a word he said.

  He wasn’t used to being managed. It was he who set the stage, he who drew the boundary lines. It was his gift that others assumed they were in control, that Andrew acquiesced to their demands. He’d walled off his core for so long he’d truly thought his heart was petrified, like a lump of coal in a bad child’s stocking.

  Speaking of stockings, Marc had already upended his.

  “Caramele!”

  “Si. Candy. Eat just one now.”

  Gemma was crouched on the carpet admiring the stocking Mrs. MacLaren had knitted for Marc. Knitting, whether it was socks or fishing nets, passed the time in winter for the island women and brought them coin in the spring. His housekeeper was particularly proficient. Marc’s stocking had an intricate design and had been filled with sweets and small wooden soldiers carved by Mr. MacLaren. They all had tumbled out and lay scattered on the battlefield of the rug.

  “I gots sojers from La Befana!”

  Andrew picked one up. From the tiny buttons on the uniform to the curling mustache on the resolute face, the attention to detail was extraordinary. “I see. This is very fine work. Mr. MacLaren could charge a fortune.”

  Gemma’s face lit up. “What a good idea! I wonder if he could be persuaded to sell some. They’re really little works of art, aren’t they? They would bring him extra income. Improve his circumstances.”

  “Gemma, stop meddling. I’m sure he has enough to do. These people are happy as they are.”

  She paid him no mind, turning the knitted stocking over in her hand. “And just look at the quality of this! The pattern is lovely. We could sell these, too. Think of all the country squires who have need to keep their toes warm in winter. You must have connections, Andrew. People who could help us to lift these people’s lives from poverty. We could sponsor a cottage industry out here.”

  “Good lord. You sound like a reformer. My old friends would not trouble themselves over socks and toy soldiers, I assure you. And I repeat, everyone here seems happy with their fishing and farming. Look at the party the other night. It lacked for nothing.”

  “Didn’t you know? The MacEwan paid for most of it and provided much of the food. He transported more than just the pavilion.”

  The notion that Stephen MacEwan’s largesse had filled his stomach did not sit well. “I suppose he bragged about it to you.”

  “Not at all. He had so many people come up to speak to him while we danced I was curious. So I asked. It’s his way of making sure his tenants have enough to get them through Christmas. I imagine he gives out more in charity at this time of year than he collects in rent.”

  “Well, there’s the man for you, then. Talk to him about—hell, what am I saying? You are leaving.”

  CHAPTER 19

  My, but he was being tiresome. Andrew stood over her, arms crossed, looking like a tyrant. This was hardly the way to begin Christmas morning. She much preferred him warm and relaxed in his bed.

  But she had muffed her chance there, getting up and then getting the fires started. She had not meant to take so long, but that letter—

  Unthinkable that he intended to give his son away, and pack her up with him as if she were one of Marc’s toys.

  Gemma had nothing against Baron Christie’s household. His mansion in Town was impressive. The man himself seemed unobjectionable if a bit stiff-necked, but he was a peer, after all. There was no doubt in her mind that Marc would be well-cared for in such a situation, and employment in the Christie residence would not necessitate her leaving a warm bed and a more-than-willing partner to start fires before they all froze to death. There would be upstairs maids and downstairs maids, nursery maids, a proper housekeeper. Places to shop. Congenial conversations with people who spoke English.

  But there would be no Andrew Rossiter.

  “Do stop scowling so. You�
��ll frighten Marc.”

  Andrew looked over at his son, who was bashing two soldiers’ heads together, blissfully unaware of any tension in the room. “I believe he’s otherwise occupied.” He picked up a small parcel tied with twine from the chair. It was not festive—not like the other gifts. Gemma and Marc had decorated their plain paper with colored lines and squiggles in the absence of wrapping paper.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something that came over on the last boat. It’s for you, but I’m not certain you deserve it now.”

  Gemma was surprised. Though she had a gift for Andrew, she had not expected to get anything from him. “We can call it a going-away present, if that helps you decide whether to give it to me or not.”

  “I won’t change my mind about you leaving, no matter how hard you try to charm me,” Andrew said.

  Gemma took due note of the stubborn set of his dimpled chin. She did not want to spend the day arguing with him, but she had no intention of seeking other employment. “Very well. But make this Christmas concession for me please, if you will. Until Marc’s guardianship is settled, let me stay here and take care of him. If he is to be ripped from the life he’s used to again, there’s no telling how it will affect him. He’s already lost his mother. The man he thought was his father. If he loses me and then you, he will not understand why the people who love him always leave. Betray him. If Baron Christie accepts the role you’ve asked him to play, then Marc and I will go together and you won’t have to set eyes on me ever again.”

  Something washed over Andrew’s face—relief? Longing? Gemma thought it was the ideal solution. For Marc, certainly, and for her, too. It would give her more time to change Andrew’s mind about his son and his relationship with her, which after last night she was more than ever determined to do.

  “You must admit my idea has merit. Think of Marc,” she said, her tone reasonable.

  The parcel bobbled in Andrew’s hands. “I was thinking of Marc.”

  “I know you were. Perhaps he would be happier with the Christies, but right now, he seems very happy here.”

  Marc was lining up his soldiers, paying no attention to the adults settling his fate above him. Gemma held her breath, and then Andrew nodded slowly.

  Encouraged, Gemma stepped off the cliff. “And there’s no reason whatsoever to deny the attraction between us. I’m prepared to be your mistress until we go to London.”

  She could see the temptation in Andrew’s eyes. Was it unfair of her to offer herself to a man who had been starved all his life of love? She didn’t care about playing fair. She wanted him—more, she wanted him to know what he was truly capable of. Gemma knew he would be—was—an excellent father, and being his lover would never be boring.

  “Nothing you could do to me or say to me will make me love you any less, Andrew,” she continued. “Nothing you have done in your past disgusts me in any way.”

  His brow rose in disbelief. “You can’t mean that. You have absolutely no idea.”

  She pushed a ribbon of hair behind an ear. Clad in a warm gray robe, she was hardly dressed for seduction, but she knew this moment might never come again. “You were honest with me the other night. I understood you perfectly well—I’m not some green girl. We are both of us adults, with adult needs. You may not love me, but you desire me. Perhaps it is out of boredom, as you said. But I’m willing to be used, for I’ll use you right back.”

  She watched his Adam’s apple convulse as he swallowed. She had robbed him of speech. Good. Gemma wondered if her mother would approve of her boldness. She was laying her cards on the table, waiting to see if she won this round or whether Andrew would toss them and her aside. There was not much she could do in front of Marc, although he was so preoccupied with his new toys he probably would not notice if she flung herself into his father’s arms.

  “Well, what’s it to be? A practical arrangement for the duration of my stay? Or will you insist on noble self-sacrifice?”

  “Jesus, but you’re incorrigible.”

  “Is that a compliment? I’ve had better.”

  “Gemma, this is not a game. I’ll not rise to your dare.”

  Deliberately, she cast her eyes downward beneath the belt of his robe. “I believe you have already risen, Andrew.”

  He surprised her by laughing. “I’ll take your proposal under consideration. You know, I once thought you like a little brown terrier. I was not far wrong.”

  “And now you’re calling me a bitch?”

  “Only in the best possible way. Here. Open this.” He thrust the package toward her.

  From the feel of it, it was a book. She tore the paper off.

  “Oh! Lady X’s latest! Your friend, correct?”

  “Latest, and probably last. She has given up writing for the time being.”

  “Thank you very much. It’s a very thoughtful present.”

  “You did tell me she was a favorite.”

  “And you remembered.” That fact pleased Gemma enormously. Gave her hope that if she kept up the pressure, she would get what she wanted.

  Andrew.

  He bent over the chair. “Let’s see what else is here. Look, Marc!”

  The child fumbled unwrapping the rest of his presents—some picture books from his father, and a bear that Gemma had quickly stitched up from a length of brown velvet she found in her trunk. She’d made it as close in size as the green one that Marc dragged everywhere.

  “Now your bear will have a friend, too!” She put the bears’ faces together and made a kissing sound. Marc giggled and went back to his soldiers. Even an almost-three-year-old male preferred the martial to the marital.

  Andrew read the tag on the last flat parcel. “From Marc.” Inside was an inky handprint on a thin scrap of wood, with Marc’s crude lettering beneath it. “He must have enjoyed making this.”

  “He did. I had a devil of a time getting his hand clean after.” Gemma had thought it a stroke of genius to come up with a present at all for Marc to give his father. It was not as if she could run around to the shops.

  “It’s hard to believe my hands were ever once so small.”

  “Think of how tiny they must have been when he was a baby.”

  “I never saw him,” Andrew said, pensive.

  “Well, now you’ll have something to remember this moment in time,” Gemma said briskly. “You can’t change the past. Just make the most of the present.” Which would, she hoped, very much involve her.

  “Happy Christmas, then,” Andrew said, standing awkwardly by the chair.

  “There’s one more present for you.” Gemma reached behind the sofa cushion for the roll of paper tied with one of her hair ribbons. She watched as Andrew unfurled it. He was silent for so long, her anxiety provoked her to speech. “Don’t you like it?”

  It was a careful pencil sketch of Andrew and Marc, sitting in a chair with a book. She had drawn it from memory, capturing the look on Marc’s face as he looked up at his father. She remembered the day well. Andrew had been pointing to the illustrations, saying the words in English. Instead of paying attention to the pictures, Marc had gazed at his father, finally poking a finger in the crease of his chin, then touching his own. Gemma believed that was the day Marc truly made the connection that this stranger was his father. It was all the more bittersweet now that she knew their true history.

  “It’s extraordinary.” Andrew’s voice was raspy.

  “We can get Mr. MacLaren to make a frame for it. There wasn’t time.”

  Andrew said nothing. He studied the drawing intently, shifting the parchment to catch the early-morning light.

  “I could do a more formal portrait if you wish it,” Gemma offered. “If we could get Marc to sit still long enough.”

  “This will do. You really are quite talented.”

  “Oh, I’ve just the usual schoolgirl accomplishments. Miss Meredith was an enviable artist herself and saw to it that all her pupils learned to draw.”

  “Don’t be modest,�
� he said gruffly. “I think I prefer you when you presume to know it all.”

  “You must think me a shrew.”

  “I think you are just Gemma.” He lifted his eyes from the paper. They were such a pale blue, almost colorless, like melted snow. “Thank you for this. For the gift of the handprint as well. When Marc leaves, I will at least have something.”

  Gemma held her tongue. Even if she was a shrew, she didn’t want to browbeat him about his ridiculous plan. She would have to finesse the future, arranging it as precisely as she had the portrait with each stroke of her pencil. Shading, contouring, balancing. Burnishing until the paper of his life was completely filled in, its surface smooth and shiny.

  “Will you watch Marc while I go get dressed? Mrs. MacLaren will be shocked if she finds me in such a state.”

  “You look perfectly fine. That robe would suit a nun.”

  Gemma grinned. “I purchased it for just that reason. It’s part of my governess trousseau. That was when I wished to ward off the unwelcome advances from my employer. Before I discovered his advances weren’t unwelcome at all.”

  Andrew ran a hand through his unruly curls. “Gemma, I cannot be what you wish me to be. I’m sorry.”

  “ ‘Never make a defense or an apology until you are accused.’ Those are King Charles the First’s words, by the way. I have said nothing about my expectations.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you? I doubt it.”

  “You think you can heal me. Stitch me up somehow like you did Marc’s bear. Well, you can’t. I’ve had a full quarter century of sin.” He picked up the fireplace tong and adjusted a brick of peat, then poked at it viciously. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney. His back was still to her when he said, “I’ll not deny you arouse me. You have practically from the first. But anything more than physical gratification between us is impossible.”

  She wished she could see his face as he spoke, look for the trace of truth in his words. She didn’t—couldn’t—believe him.