Authors: Maggie Robinson

Master of Sin (21 page)

BOOK: Master of Sin

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She whirled away, feeling quite proud of her blatant insouciance. Andrew would not know how her heart hammered in her chest as she channeled her mother at her naughtiest. Gemma had never been so bold in her life, or so desperate to have what she wanted. What he needed.

Her hands shook too much to dress quickly, which was fine. Let him think on her words. Weigh her suggestion. Imagine what might be. What would be, as soon as the last dish was washed and Marc tucked into his cot.

She imagined her mother behind her, brushing out the kinks in her hair as she had done for the first fifteen years of Gemma's life. “He's not an ordinary man, Mamma. I don't know if your advice will work on him.” She twisted her hair into two loops and pinned them up, turning from wanton to respectable. “Have I gone too far? You always said men were easily bored and liked the unexpected. That a shy miss might lose her chance. But I was so brazen. Maybe too brazen,” Gemma whispered, noting the hot flush of her cheeks in the mirror. No rouge would be necessary today. She arranged a crisp white fichu over the scooped neckline of her bottle-green gown and took a step backward. “I look like a governess now. Mrs. MacLaren will approve at least.”

Gemma picked up her sketchbook and removed the portrait she had made of the MacLarens. She'd placed them in front of the kitchen hearth, both with knives in hand. Mr. MacLaren was whittling with his, and Mrs. MacLaren was peeling potatoes. It was a homely scene, depicting their quiet companionship.

Gemma wondered what womanly arts Mrs. MacLaren had used to lure her husband to marriage all those decades ago. Perhaps it had been something as simple as being the girl in the neighboring cottageâthe population was so small they must have been limited for choice. All but one of their sons had left Batter for greener pastures and wives they weren't related to.

Would Gemma have pledged herself to Andrew if he had competition? Yes, she believed she would. He was beautiful, true, but beyond his beauty was a kind of wounded dignity that fascinated her. He'd been through so much, yet he'd not turned dark. He may have thought his soul was black, but she knew better.

She rolled the paper up and fished out another ribbon from her dressing table drawer. She'd better get downstairs and tidy up the kitchen, give Andrew a chance to get dressed. It was Christmas Day, and the present she most wanted was within reach.

CHAPTER 20

T
he remains of their Christmas feast lay before him. The day was not going precisely as Andrew had envisioned it weeks ago. Then, he was the happy father at the head of the table, enjoying the unaccustomed customs of the holiday. It would mark his first foray into a truly normal life. Instead, the day had taken some unexpected twists and turns, the most notable being his decision to send Marc away and Gemma's foolish declaration.

He knew what she was trying to do. There were moments when he felt he was in one of Caroline's novels with a feisty heroine who “risked all for love.” Gemma had flirted outrageously over the leg of lambâno goose could be found to be sacrificedâcasting burning glances that made it difficult for him to hold in his laughter. She was outrageous, as far from a subtle seductress as he'd ever encountered. It was clear, despite what she said, that she wanted to marry him. Did she not know he had played every game there was to be played? His only urge was to turn her over his knee and spank the silliness out of her.

Now
there
was an image to relish, her pert bottom pink beneath his hand. He shook his head to clear it.

Gemma meant to tame him somehow, but she underestimated his wildness. A few weeks of her company in his bed would not solve his problems. He would never be domesticatedâthe move here and this morning had proven that. He was going half-mad, lusting after a boyish hoyden. Now that Andrew had bedded her, he knew he needed to pull back for both their sakes. If he accepted her proposition, he would doom them both.

He was not cut out to be anybody's husband. Oh, he'd been faithful in his timeâpurely for financial reasons. But he always got bored and was grateful when circumstances changed. He was used to a revolving cast of characters, and surely one slip of a girl would not satisfy him for a lifetime.

But he found her irresistible right now under the necessary candlelight in the dining room. The sky outside was black as night even though it was the middle of the afternoon. The weather had turned foul, driving Mrs. MacLaren back to the village before they sat down to lunch. The salty scent of the roiling ocean had wafted through the cracks in the window frames along with the icy nip of wind. The candles sputtered as Marc drooped over his plate, still clutching one of his soldiers in a sticky fist.

“You should take him up to bed. I'll clear the table.”

Andrew rose and hoisted his son from his chair. “When he's settled, I'll help you wash up.”

“Oh! You needn't come down. Wait for me upstairs.”

The siren had returned, batting her long lashes.

He didn't argue. Over dinner he'd come to the simplest of plansâhe would frighten her away. It should not be too difficult. The grim day leant itself to a gothic scenarioâthe isolated house, the roaring sea, the driving wind. A madman and an almost-innocent. Andrew suppressed a chuckle. Caro could have written the plot with ease.

He trundled Marc upstairs, leaving Gemma to stack the plates and carry them to the kitchen. How long would he have to prepare her surprise? He supposed it depended upon whether Mrs. MacLaren had washed the pots before she left.

Marc fell into bed without protest, no song or story required. If he was true to form, he'd sleep at least two hours, giving Andrew time to convince Gemma she'd made a mistake. He went to his room and quickly gathered up what he needed. It was all too available and well used, stored away in his trunk. The water in the jug was cold, but he didn't want to arouse her suspicions by heating any in the kitchen. Unwinding his tie, he debated about getting undressed, decided it best to keep his shirt and breeches on. She would be shivering. Naked. He'd be in control. Dominant. Show Gemma just exactly what she thought she wanted and make her change her mind.

He picked up a book and settled himself in a chair by the fire. After two minutes of watching the words run together, he tossed it aside. The sooner Gemma came up here, the sooner she'd leave. He rolled up his sleeves and went down to the kitchen.

Gemma had discarded her limp fichu first thing. The heat of the kitchen was oppressive despite the violent storm outside. Needles of sleet battered the kitchen windows, the crackling sound a steady buzz in her ears. She could not see the water off the point for the frozen fog but could hear it thrashing like thunder against the rocks. She hoped Mrs. MacLaren was home safe and snug in her cottage, surrounded by jolly grandchildren and bowls of Christmas pudding.

The housekeeper had left a neat tower of roasting pans and pots soaking in the deep slate sink. Gemma filled a kettle of water from the pump and set it to heat on the stove. Covering her dress with a fresh apron that fell to the floor, she scraped the dishes and packed away the leftovers. There was a great deal to do, and every minute was precious. Marc would not sleep forever.

For the first time, she wondered how her mother had balanced raising her with her obligations to the various men who kept a roof over their heads. But then, she had Caterina to take over minding Gemma when duty called. Francesca Bassano's own loyal nursemaid had shared the life of shame once Francesca fell from society's good graces. But Gemma could never remember Caterina complaining, just spending a great deal of time on her knees praying for patience. Gemma had been a mischievous child, and nowâ

Caterina would be praying fervently again if she were still alive, making signs of the cross and kissing her crucifix in the vain hope that Gemma would behave.

“Not done yet?”

Gemma spun around, catching her foot on the apron hem. Andrew lounged against the door frame. He'd lost his cravat, waistcoat, and tailored jacket, the golden column of his throat visible against his unbuttoned lawn shirt.

“I've hardly begun,” Gemma said ruefully. She brushed a damp curl from her forehead.

“Leave it, then. Like you did the breakfast dishes.”

Gemma looked at the sink and its ominous content. “No. Marc will want his tea later. I won't be able to wade through the battlefield to make it.”

Andrew gave an exaggerated sigh. “I'll just have to help you. Step aside.”

“You're joking!”

“Do you think I've never washed a dish? You'd be surprised what I know how to do.”

The way he said it made Gemma think he was not talking of household tasks. “All right.” The sooner she got out of the hot kitchen and out of her constricting clothes, the happier she'd be. And Andrew would be unconstricted with her.

She worked with unseemly haste, desperate to get upstairs and get her hands on him instead of china and drying cloths. Within fifteen minutes, the kitchen was more or less clean and Gemma was flushed with anticipation.

Andrew hadn't said much, just cast her sinful looks as she tried not to drop the slippery plates. She was mesmerized by corded arms, the span of his hands as he scrubbed a serving dish. Soon his arms and hands would work their magic on her.

But all her bravado had deserted her, and she was beginning to feel some misgivings. She had laid it on awfully thick today, and the truth was Andrew's sexual history was formidable. But, she counseled herself, he had always made love without love. She would change all that.

She wasn't prepared when he swept her up, apron and all, and carried her through the hallway and up the stairs.

“My,” she said breathless, “you are as anxious as I am, aren't you?”

“More.” He shouldered his way into his bedroom. The fire burned bright, and the bed had been turned down. He deposited her on it and pointed. “Not one word.”

He must have been thinking of his son, napping a few doors down the corridor. He turned the key in the lock, and the click seemed very final.

“Undress,” he growled.

Gemma sat up on the bed. “You're being awfully bossy,” she whispered.

“I told you to be quiet. Do as you're told.”

This was a side of Andrew she hadn't seen, and she wasn't quite sure she liked it. She rolled the apron off and began unhooking the side of her dress.

“Hurry up.”

“Maybe you can help me.” She tried to lighten the moment by winking.

Andrew kneeled on the bed, tore the remaining hooks from their thread eyes, and wrestled her out of the dress. With one vicious tug, her short front-lacing corset was untied and she was left shivering in her chemise, stockings, and slippers.

Andrew held the corset up with contempt. “Why do you wear this? It's not as though you have need of it.”

“My lack of pulchritude didn't seem to bother you before,” she retorted, stung.

“Any port in the storm. Getting you out of all this is a bother. From now on, as my mistress, you'll make yourself accessible. No corsets. Certainly no drawers.” There was an evil glint in his eye.

“I don't wear drawers.”

“Good. I like the idea of you open at all times for me.”

Gemma scrambled off the bed. “Now, wait a minute. I never agreed to be a convenient plaything, ready to be swived whenever you catch me in a dark corner.”

“Swived? I'm surprised. I never expected such a word from you. Then what, pray tell, was your plan?”

“IâIâwe're going to have an affair. A perfectly pleasant affair, like two civilized people. Satisfy our mutual needs. Act as friends.”

Andrew shook his head in mock dismay. “Gemma, Gemma. Number one, I am not civilized. Number two, I'm a selfish bastard. I care nothing for your needs. Number three, you are not my friend, but my mistress. You've offered me carte blanche to fuck you. If you don't like my way of going about it, feel free to leave at any time.”

Ah.
His brutish behavior was instantly clearer. All this caveman business was a method to scare her off. Drive her away again. He must think her fainthearted indeed to go through this charade. This
farce
. Well, two could play-act. She stepped onto the stage to interrupt his solo performance.

Her eyes dropped to the ground. She hoped she was the perfect picture of penitence. “I'm sorry. I'll do whatever you say.”

“Excellent,” he said, although there was a trace of doubt in his voice. “Take off the rest of that muck and lie down on the bed.”

Gemma complied, hiding a smile behind a curtain of hair. In short order she found herself tied, her hands bound above her head and her legs spread hideously wide and lashed to the bedposts. This was an entirely novel experience, and she was determined to enjoy it as much as he did not want her to.

Andrew stood over her, his beautiful face inscrutable. Then he turned away to his dresser and came back with a tray holding a bowl, scissors, and a wicked-looking razor. She had a moment of doubt herself when he held his razor up.

“Is that to cut through the ropes when we're done?” She tried to smile.

“No.”

“Wh-what are you going to do?”

“You said nothing I could do would make you love me any less,” Andrew reminded her.

She had. Now her words sounded idiotic. He'd warned and warned her, and she paid him no mind, sure that she could somehow bring him back from the brink.

Gemma hesitated. The razor looked particularly sharp, gleaming silver in the candlelight. “Surely it's too dark in here for you to see to shave. And I don't mind a bit of stubble when you kiss me.”

“It's not for me. And I see very well in the dark. My reputation has always depended on it.”

Was he actually making a joke about his past? She tried to relax on the mattress but jumped a mile when his hand covered her mons. His fingers looped through the golden-brown curls, his thumb finding the center of her womanhood. But with one quick brush, it was gone.

She raised her head from the pillow. Andrew picked up the scissors, and she watched in stupefaction as he began to cut tufts of her nether curls and drop them into a handkerchief. She bit a lip. How proud she'd been when she'd spotted the first wiry dark hair on her body. Her mother said she'd soon be a woman. Gemma had waited, but nothing much happened except the tangle at the juncture of her thighs and the pain of her menses. She grew no beautiful full womanly breasts like her mother, despite exercises and creams and the mysterious Italian prayers of Caterina. At twenty-two, she was almost as flat as she'd been as a child.

When he seemed satisfied that he cut away as many of her curls as he could, he took some soap from the bowl and lathered her pubis. His fingers stroked her inner folds for goodâor badâmeasure and she felt herself growing ever more fascinated by the look of concentration on his face and his gentle, expert touch.

“I'm going to see what no other man has ever seen,” he murmured. “Unless your nursemaid was a nurse
man
.”

“Don't be silly.” She felt the firm scrape of the razor and flinched. “You won't cut me?”

BOOK: Master of Sin

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