Master of Sin Read online

  It would never happen. It should never happen. He’d given all that up to raise his son. No more dallying, no more sneaking around, no more sin. He’d done his share for twenty-five years, both involuntary and voluntary. He was two-and-thirty now, the age when many men finally settled down and became leg-shackled. But marriage was forever beyond his touch. No woman could possibly ignore what he had been, what he had done.

  He glanced behind him at the forbidding gray box of his new home, its myriad windows focused on the sea. On him. Was Miss Peartree peering out, shaking her little fist at him? Was she packing? No, she had nothing to pack. The ferry had surely left by now, and it returned only every two weeks until the winter weather might make it altogether impossible. He would be trapped with her at Gull House for another fortnight at least.

  There were village women. Girls. Not for him, of course. For Marc. They could serve as caregivers until he secured another Italian-speaking governess. Even if he had to wait until spring for someone to come, he could manage. Couldn’t he?

  He thought of Marc burrowing into the curve of Miss Peartree’s neck, happy at last. Bloody, bloody hell.

  He’d spent a lifetime feigning interest. Now he’d just have to feign disinterest. It shouldn’t be hard. A flat-chested little thing like Miss Peartree had probably never attracted a man. She wouldn’t expect or want him to fall at her feet. So he wouldn’t.

  He was her employer. A father. Celibate.

  He didn’t even know her first name.

  Hortense. Prudence. Brunhilde. More likely Circe, turning him into a pig to root about looking for his lost good sense.

  Andrew shook his hatless head. He’d need to find a knitted cap like the islanders wore if he were to go outdoors this winter. He and Marc would need sweaters and scarves and thick boots. The warm clothes he purchased for them in temperate Paris were totally inadequate. He’d go back to the house and make a list—

  No, she was in there.

  There had been no trace of Mr. or Mrs. MacLaren or his son. They were probably in the village. He’d walk down the rutted track and explore. Make new acquaintances. Wave his good hand wildly about gesturing his thoughts. Talk to a goat or two along the way. Andrew turned his back to the sea and set off, hoping when he returned Miss Peartree would be dressed from her pointed little chin to her narrow little feet.

  “Scheiss! Bloody wonderful!” Gemma slammed around the kitchen, pulling up her towel. She had locked the hall door to the room with a polite little note tied to the door handle. Who would have thought he’d use the back stairs when there were perfectly good front ones to descend? They even had carpet, threadbare though it was. But he’d snuck up on her like a servant when he was supposed to be a gentleman.

  Well, he was no gentleman. She’d have to be blind not to notice the look he gave her, like a starving dog staring in the butcher shop window. She was not a chop or a rasher of bacon.

  She would have to leave. There was no way on earth she could remain here to be hounded and fight off his lust. She’d made all the mistakes she was going to, worked too hard and come too far to find herself in the same predicament as when she left school in Bath and returned to Vienna. She’d allowed herself to be trapped. Never again.

  Her father had been no help when she’d fled to London, but at least she’d stolen his seal and stationery and forged a glowing letter of recommendation for herself that had impressed the sniffy Baron Christie. During her interview, she’d rattled off greetings in all her languages and remembered every bit of her boring deportment lessons from Miss Meredith’s School for Young Ladies. She had been so very desperate for this job, and now that she had it, she’d be mad to stay.

  Two weeks until the next boat came. Two weeks to avoid Marc’s father. It could be done. She’d station the crib across the threshold of her room.

  Gemma stomped up the back stairs. Perhaps she was mistaken. Maybe Andrew Ross had goggled at her because he’d never seen anybody so unappealing in all his life. He might not see her as a tasty chop but just a scrap of bone. Just because she’d caught the eye of one man—

  No, she mustn’t think of it. She’d been a fool, but now she was not.

  Where in hell were the MacLarens and Marc? They were supposed to come back with fresh clothes for her. She was not ever going to touch any of the clothes she’d been wearing these two weeks.

  Mr. MacLaren had delivered the crib on his pony cart, and the little boy had gone back to the village willingly with the couple, already picking up a word or two of their language. To give her privacy in the bath, Mrs. MacLaren had indicated as she’d pointed elaborately between the child, the tub, and the back door, although she’d looked stern and waggled a finger at her as though she expected Gemma would touch herself again given the first opportunity. Not bloody likely with Adonis upstairs sleeping.

  Well, he was awake now. And she was freezing and mortified. She wrapped the towel tighter and looked out the window. He was on the point, his unbuttoned jacket blown back by the wind. His fair cropped hair stood on end. He must be colder than she was. He turned suddenly and she ducked back against the wall, heart hammering. She waited, but there was no slam of door or footsteps below. She was safe for the time being.

  Taking the toothless comb, she struggled to get her hair untangled, then braided it, wound it up, and pinned it. There was nothing to do but get back under the covers to try to get warm.

  Wherever was her trunk? It had been filled with lovely things, ungovernessy things. Her mother would never have permitted her to dress in ugly black mourning clothes, and she hadn’t. It had caused a bit of scandal in Vienna, but what she had done out of her pretty frocks was far worse.

  She had taken the precaution of buying a few gray and brown dresses for her new job, but buried beneath them in the missing trunk was her favorite bronze silk evening dress and some of her mother’s clothes, including a scandalous sheer nightgown that had spent more time upon the carpet than on her mother’s body. Gemma had her mother’s jewelry, too, if thieves hadn’t absconded with it. Of course, she had stolen it herself from Franz’s safe. It was only fitting after what he had stolen from her.

  Even as a child, Gemma had been fascinated with the gifts that her mother’s male friends had given her. The pieces rightfully belonged to her—Herr Birnbaum had not given her mother much in the way of trinkets over the five years that they were married. Francesca Bassano Birnbaum sometimes lamented this fact in the letters she sent to Gemma at school. Gemma wondered exactly how happy her warm-hearted Italian mother had been with her strict Viennese husband, but at least she was financially secure and Gemma’s school tuition paid for.

  “To grow old alone, bambina—that is not for me,” her mother had said to her time and time again. Worried about losing her looks and her hold on men, Francesca had decided to leave mistressing behind and look for matrimony. She had snared Herr Birnbaum but wasn’t able to grow old with him after all.

  Even if she never got her belongings back, Gemma heard her mother’s musical voice in her head and felt her presence in her heart. Francesca had done her best to raise her, although her methods would be considered unorthodox by most standards.

  Which is how Gemma wound up shivering at the ends of the earth, torn between committed loneliness and unwelcome desire for a man who could tempt her from her best intentions. Gemma needed this job, but she didn’t need the complication of Andrew Ross. But perhaps given time, she could manage him as she did his son. She wouldn’t quit quite yet.

  She burrowed under the thin quilts, wondering if she would ever feel warm again. Her mother had often spoken of the warm Italian sun, but they had never, in all their travels together, returned to her home country. Gemma wondered if her mother was ashamed of what she had become—an astronomically priced courtesan sought after by any man with sense and sufficient coin.

  Gemma had been born in chilly, gray London, in a rather mean dwelling grudgingly paid for by her mother’s longtime benefactor, the Earl of Barrowdow
n. The earl had lost all interest in his increasing mistress, but he did his duty to his daughter. Just. Gemma’s mother had received a small allowance until her figure returned and her fatigue left her. Then, Francesca Bassano clawed her way back on top and left the earl to history.

  Gemma had never felt relegated to the shadows, however. Her mother included her often in her amusements, taught her manners, introduced her to art and music. Languages, too, for love was made in many of them. Gemma had been an accomplished young lady until her first mistake cost her her mother’s company.

  Her second mistake was much worse.

  Her third mistake was absolutely necessary.

  A young woman alone had few avenues open for employment. A young woman wanted for theft had even fewer choices. Perhaps it was just as well she was freezing to death on this inhospitable rock, far from the gaiety of Vienna and the greed of her stepbrother. She had only taken what she was entitled to, and Franz would never find her here. He would in any case be looking for Gemma Bassano, not Gemma Peartree.

  Perhaps she should have changed her first name, too. But she could hear her mother whisper it against her temple, almost feel her silken arms around her. Gemma closed her eyes, imagining the scent of lemon verbena.

  She had vials of her mother’s signature scent in her missing trunk. Right now she’d trade every vial and silk dress for a set of flannel underwear. She could hear her mother cluck and chide her now. No self-respecting woman would ever disguise her charms beneath such practical garments. As Gemma had few charms to disguise, she was all for practicality at the moment. Warmth was at a premium, and if what she wore extinguished the devilish light in Andrew Ross’s eyes, all the better.

  She sat up at the sound of the trap rolling on the crushed shell drive. At last! Merciful heavens, to wear clean clothes again was enough to make her weep for joy. Yes, that’s why tears were streaking down her face. Gemma brushed them away and waited for Mrs. MacLaren to climb the stairs to her. She wasn’t going to shock the woman again wrapped in a bedsheet.

  CHAPTER 4

  Andrew met the pony cart on the track coming back from the village. His son was seated on Mrs. MacLaren’s generous lap, swathed in a thick sweater, cap, and mittens, which must have belonged to one of her grandchildren. His cheeks were rosy and he was laughing until he caught sight of his father. Instinctively he shrank into Mrs. MacLaren’s bosom, earning Andrew a look of concern from his housekeeper.

  He remembered what Miss Peartree said. If children and animals liked you, it meant something to Mrs. MacLaren. Perhaps he’d have to get a dog to convince the woman he was not a devil, although in his heart he knew he was. His own child was afraid of him. Marc probably felt Andrew was responsible for robbing him of every known thing in his world, including his name. There was no way to explain the truth to him now, or perhaps ever. How could he tell the child he was a bastard, conceived in triangular sin to hold on to ducal consequence? That his parents were dead because of him? Andrew was an expert liar—any lie he told the boy would be preferable to the truth. By the time Marc was old enough, perhaps he’d have a story fashioned that would be palatable.

  He gave a falsely good-natured smile to the little group. “Good morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?” He gestured to the sun, which showed no sign of hiding behind a snow-filled cloud just yet. The MacLarens nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the pile behind them. Clothes for Miss Peartree, Andrew guessed, too late to do him any good. Her naked image was burned upon his eyelids. “I’m just going for a walk. Carry on.”

  The island wasn’t more than a few miles long and wide, and a third of it was his. He took a breath of bracing sea air and watched the birds careen above his head. There must be thousands of them out here. Traces of them were everywhere, from their droppings to the nests tucked into rock and tall grass. He didn’t know one gull from another, but the previous owner of Gull House certainly had. Perhaps the next time it was fair enough to venture outside Andrew would take the man’s journals with him. He needed to do something to turn his mind from the captivating Miss Peartree, although bird-watching might not be sufficiently engaging.

  One night in his new home and he was ready to jump from the rather jagged cliffs on either side of him. Perhaps when his arm was better, he’d teach himself to rappel down them, hunt for eggs himself. He was hungry enough to eat a raw egg right now.

  He headed down the sloping track until the village was in sight and peat smoke perfumed the air. The turf-roofed stone houses clustered close together as though they were cold themselves, facing a sheltered cove. He could see quite a few bundled-up people taking advantage of the sunny day in their dooryards, spinning, mending nets, gossiping. Very likely gossiping about him, talking about his arrival. A humble sign swung in the wind over what appeared to be a tiny store.

  Suddenly, Andrew didn’t want to bear their scrutiny. He took an abrupt turn on a footpath that wound along the eastern ridge. The waves thundered and crashed on the beach below, birds wheeled and squawked in the sky. For a place in the middle of nowhere, the noise was deafening, louder to Andrew than London ever was.

  But yet, there was nothing whatsoever to do.

  Andrew was afraid he’d made a grave mistake asking Edward Christie to secure him property here. It wasn’t as if he missed human contact—he’d had quite enough of that, ever dissembling, fawning, flattering to line his pockets. If he never again had to pay a compliment to a portly viscount or an aging dowager, never had to position himself between an unhappy husband and wife, that would be fine. He’d whored long enough.

  But how was he to occupy himself here? It wasn’t as if he had an estate to run. There was no home farm to oversee, no tenants’ roofs to repair, no horses in the stable whickering for a run. The decaying outbuilding to Gull House might garner his attention for a while, although it was more suited to keeping chickens than prime horseflesh. A few chickens wouldn’t go amiss, though. Andrew didn’t truly fancy eating seabirds’ stolen eggs. Perhaps a cow, milk for Marc since Miss Peartree didn’t seem to think much of goat’s milk.

  He’d have to go home and make a list. A long one. And he might solicit Miss Peartree’s opinion, if he could focus on a spot over her head and not into her lovely gold-flecked eyes. Sighing, he chose the long way home, hoping the girl would be properly dressed by the time he got back.

  After a two-hour tramp exploring the coast of his new domain, Andrew was ready to warm up and eat. His stomach was more than empty, his fingers were frozen, and his gentleman’s boots had done nothing to repel the frost on the uneven grassy path. He fumbled at the kitchen door, then held back his laughter as he interrupted his housekeeper and his governess in the middle of a bilingual argument.

  Be careful what you wish for. Miss Peartree was now draped in an oversized pea-green sack, the sleeves rolled up in a bunch to expose her dainty wrists. Mrs. MacLaren was running basting stitches up one side of the dress in a futile attempt to fit it to the little governess. There would be enough fabric left over for at least another exceedingly ugly garment should they decide to cut into it, if Mrs. MacLaren didn’t cut into Miss Peartree first. It was clear Miss Peartree was not a bit grateful for her new clothes.

  “I hope it’s safe to come in now,” he murmured.

  Miss Peartree shot him a scornful look but said nothing. Marc looked up shyly from his pot on the floor and then resumed banging. Andrew couldn’t decide what was worse—the domestic intranquility of his servants or his son’s attempts at percussion.

  “Couldn’t we find him something less noisy to occupy him with? A set of blocks or something?” he shouted over the noise.

  “You should ask Mr. MacLaren to make him some. He has his tools with him today,” Miss Peartree shouted back. Curious, Marc stopped his drumming and stared at the adults. Andrew tamped down his desire to pick his son off the floor. It was enough that the boy wasn’t crying when he looked at him.

  “What an excellent idea, Miss Peartree. I will directly after I fina
lly have my breakfast. Lunch now, I guess. I was somehow distracted from food earlier. The condition of the kitchen quite—shocked me. I expect I should apologize.” Not that he was a bit sorry. Miss Peartree had been a tempting morsel.

  Miss Peartree took a step forward, and Mrs. MacLaren yanked her back by her skirts. “I left a sign on the door, sir. I never expected you to take the back stairs.”

  “No harm done. In fact, there’s a great improvement to your person. The bath has done wonders for you. I wish I could say the same about that—that—shall we call it a dress?”

  Miss Peartree’s lips twitched. “I call it an abomination. You should see what else this evil woman brought me to wear. It seems she still hates me.”

  “You must admit it’s better than what you had.”

  She sniffed and pinched the material that hid her hips. “I’m not sure about that.”

  Mrs. MacLaren threw up her hands, stuck her needle back into a pincushion, and snapped the lid of her sewing box shut. She said something in Gaelic with finality.

  “Getting you to stand still is a trial, I take it.” Andrew went to the sideboard, lifted the linen napkin from a loaf, and began to cut a slice. He was gently shooed away by Mrs. MacLaren, who pointed to a kitchen chair. Andrew obeyed and watched the older woman assemble a simple lunch for him of bread and cheese and pickles, replete with a mug of ale. Marc sidled up to the table, staying a safe distance away.

  “Marc, would you like a bite?” He tore off a corner of the bread and held it out. After thinking a long moment, Marc snatched it from Andrew’s hand and crammed it into his mouth.

  Mrs. MacLaren beamed and patted his son’s curls. She set to making Marc a little plate of his own.

  “We’ve eaten already, you know.” Miss Peartree frowned. Mrs. MacLaren said something right back that Andrew interpreted as “Marc is a growing boy.” The housekeeper filled a cup with milk and placed it and the food quite close to Andrew. If Marc wanted it, he’d have to climb onto the bench and get it. Sit within spitting distance of his father, emphasis on spitting. Andrew inched back a little to make it easier for the child to proceed. He was relieved when Marc hauled his little body onto the scarred wooden bench, straightened himself, and tucked into his second lunch.