Master of Sin Read online

If this was his way to warn her off, it was a hopeless failure. She wanted more, wanted it all. Always. She wasn’t frightened of the passion he engendered, but welcomed it. She only wished she could touch him as he licked his way to her core, but she was tethered and helpless.

  His power over her gave her the ultimate freedom to receive without giving anything back but her ragged cries. She crested again, choking back a scream so she wouldn’t wake Marc. This was sublime torture, wave after wave. She was awash in sensation, every inch of her alive.

  And then, his weight shifted on the bed and he stood up, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. He picked up the razor and wordlessly sliced through her bonds. She untangled the fraying strands of rope from her wrists, rubbing the pink lines that she had caused herself straining against them. Andrew went to stand in front of the fireplace, his back to her.

  “Aren’t you going to undress?”

  “Why should I? You got what you wanted.”

  She sat up and sighed. Her nipples were hard points, but she looked now as she had as a young girl, bare and smooth and curiously sensual. “Oh, Andrew. Please don’t do this. I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work. You will never be as great an ogre as you are pretending to be.”

  “Stop, Gemma. Just stop making excuses for me. It does you no credit.”

  “You cannot tell me you don’t want me.”

  “I can, and I do not.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said in impatience. “I admit, I tried to trick you into letting me stay. I thought I might worm my way into your heart just a little bit, and then we could all live happily ever after together as we deserve. I was heavy-handed, flirting too much. You needn’t teach me this lesson of domination and indifference to get rid of me. It does you no credit.”

  He turned. “Do you think this is a game?”

  “Of course it is! I’ve watched you too long to believe you would do me harm.”

  His mouth curled. “What if I told you I had devices of torture in the chest at the end of my bed?”

  “I would ask you to show them to me.”

  He stalked across the room and threw the trunk open. Brandishing a black quilted-velvet paddle, he tossed it on the bed. “See this? A certain marquess was very fond of using this on me, but even happier when I used it on him. He would get hard when I spanked him, and then I had to suck him off.”

  Gemma nodded, careful not to show distaste. “My mother told me of men like that. I don’t think I would care for it very much, but if you’re determined to spank me to prove something, have at it.” She rolled on her stomach, shut her eyes, and prayed.

  “Damn it, Gemma!” She heard a shower of objects fall to the floor but didn’t move an inch.

  Then there was nothing but the wail of the wind and the hiss of the fire. After a few minutes, Gemma flipped over. Andrew sat on the floor amidst a display of sexual weaponry she really didn’t care to investigate. “Why did you keep it all?” she asked softly.

  “I wanted to remember. Everything.” His face was bleak.

  “You did what you thought you had to do. What that man trained you to do. But that’s not who you are, Andrew.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you love your son, more than most men do. No father I ever knew changed his son’s nappies or sang him bawdy songs to sleep. I’ve heard you.”

  Andrew flushed. “They’re the only songs I know, I’m afraid.”

  “And it’s a good thing Marc is still not totally fluent in English, or I would not permit it. Don’t you see? Fate has brought you here. Fate has brought me here. There truly isn’t anything you could tell me to shock me—my mother took care of all that. I am the perfect woman for you.”

  For a second, she thought he was laughing, but the firelight lit a silvery tear beneath one eye.

  She slid off the bed to join him on the floor, paying no mind to the fact that she was naked and he still dressed. She touched his cheek. “It’s time for you to be happy, Andrew. I think we can be happy together. I didn’t plan to fall in love with you, but I have. Won’t you love me back?”

  CHAPTER 21

  She made it sound so simple. So natural. Just as she was, heedless of her state of undress, like some woodland nymph who danced by the light of the moon. She was exquisite, her taste still filling his mouth and preventing him from thinking clearly.

  “You can’t love me. You don’t know me.”

  “Then tell me your secrets, Andrew.”

  “They’re all around us.”

  She picked up a marble dildo. “These are just things, Andrew. They don’t have a life of their own. You can pitch them into the sea.” She dropped the “he’s at home” to the carpet and it rolled beneath the bed.

  “What if I need them again?” he asked bitterly.

  Gemma placed a small hand on his bad arm. Was it his imagination, or did the ache decrease? “Then use them on me to exorcise your demons.”

  “God, no!” He stumbled to his feet. “You—and my son—are the only pure things in my life. That’s why you both need to leave.”

  “Are you afraid you’ll corrupt us?”

  “Look what I’ve done to you already!”

  “And I enjoyed it very much. Andrew, I’ve been seducing you, not the other way around. I’ve been a veritable hoyden. It would take a better man than you to resist a Bassano when she wants something. Although,” she said with regret, “I was much too obvious today. I must work on calibrating my skills.”

  Andrew returned to the chair by the fire. “Look, I understand what you’re trying to do. And I appreciate it. But I’ve been fooling myself these past weeks. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  Gemma raised a brow. “Who’s the pig? You or me?”

  “Oink. I’ve been bent so long I’ll never be straight again, Gemma. I’ve tried—God knows I’ve tried—but this affair with you just proves I cannot control myself.”

  “Now wait a minute. I know you said I was just a handy diversion, but I don’t believe you. You do care for me.” She suddenly seemed to realize she was naked, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Of course I do! I’ve dreamed of nothing but you ever since you climbed out of that bathtub!”

  “That’s lust, Andrew, not affection. Flattering as it is to know my body doesn’t repulse you. I’d like to think you like me.”

  He closed his eyes. “What I feel for you is a bit more complicated than ‘like.’ You argue over the least little thing. You always must have the last word. But you’re a wonder with Marc. And an excellent dancer.” He paused. “You taste like heaven.”

  “Oh.”

  He knew how absurd his words were. Had he ever loved? Perhaps Nicky and Caro, but he’d been so very young and tormented it was hard to know what his feelings for them were. He’d spent the rest of his life bobbing in the ocean, going in whichever direction the current took him. He’d washed ashore now and simply didn’t know what to do with himself.

  “I haven’t given affection much thought, truthfully,” Andrew said. “It wasn’t useful in my line of work, investing emotion in the relationships I had. They were engineered to end when the parties got what they paid for. I’ve always been able to separate the physical from the mental. I learned to do that as a child.”

  “You were lucky then.”

  “Lucky!” he snorted. “That’s not the word I’d choose.”

  She scooted over the rug on her bottom to his chair, stopping at his feet. She looked up at him, her little face so earnest. “What if you had allowed yourself to feel? You would have been even more miserable than you were, brokenhearted all the time.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” He took a breath. “I don’t think I’m capable of that happy ending you talked of. It’s just not in the cards.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try?” she asked, her voice soft.

  Her eyes shimmered in the firelight. Tears for her,
too? He hadn’t cried in years, had stopped himself before he disgraced himself further. He hardened his heart. Again. This time he felt the pain of it snapping shut on the brief flicker of hope he’d allowed himself to flirt with.

  “I don’t want to try, Gemma. I stand by my earlier decision. Marc will be better off with the Christies, and I’ll be better off without you dogging me, trying to reform me. I’m a lost cause.”

  “All right.” She leaped up, surprising him, and gathered up her clothes. “Marc will be waking soon. I can manage a simple tea if you want to join us later.”

  No argument? She was up to something. Again.

  “I’m still full from Christmas lunch. I think I’ll just stay up here and read.”

  “As you wish. Merry Christmas, Mr. Ross.”

  The starchy governess was back, even if she merely had clothes in front of her slim body and not on it. She walked stoically to the door and turned the key. Andrew committed the line of her back and bottom to memory. He would not be seeing that view again unless she tied him down with his own ropes.

  I am a coward, plain and simple. All his life he’d taken risks, but this was one he did not feel equal to. Gemma might not hold him in aversion now, but the day would come when he’d see disgust in her eyes. He might feel an urge she could not comply with. Hell, he felt one now as she disappeared through his door.

  He strode across the room. One by one, he picked up the implements of his past and dropped them into the chest. “Gifts” the men—and some women—he serviced had bestowed upon him. At least a decade’s worth of images blurred together, some amusing, some rather frightening.

  How long would he last out here alone once Gemma and Marc left? It would be easy to go back to London and slip into his old life. He’d have to be discreet, so Gianni would not discover he was still alive, but discretion was practically his middle name. And once in London, he might have word of his son. Catch a glimpse of him across a park or through a window.

  He would sell Gull House to the MacEwan. Give it back to him if he had to—he had plenty of money left. Andrew thought of the furniture and books he’d ordered, then dismissed the waste with no regret. Better to learn now he was unsuited to this hermitage.

  The islands had long been home to hermits. They were considered holy places, their isolation and stark beauty conduits to spiritual communion. For centuries religious men had found solace out here, but alas, Andrew was not one of them. He was in a hell of his own making, and there he would stay.

  He is a coward, plain and simple. Gemma was furious with him, furious with herself—she tried to give her heart and body to a man who did not deserve her. It was all she could do to not brain him with a candlestick as he sat in the chair feeling sorry for himself.

  True, terrible things had happened to him at a tender age. She imagined Marc in a few years and shuddered that such innocence could be ruptured. The thought probably frightened Andrew out of his wits, too, wondering if he could protect his child.

  But no one was ever completely safe. An ague could turn into lung fever, a cut could become septic, a mother could die in childbed. Love faded, fortunes were lost. Life’s only guarantee was that it would end—for some sooner than later. Damn Andrew for his false martyrdom.

  He may not have been born to privilege and position, but he had looks, money, and charm in abundance. He had a beautiful child. And he was willing to give it all away.

  If he left Batter Island and resumed his old life, he would truly leave his soul behind. He was fortunate indeed that his escapades had not resulted in disease, but how long could that last if he continued to test society’s boundaries? Gemma wasn’t all that fond of rules and regulations herself, but there were reasons to be prudent. Her mother had been very particular choosing her protectors and had long cautioned Gemma to be careful.

  Well, she’d ignored her mother’s good advice again and had nothing to show for it but a patch of bare skin and a bruised heart. She would not think of Andrew’s tongue and fingers, of the few minutes of bliss they brought her.

  Gemma folded her green dress and set it deep in her trunk. Christmas was over, and it was time to return as the little brown governess. To make tea for Marc’s supper and sing him back to sleep. She took a drab woolen gown from a hook and dressed quickly, braiding her loose hair into uncompromising order.

  She would try to persuade Andrew to let her stay for Marc’s sake, but there would be no more frolicking beneath his sheets. She would not throw her self-respect away again, not try to cajole him to embrace a new life, a new beginning with her.

  Not today at any rate.

  She slumped down on her bed and did up her sleeve buttons. It wasn’t like her to give up, and once the red haze cleared she might change her mind. Right now, she wanted to slap herself for thinking she had the power to change the past.

  She thought of lichen on a gravestone, spreading and altering until the words were obscured. Andrew’s past had taken over his present, the lichen covering the man beneath. It was a pity, but she had no effective tools with which to scrape off the parasite. If raising his son was not sufficient motivation, she could not expect her less-than-perfect body to do the trick.

  “Gemma! Gemma! Guardarmi! Watch me. I get out now.”

  Marc had remembered her counsel. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to the boy in her charge—the poor mite had had enough tragedy and was probably due for more. She hurried to his room to see him standing at the railing of his cot, one leg hooked over the bar. Maybe it was time he slept in a regular bed, although he might roll off in the night and hurt himself.

  There was no guarantee of safety, she reminded herself.

  She smiled at him, ruffling his wayward curls. “Thank you for calling me, Marc. Be careful.” She took a step back and folded her hands to stop from trying to help him. He climbed out with the agility of an acrobat and held up his arms to be picked up and hugged.

  Gemma could not resist him, although he was getting heavier by the day. She sniffed. Marc was still dry, thank heavens. She set him down at the chamber pot where he proudly peed, his aim more or less accurate.

  “Let’s get your hands clean.” Gemma gave him a damp cloth from the washstand, and he scrubbed.

  “Where is Papa?”

  “He is tired, Marc. He reads and sleeps. Dorme e legge.”

  Marc went right for his new soldiers and spent a happy hour making them shoot, with a full complement of sound effects as he dropped them from imaginary cliffs. Gemma didn’t need to do much but utter an occasional encouraging word.

  When it was time for his tea, Gemma and Marc went downstairs to the kitchen. The room was still very warm, and the full kettle whistled low on the stove. Gemma scattered tea leaves in the pot, poured water, and let it steep. She buttered a slice of bread and cut a thin piece of mild cheese for each of them, although she wasn’t hungry at all. After putting applesauce in a bowl for Marc and pouring him a cup of tea weakened with milk and sugar, she set him in his high chair.

  “Bene,” Marc said, surveying his feast. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.” English came more easily to him now, and it amazed her how much Gaelic he’d picked up from Mary, Mrs. MacLaren, and her grandchildren. Gemma thought Marc was rather brilliant. At least the Christies would not be stuck with a stupid boy.

  Gemma wondered about Marc’s babyhood, the sunny villa he was raised in, and the many servants who must have cosseted him as the ducal heir. He’d made a remarkable transition to these reduced circumstances and would have to adjust again into a normal tonnish English household. She didn’t doubt that he could do it—he was a resilient, even-tempered child. Something of a little miracle, really. If he could stay that way, his future would be a happy one.

  She stirred sugar into her tea, watching the pewter spoon circle and disturb the tiny flakes that had settled to the bottom of the cup. When Gemma was a little girl, her nursemaid Caterina had made a game of predicting the future by reading
tea leaves. Gemma could not recall ever being told that she’d be marooned in the stormy ocean, a nursemaid herself. She had wanted to be a princess. Thus far, she’d met no princes and was unlikely to. Gemma had seen the king once when he was still Prince George, but she would not have wanted to trade places with his wife Caroline for all the tea in China or the tea leaves in her cup.

  She took a bite of bread, then pushed her plate aside. Marc was busy enjoying his simple supper. He swallowed a spoonful of applesauce and pointed to the table.

  “What wrong?”

  She had not meant her gloom to transmit across the table. “Nothing, sweetheart. I’m not very hungry.”

  “Maybe I’ll finish it for you.”

  Gemma startled, splashing a bit of tea on her skirt. Andrew came up behind her and snatched the bread and cheese from her plate.

  “Hallo, Papa!” Marc said cheerfully.

  “Hallo, yourself. You don’t mind if I join you?”

  “I thought you weren’t hungry,” Gemma said stiffly.

  “Changed my mind.” He pulled up a chair close to Marc. “Umm. Applesauce.” He opened his mouth expectantly, winking at his son and patting his belly. Marc carefully scooped up some to feed his father. Andrew made appreciative noises, then settled in to eat Gemma’s food.

  “I can get you some applesauce of your own,” Gemma said, rising.

  “No, no. I’m fine.” He waved the bread. “This will be enough.”

  “Some tea then?”

  “Please.”

  She went to the Welsh dresser and took a mug down from its hook. Pouring the tea gave her something to do, something to look at besides Andrew’s long body lounging in the chair. It was a pity he took no milk and sugar to keep her mind and hands occupied longer. She passed the mug across the scrubbed table, not meeting his eyes.

  “Thank you, Miss Peartree.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Ross.”

  So, it had come full circle, the two of them in the kitchen. Strangers. At least she was cleaner tonight than the first day she met him.