Master of Sin Read online

  But where else could he go to keep Marc safe? London was out of the question for so many reasons. People knew him there, knew his past and proclivities. His son would never have a fair chance, and Andrew feared the city’s many temptations would wear down his resolve. If one skinny little virgin was driving him to madness, what would he do when faced with actual feminine pulchritude?

  He rather thought he could resist the gentlemen now. For so many years he’d not cared where or how he took his pleasure as long as there was some. He’d become endlessly inventive and intrepid in his search for the fleeting moment of passion. But he’d always been happier when involved in a ménage, a soft woman to blunt the rough edges of a male lover.

  It had been a revelation to discover that he was not totally Donal Stewart’s creature. While nothing had ever been forbidden in his life travels, there were some acts that were preferable. But he was done with all that, done for the sake of his son. He had a hand and a brain, and that would have to do.

  Andrew went into the library. All the books were on the shelves now, nothing from his collection of pornography, of course. He and Mr. MacLaren had finally hauled those up to the attics yesterday much to Miss Peartree’s satisfaction, where hopefully a platoon of mice wouldn’t munch on them. Andrew had spent a good bit of money buying the volumes and someday might sell them for a profit. At the time it had seemed money well spent, as anything to provoke his flagging interest in the sexual arts was welcome. He’d been half afraid then he was losing his touch, and therefore his financial independence.

  In his experience, sin had paid very well. There was a roof over his head and his belly was full. He’d made some lucky investments, which now enabled him to live this life of relative comfort. Oh, Gull House was not comfortable yet, but it was his, and in time he could make it a home.

  Andrew picked up the hard leather ball from the desk and set to squeezing. This activity was far more boring than sparring with a partner or riding or fencing, gentlemen’s pursuits he’d engaged in to blend into society and keep fit. He’d much rather be squeezing Miss Peartree’s sweet bum than the ball, and the pressure of his fingers changed when he imagined he was. It was not quite so onerous when his hands cupped creamy flesh rather than dry brown leather. If she were beneath him, he’d run his hands up her slender narrow back and lose them in her silken hair. Whisper sweet secrets in her ear as he took her from behind. Watch his shaft enter and exit with practiced grace. He knew just how to—

  But no. He didn’t think Miss Peartree would allow herself to be sweet-talked into anything. She’d probably be fighting him off like a little spitfire hedgehog, all claws and bristles.

  That could work, too. His hand picked up the pace with the ball, rolling it in his palm in a feverish pitch until his cock threatened to burst through his breeches. In another minute his smalls would be wet and he’d be the victim of a diurnal emission. The ball skittered across his desk, where it thumped to the floor.

  Good lord. What was happening to him?

  Weather be damned. He found his greatcoat hanging on a peg by the front door. Mrs. MacLaren or someone had tucked a faded plaid scarf into the collar, which he wrapped around his neck as best he could with one working hand. Razor-sharp rain hit the top of his bare head the moment he stepped out the door. He could, he supposed, tie the scarf around his head like an old village woman. He’d be a laughing stock if anyone saw him, but he wasn’t heading toward the settlement. If it caused a few goats’ amusement, so be it.

  Thus Andrew Rossiter, gigolo extraordinaire, toast of the Continent and the British Isles, roamed the cliffs of Batter Island wearing a plaid turban like an old blind dowager. How far he’d fallen. But if the price was keeping his son safe and whole, it was worth it.

  He headed to the ring of stones that were all that was left of his Iron Age fort. A thousand years ago, men must have stood here just as he did, watching for Viking longboats. The Norsemen had raided, then settled, these islands for centuries, and the glint of gold and red in some of the villagers’ hair was proof that their blood lived on.

  Andrew had no idea who his father was. He fantasized it was some rich toff who spent at least fifteen minutes with his pretty mother, but he could as easily be the product of a back-alley coupling with a fishmonger with a few coins. He thought the former was more likely from the few words his mother let slip when she was into the gin. Her beauty was such that she had been very successful for a while, until illness stripped the flesh from her bones and taking care of a seven-year-old boy had proved to be too much.

  Ah well. Life was full of crooked turns, and Andrew had taken most of them. Here he was at the edge of his land, buffeted by high winds, a straight shot across the Atlantic to the New World. Should Gull House’s amenities pale, he could always start fresh with Marc there. In Boston or Charleston or some such city. He was less familiar with America than he was with the drawing rooms of the ton, but the naïve democracy of the United States might be perfect for him, the bastard-born son of a Scottish whore and his bastard-born son of an Italian duchess. It was something to think about.

  If he went, would Miss Persnickety Peartree accompany him? Would he hold her over the railing, catching her gilt and umber hair as she puked? No, likely he’d be doing that with Marc, who was a very poor seaman indeed. The thought of more weeks on the water with the child brought forth a shudder that had nothing to do with the sluice of icy rain dripping down his neck.

  For good or worse, this was his home now.

  He turned into the wind, unraveling his unusual head gear. Catching it in the nick of time before it blew to Ireland, Andrew tromped along the cliff path, minding the slippery grass. One wrong step and he’d pitch below to the beach. While the sand was brilliantly white, he doubted it would be like landing on a cloud.

  He’d have to speak to Miss Peartree about being cautious with Marc out-of-doors. One day the sun might shine again and the child would want to chase his own ball or a butterfly or a swooping bird. It might behoove Andrew to fence off a portion of the property for a play yard for the little boy so he couldn’t escape from supervision on his short chubby legs. Add wood to the growing list—the island was virtually treeless.

  That would be a project for the spring, however. Soon the ground would be too frozen to pound posts into. By spring, Andrew hoped to have more use of his arm so he could do the pounding himself. It would give him something to do besides lust after Miss Peartree.

  No, by spring she’d be gone. Marc would be speaking English and her particular skills would be unnecessary. Andrew would pension her off with a generous stipend.

  Or so he hoped. A lot could go wrong in a few months. Hell, there were still days to go before the two-week trial was up. Anything could happen.

  But one thing he knew for sure—Miss Peartree would not be joining him in his bed, no matter how much he craved her brown, scrawny little self.

  CHAPTER 7

  Slick with sweat in his freezing room, Andrew forced himself to wake up. He didn’t need to see the images again, didn’t need to hear Caro cry.

  The dreams usually came in threes, the same three. One inexorably after the other, even though he fought against them in his sleeping mind. What was the adage? Bad luck comes in threes. In his opinion, his share was a bit more than three, but at least his dark nights were limited to those three turning points in his life.

  First to appear in the Elizabethan shadow of Reverend Raybourne’s School for Boys was Nicky Parker, always young and laughing, always randy. His schoolboy lover who had nearly washed away the staining years of Andrew’s guardian Donal. But he and Nicky had never been innocent, even if they were young.

  Then came Donal, his eyes vacant. It was not Andrew’s fault Donal couldn’t find his pills until it was too late, not really. That quack Doctor Copeland would find them scattered on the floor under the bed, just where Donal had spilled them. Andrew had gotten down on his knees to pick them up, but his fingers had been clumsy in his fear, slow
and ultimately constrained by the devil whispering in his ear. He might be free for the first time since he was seven.

  Andrew knew where that fleeting taste of freedom led. Lovely, lively red-haired Caroline swirled in for a bit, and the third dream took on a watercolor sweetness that was not to last. Couldn’t. Andrew had not deserved her then and did not now. To prove that, Nicky reappeared, lying still as death but trapped in his mortal shell. Andrew always woke up before he delivered the coup de grace.

  Three memories that reminded him of what he had been, what he was, what he would remain no matter how he tried to change.

  Andrew needed reminding. For a day or so he’d caught himself imagining Miss Peartree by his side as something other than an irritating employee. Even in the ridiculously baggy clothes, he remembered her as she rose from the tub, her toasted skin slick and wet. The sharp tongue she gave him could be put to much better use. She could whisper Italian endearments into the crook of his neck instead of Marc’s—he even had a few phrases of his own. Lo desidero che si. I desire you.

  But even she deserved better. He lay back on the pillow, listening to the wind and the waves. He would drag his dreams out for inspection, rub his nose in the stench of them. Torture himself as he was meant to be tortured. He knew what he was—he only needed to be reminded. He was responsible for two deaths and the despoilation of the first and only woman he’d ever loved.

  Winter was a time of reflection, of death. How well his three dreams suited the season. They stirred up Andrew’s mental sea as the tides and wind eroded the coast beneath his window. There was only his estranged son who held the fragile lifeline to his vessel. He needed to keep Marc safe. He needed to keep Miss Peartree at a distance. The first was easy. The second he would have to work on.

  One could only lie abed feeling sorry for oneself for so long. Daylight dawned whether he was rested or not, and Andrew sloughed off his covers and made himself presentable. He breakfasted alone and left word with Mrs. MacLaren to send Miss Peartree in when she was available, then pored over weeks’ old newspapers and made some calculations in his account book. He was relieved from his boredom by the tap at his study door.

  Andrew bit back his laughter as the governess shuffled into the room. Poor Miss Peartree was head-to-toe in gray garb, a corded tie wrapped around her waist to lift the garment from the floor. He squinted. By God, if he wasn’t mistaken, the sash came from one of the ratty parlor curtains. The bulge of fabric around her torso was large enough to store a substantial picnic lunch or possibly a dwarf.

  “Don’t say one word,” she warned, looking like a gorgon. “I’ll not be responsible if I’m insulted any more than I am by wearing this attire.”

  “I would not dream of insulting you, Miss Peartree,” Andrew replied, trying to keep an impassive face. “But could they not have found you some children’s clothing? Surely they would be a better fit.”

  She shrugged a shoulder, causing the neckline to gap precipitously and expose a golden curve. Her skin was really the most intriguing color, but Andrew was robbed of further view of it as she snatched the fabric back up to her throat. “I’ll not take clothes off the backs of the poor wee things. They have little enough as it is.”

  “The very reason I’ve summoned you. Please sit. I know Marc is napping and apt to wake up at any minute so I’ll get right to the point. It was two weeks ago today you made your bargain with me.”

  “A devil’s bargain,” she muttered.

  “Quite. But I cannot argue that Marc is improving daily. He’s almost—” He would not compare his son’s behavior to how he was in Italy. Likely Marc would never be that sunny child again. “He seems settled with you, and happy. So, I am prepared to extend your employment for another two weeks.”

  Her brows scrunched. “Infamous! Am I never to have security, Mr. Ross? Or are you waiting for me to show my true colors and throw a book at your head so you can dismiss me?”

  “I have excellent reflexes. I think it best if we attune ourselves to the ferry schedule. You yourself may decide this is all too much for you.”

  “Are you going to hire someone to help me at least?”

  “I already have. Mrs. MacLaren’s great-niece Mary will come tomorrow. She’s just thirteen but has four little brothers, poor girl. Her mother still needs her at home, of course, but we’ll work out something to your advantage.

  “And I’m beginning to like this idea of a school of yours. I’m writing to Baron Christie to arrange to have some supplies sent our way. Some books for this library, for example. With this weather, they probably will not arrive until months from now, but I wondered if you’d like to include lesson books. For Marc as well. You know better than I what children of varying ages require. That’s if you’re still here to run the school.”

  She smiled, transforming her grumpy little face into a thing of true beauty. His heart jumped, and he focused with difficulty on the grotesque gray dress instead.

  “Oh! Thank you, Mr. Ross. I’ll still be here! You won’t be sorry. If we can educate the island children, teach them some English, they’ll be more able to navigate the world.”

  Andrew passed a pen, ink, and paper across the desk. “Their parents may feel differently, you know. Traditions die hard in this part of Scotland.”

  “I’m not asking them to give up their way of life, just to add to it. It’s always advantageous to know another language. Have educational opportunities. To read.”

  “Um. Yes.” Andrew had been completely unlettered when Donal Stewart snatched him from the street. He recalled when he’d been brought to the grand Edinburgh house on St. Andrews Square. It had seemed providential itself that he was to live in a place that bore his own name. The ceilings had seemed miles away, the reception rooms as large as the country kirk his mother took him to once. Donal himself had bathed him in a tub deep enough to dive into. There had been hot tea laced with brandy and endless muffins, and he hadn’t said a word when Donal slipped into the vast bed in his new room. Andrew had been lonely, and the comfort of his protector had been welcome. The confusion of the first night became clearer each day, but Andrew was warm. Fed. Eventually sufficiently educated so he could be having a discussion about literacy with a governess.

  “And what do you like to read, Miss Peartree? I might include some books for you.”

  Miss Peartree dropped her eyes. “I enjoy the classics, sir.”

  “What, not admitting to the gothic novels? You filched the Courtesan Court books from my library. I know the woman who writes them.”

  “Lady X!” The wash of color over her little face told him she probably had stayed up all night a time or two reading Caroline’s romances, fantasizing over a ridiculously heroic hero. “Who is she?”

  “An old friend.” Someone he’d wanted to be much more, even after her marriage. He reached over and tapped the paper. “Make a list of what you might require to set up a school. There can’t be above twenty children here.”

  “Twenty-three,” she said, picking up the pen. Trust her to have ferreted out the exact number. “Some are infants, like Marc, too young for sitting still for any length of time. Quite a few are older boys who work alongside their fathers and older girls whose mothers depend on them to watch the little ones. I doubt they could be spared.”

  “The boats are in for the winter, and if some of the younger children are in your care for part of the day, everyone’s load will be lightened. Depending on the details, you might be able to begin lessons before the fishermen leave in the spring.”

  She looked up at him, her brown eyes sparkling. “This is very generous of you, Mr. Ross.”

  Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was no one’s ridiculously heroic hero. But at least the islanders would have a more innocent tutelage than he. “As you said, children deserve opportunities. And it’s not as though you’d be tied up all day. A few hours at most, given that children here seem to work as hard as their parents.”

  Miss Peartree smoothed the p
en over the paper in elegant loops. “Where would we hold school, sir? Every cottage that is livable is occupied.”

  “Well, not here, obviously. I’ll not have my peace cut up even if I am suddenly a philanthropist. I thought the church. I believe you said the priest is here only a few times a year. The building stands empty.”

  “Not really. There may be no priest, but some villagers worship without one.”

  “You do know a great deal about the way things work here, don’t you?”

  Miss Peartree grinned. “My mother always said I was nosy. Nasuto.”

  “She was Italian?” That would explain the beautiful biscuit color of Miss Peartree’s skin.

  “Yes, although she spent most of her life in England.” She put the pen down. “Perhaps we should wait on this before you spend your money. You were right to have reservations. The islanders may not think a school is a worthwhile endeavor. And I may displease you yet.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve prodded me this far, my Italian signorina. Esmeralda. Maria. Concetta. Am I getting close?”

  Miss Peartree bit a luscious lip to keep from smiling. “No, sir.”

  “I believe you like this game we’re playing, Miss Peartree. Domina.” She was certainly dominating his waking and sleeping hours in the most profound way.

  “I might be.”

  “It hardly seems fair. You know my name.” Or his new one at any rate. Andrew Rossiter seemed a shade at the edge of his memory. Only his unpleasant dreams reminded him of who he used to be.

  He’d never gone without sexual congress this long in his adult life—he wasn’t about to count the nights with just his wicked imagination and his hand for solace. He watched as she screwed up her little brown face and labored over a list that was growing alarmingly long. Even with her brow wrinkled in concentration, he wanted to get his hand on her.