Authors: Maggie Robinson

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BOOK: Master of Sin

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The fisherman had posted letters for him. His bank, N.M. Rothschild and Sons, had offices in London, Paris, and Vienna and could be counted on to get him where he needed to go. But where would that be? Andrew expected Gianni and his thugs to descend on him at any moment and drag Marco away.

Andrew's luck, if one could call it that, held until Paris. There the woman he had hired as a temporary nurse abandoned them, simply taking off in the middle of the night. Andrew had awakened to Marco's screams and a sodden bed. He was sure the boy had been toilet-trained before the murder of his parents, but it seemed Andrew now had to find nappies as well as someone to help him manage his son. He spent a day interviewing entirely unsuitable women and was forced to conclude he'd need to do the job himself.

How strange to discover he had paternal standards after the life he'd led. Children were a mystery to him, and this one even more so as they didn't share a language. Andrew thought back to the time when he was “rescued” by a strange man and thought he understood why Marco was so terrified. He'd been a lot older than Marco, but Donal Stewart still played boogeyman in his dreams.

To complicate matters, Andrew still did not look like the Duca di Maniero's familiar urbane guest. He'd cast off his borrowed clothes once they had gotten safely to Paris, but his butchered fair hair still had traces of brown and his arm hung leaden in its sling. It would be difficult restraining the boy with two hands, but with one, he felt significantly outmaneuvered.

But good news had awaited him at his bank, although Marco had made the interview with the manager anything but pleasant. Andrew had written to his old nemesis Baron Edward Christie requesting a return on a favor, and Christie had come through. Odd that a man Andrew had once considered an enemy was responsible for getting him settled in his new life, but everything in Andrew's current world was odd. Of course it was Edward's man of business who had actually secured the deed to a property on a remote island in the Western Isles, but according to his letter, Edward himself had vetted his son's new governess.

Presented with the documents, Andrew was now in possession of Gull House, “a fine, partly furnished historic stone manor house overlooking the Atlantic” and roughly one-third of Batter Island purchased from the MacEwan himself. The “partly furnished” aspect could easily be remedied. He'd see what was needed and order it. Edward hadn't beggared himâthe purchase price of the house had been more than reasonable.

There was helpful translation in a separate letter that Batter Island took its name from the Norse word for boatâ
batr
âand that the locals claimed the weather was somewhat inclement. Andrew was advised to purchase warm, waterproof clothes.

Andrew didn't care about a few raindrops. The location was essential. Life in the Outer Hebrides would be a welcome change. It was Andrew's own explicit wish to be far away from what passed for civilization. Now that he was entrusted with the welfare of his son, he wished to be as far beyond earthly temptations as possible. It wouldn't do for him to backslide into his old ways. It wouldn't do for Gianni to discover he was still alive, either. With that in mind, Andrew Rossiter was becoming Andrew Ross, and Marco di Maniero now Marc Ross. Andrew was killing off an imaginary estranged Italian wife to explain the inconsistencies in his tiny family unit. He only hoped Miss Peartree, the Italian-speaking governess who had been dispatched to Scotland, would believe it.

The crossing had been brutal, fitting entirely with the harrowing trip across the Continent and through the British Isles. The Sea of Hebrides was firmly in winter's grip. Andrew was fairly sure once he landed; he was done with travel and water transportation of any kind. He was unlucky on boats, although he supposed one could look at it the other way and appreciate he'd merely lost the full use of his arm rather than his life. Andrew was obliged to borrow a crewman's rough coat as poor Marc had vomited all over his greatcoat one too many times to ignore. The child was a poor traveler, much thinner and paler than he'd been under the Mediterranean summer sun, although the gold had returned to his hair. From the looks of the slate-gray sky, a golden sun would not be making an appearance here anytime soon.

Once the boat docked at the settlement's jetty, they were ushered into what was little more than a hut among the crescent of cottages to wait for the unloading of the ferry. Apparently most of its contents were destined for Gull House. Apart from his trunks, there were massive quantities of peat from nearby Mingulay to help heat his new home, as well as mysterious boxes from his London apartments that Andrew would be too tired to unpack. As a sharp drizzle of icy rain pelted the roof, Andrew watched the crew and island men work together to pile everything into a wagon drawn by a rather dispirited horse. More than one trip would be needed, but it was his understanding from the one crewman who spoke some English that the crew would stay overnight in the hut and leave at first light tomorrow, weather permitting.

He supposed the wagon might belong to him, too, but he had no way of knowing. He had overlooked a significant fact about the Western IslesâGaelic was the main language. He'd not spoken a word of it since he was a child, and then only knew the few words his Highland-born mother had cared to teach him. Donal Stewart had drummed it right out of him in his attempt to make Andrew an Edinburgh gentleman. How he had failed.

According to Edward Christie's letter, there were perhaps fifteen or twenty families on the islandâcrofters and fisherfolk. All the women and their daughters and babies seemed to be here in the little hut staring and smiling at him, chattering incomprehensibly but making Marc very welcome on a round of warm laps as the wind howled outside. Andrew had heard
“Failte”
âwel-comeâtoo many times to count. He was plied with hot tea and oatcakes, but Marc screwed his little face up and refused the unfamiliar food. Even with his purchase of an Italian-English dictionary in a Paris shop, Andrew was making very little headway with his son. It would be nice to discover what the child liked to eat. He would even cook it himself if he had to.

Once the wagon was loaded, Andrew carried Marc out into the sleet. One of the men hopped up to drive them, and the others followed on foot and a few ponies. Andrew wrapped Marc in several thick blankets, pressing him to his chest. If they could simply survive long enough to get to the house, all might be well.

There was nothing especially picturesque about the scenery. Once one climbed the ridge away from the landing, the topography was relatively flat, with gneiss outcroppings dotting the grassland. There were few cottages, but several goats and sheep too stupid to get out of the weather. The wagon rolled south over a narrow cart track until Gull House and the surrounding ocean rose up like a gray storm.

To call the structure a “fine historic stone manor house” was a bit of a stretch. It did not look particularly historic, though it was old enough. According to the deed, at one time there had been an Iron Age fort here at the point, but the pile of rocks in front of Andrew was no fort. The two-story rectangular building
was
stone, but not particularly fine, and not really all that much larger than the crofters' cottages he had passed on the narrow road.

But the view was indeed spectacular. Evidence of gulls and abundant birdlife was everywhere, their droppings on walls and windows that even the driving freezing rain had not washed off. Here and there slates had slipped from the roof to shatter on what passed for the lawn, a mix of nettles and silverweed. If ever any shrubs had ever hugged the foundation, they'd blown away long ago. Andrew frowned. There was no fire from the chimneys, no welcoming peat smell from a hearth. And the warped front door stood wide open to the elements.

With a few hand signals to the driver and the dispensation of coins, Andrew left Marc sleeping in the wagon under the blankets and entered his new home. His first impression was that it was very nearly as cold inside as out. The square reception room on the right was clean but nearly bare of furnishing. The dining room opposite looked slightly better equippedâthere was even a moldy painting on the wall.

Andrew was beginning to suspect Edward Christie had the last laugh after all, giving him
just
what he asked for. Andrew had wanted private; he'd wanted simple. He'd suggested the Western Isles himself, having had a romantic notion about them since he was a boy and read of Viking raids. He doubted any factor of Edward's had actually seen the placeâthe purchase had been accomplished in too short a time. Someone had been sold a bill of goods. And Andrew now had to live with the consequences.

He tiptoed down the hallway as quietly as he ever had eluding a suspicious wife or husband, coming at last to the kitchen. A raggedy serving girl dressed in what appeared to be stray Tartans and tablecloths was bent over an empty fireplace, a pitiful pile of sticks on the hearth. At the sound of his footstep on the bare slate floor she turned and shrieked.

Some of Andrew's childhood Gaelic had come back to him the farther north he'd come. Immersion with the village women earlier had helped a bit.
“Gabh mo leithsceal.” Excuse me.

“Does bloody anyone in this bloody place speak any bloody English?” the girl muttered.

She looked like a street urchin. Her brown hair was a nest, her pointed, unfashionably brown face was smudged, and her brown skirts were muddied. She was so very brown. Surely she couldn't beâ

“Miss Peartree?” Andrew asked, praying not.

The little wren's mouth hung open like a baby bird waiting to be fed. Then she looked like she tasted the worm. “Oh, good lord. Mr. Rossiter?” She curtsied, nearly tripping on twigs.

“Ross,” Andrew replied quickly. “Just Ross. Andrew Ross. There was a mix-up. I didn't mean to startle you. How long have you been here?”

“Fourteen bl-blessed days, sir. I think. One loses track of time when there is nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep and it rains every bl-blessed day when it isn't snowing.”

Andrew frowned. “Nothing to eat? Is there no housekeeper employed here?”

The girl looked at her boots. They were crusted with mud, and brown beneath that, too. “There was a woman. But she left.”

“She left?”

She raised her sharp little chin and looked straight into his eyes. “She left. Good riddance to her.”

Miss Peartree's rather large eyes were, unsurprisingly, brown, but with a few flecks of gold. They were quite her best feature. It was impossible to tell what her figure was like beneath the swaths of fabric she had fastened to herself with what looked like clothespins. Good thing the ferry would depart in the morning. This little baggage and her clothespins and her mud would be on it. Good riddance, indeed. She was in no way what he thought a governess should look like. Or smell like.

“I am afraid there has been another mix-up, Miss Peartree. I find my son and I do not have need of your services after all.”

Her wide eyes narrowed.
“Ã figlio di una cagna.”

Andrew threw back his head and laughed. He may not have much Italian, but this impertinent little creature had just called him a son of a bitch. How right she was.

“Your assessment of my character is no doubt accurate. Be that as it may, Miss Peartree, I'm afraid I find you equally unsuitable to teach my son. I will make arrangements for your passage home tomorrow morning.”

She didn't back down. “I have no home to go to. I need this job, Mr. Ross. I'm sorry if I seemâ” She looked up to the unhelpful ceiling.

“Insubordinate? Filthy? Certainly disheveled. Whatever you are, I have every reason to believe you drove away my housekeeper.” Andrew wondered which one of the kindly hovering women he'd met at the landing she was.

“You try managing here for fourteen days when your trunk is lost and there isn't one single person who speaks a bloody word of bloody English. I speak Italian, Mr. Ross. French. German. Latin and Greek, too, though just for translation. I may not understand Gaelic, but I'm certain Mrs. MacLaren called me a whore.”

“You? A whore? For a blind man, perhaps.”

She was remarkably quick, but then so was he. The stick merely grazed his left ear.

“You are definitely dismissed.” He was not going to be attacked in his own home by this little harpy. Why, if there was a constable on this rock he'd clap her in jail so fast her head would spin. He was about to tell her just that when she folded her arms over whatever it was she was wearing and spoke.

“I signed a contract with Baron Christie.”

“But I am not he.”

“He assured me he was acting as your representative. His fancy barrister Mr. Maclean drew up the agreement. At least that wasn't stolen. It's in my reticule.”

“I don't care where the damn thing is. You are fired.”

She shook her head. If Andrew was not mistaken, she created a dust cloud. “I won't go.”

“Oh,” Andrew said, stepping forward, “you will.”

Miss Peartree was spared from deciding to step back or throw something else by an unearthly howl.

BOOK: Master of Sin

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