Authors: Maggie Robinson
Master of Sin (24 page)
“You misunderstand me. I'veâI've been completely muddled. I've ignored your advice when I should have listened. You're very smart for a mere girl.”
“I'm two and twenty. On the shelf.”
“Yes. Vastly ancient. I've over ten years on you, but you put me to shame.” He ran a hand through disheveled golden curls. “There's no good way to say this. Gemma, will you marry me?”
Gemma shook her head like a dog with water in its ear. Whatever she had expected, it was not this.
“Absolutely not” were the first words out of her mouth.
“Maybe I should explain.” Andrew went on as though she had not refused him. “Hear me out. I've come up with an idea. We can leave this house, go to the Caribbean. You've said yourself I was a bit mad to settle out here. I wanted somewhere remote and safe for Marc, but Batter's
too
remote. You're the only person who can understand what I say, and the damned weather is colder than a witch's tâtoe. Perhaps it's heaven in the summer, but I really don't think I can last that long. Ever since I had the chance, I've always seen to my creature comforts. I may be shallow, but I'd rather roast under the sun than freeze to death.”
too
remote. You're the only person who can understand what I say, and the damned weather is colder than a witch's tâtoe. Perhaps it's heaven in the summer, but I really don't think I can last that long. Ever since I had the chance, I've always seen to my creature comforts. I may be shallow, but I'd rather roast under the sun than freeze to death.”
“The Caribbean?” she asked stupidly.
Turquoise waters. The rattle of palm leaves in the breeze. Hairy spiders. Scorpions.
Herr Birnbaum had been something of a naturalist, and he had collected shadow boxes full of oddities from his trips abroad. Gemma's mother was not the first item he'd acquired as he traveled the globe.
Turquoise waters. The rattle of palm leaves in the breeze. Hairy spiders. Scorpions.
Herr Birnbaum had been something of a naturalist, and he had collected shadow boxes full of oddities from his trips abroad. Gemma's mother was not the first item he'd acquired as he traveled the globe.
“Think how good it would be for Marc to be raised in such an environment. Why, he could run barefoot on the beach every day.”
“Sand flies,” Gemma murmured. Herr Birnbaum had been quite emphatic about the mosquitoes, too.
“We can make a fresh start.” Andrew's pale eyes were bright as diamonds. “Tuck ourselves away on a plantation and sip rum on the veranda.”
“Slaves.”
He seemed to finally hear her. “I won't countenance that. You should know me better, Gemma.”
“I don't know you at all!” she cried. “Three hours ago you looked down your nose at me, and now you want to marry me. Forgive me if I'm a bit confused.” She stood up so quickly the chair toppled to the carpet. “You are as variable as the weather, Andrew. Mr. Ross. A week ago you planned to give your son away and release me from my employment. You bedded me, then spurned me. I'm not someânot some doll you can play with and then toss aside.” She balled her fists tight but really wanted to punch Andrew Ross'sâAndrew
Rossiter's
âdimpled chin and add another hole.
Rossiter's
âdimpled chin and add another hole.
“I know. I've been an idiot. Don't you see? I've had a revelation. I can still keep Marc safe, keep our anonymity, but in a much nicer place. No one will know what I was beforeâthere would be no shame for you if you married me.”
Gemma opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
That
was why he rejected her? That she would somehow be tarred with his past?
That
was why he rejected her? That she would somehow be tarred with his past?
She watched him pace along the edge of the worn carpet. It was true that there must be much
nicer
places on earth than Batter Island and Gull House. But she had become accustomed to the howl of the wind and the bite of the sleet. The scent of damp and ocean permeating the furniture and even her clothes, now that she had some. She thought ahead to spring and summer, when the island would be carpeted by yellow stars of tormentil and bog asphodel. The frozen streams and pools she'd seen on her walks would be flowing. Seals would bask on rocks and geese would return to honk overhead. Each season in Scotland had a distinct chapterâAndrew was just now in the most difficult part of the book.
nicer
places on earth than Batter Island and Gull House. But she had become accustomed to the howl of the wind and the bite of the sleet. The scent of damp and ocean permeating the furniture and even her clothes, now that she had some. She thought ahead to spring and summer, when the island would be carpeted by yellow stars of tormentil and bog asphodel. The frozen streams and pools she'd seen on her walks would be flowing. Seals would bask on rocks and geese would return to honk overhead. Each season in Scotland had a distinct chapterâAndrew was just now in the most difficult part of the book.
“No matter how far away you go, the past goes with you,” Gemma said. That applied to her as well as the harebrained man before her.
“I know all that. But can you honestly say you could live here for the rest of your life?”
Gemma bent to right the chair and sat back down. “If I were with the people I loved, I could live anywhere.”
“Well, then.” Andrew's smile was triumphant. “Come with me to the Caribbean, Gemma. There are thousands of islands to choose from. I'll let you decide.”
“You'll
let
me.” She didn't have time to ask him what else he was prepared to
let
her do, because Marc chose that moment to call for her.
let
me.” She didn't have time to ask him what else he was prepared to
let
her do, because Marc chose that moment to call for her.
“We can talk about this later tonight,” Andrew suggested, not realizing he'd been saved from a scathing set-down. No man was going to
let
her do anything. She didn't need Andrew's permission to make decisions. She would do what she wanted, and right now the temptation to shove him into the fireplace was strong. If he wanted to be warmer, that just might do the trick. The man had proposed, talking of his child and the weather, without a word of his feeling for her. Oh, he didn't want his name to bring her shame, but that wouldn't keep
her
warm at night. That was no basis for a marriage, even if it was the only offer she might ever get.
let
her do anything. She didn't need Andrew's permission to make decisions. She would do what she wanted, and right now the temptation to shove him into the fireplace was strong. If he wanted to be warmer, that just might do the trick. The man had proposed, talking of his child and the weather, without a word of his feeling for her. Oh, he didn't want his name to bring her shame, but that wouldn't keep
her
warm at night. That was no basis for a marriage, even if it was the only offer she might ever get.
She flounced up the stairs, so agitated she had to hold on to the railing. This was one time she didn't want to fall into his arms.
CHAPTER 23
G
emma hesitated at her bedroom door. She was well-wrapped up in two flannel nightgowns and a robe, with nubby wool socks on her feet and a scarf tied over her ears to keep out the cold. Even with the fire rippling in her hearth, the new year was beginning on an arctic note. Because her hearing was obstructed, she could only imagine Andrew's footfalls as he climbed the stairs. The closer she thought he came, the more indecisive she was. Just when she figured he must have walked the length of the hall and reached for her doorknob, she turned the key in the lock.
emma hesitated at her bedroom door. She was well-wrapped up in two flannel nightgowns and a robe, with nubby wool socks on her feet and a scarf tied over her ears to keep out the cold. Even with the fire rippling in her hearth, the new year was beginning on an arctic note. Because her hearing was obstructed, she could only imagine Andrew's footfalls as he climbed the stairs. The closer she thought he came, the more indecisive she was. Just when she figured he must have walked the length of the hall and reached for her doorknob, she turned the key in the lock.
She waited for a knock. An imploring word. There was nothing. Tearing off the plaid scarf, she listened for any sign of him, but only the pervasive wind rattled the windowpanes.
Good. She'd kept him at bay all through dinner, speaking in monosyllables and declining a warming tot of brandy to celebrate the end of 1820. She'd tucked Marc in bed and retreated to her room, where she armed herself with layers of off-putting clothing. Her final step was to lock herself in. She was not ready to discuss Andrew's abrupt transformation.
He had proposed
. Words that she'd wanted to hear for a month, but now that they had been spoken, Gemma's heart was oddly disengaged. He was still
wrong
somehow, as wrong as he'd been when he denied she meant anything to him, as wrong as he'd been when he wanted to send Marc away, as wrong as he was to think he didn't deserve happiness.
. Words that she'd wanted to hear for a month, but now that they had been spoken, Gemma's heart was oddly disengaged. He was still
wrong
somehow, as wrong as he'd been when he denied she meant anything to him, as wrong as he'd been when he wanted to send Marc away, as wrong as he was to think he didn't deserve happiness.
Perhaps she was being overly fussy. A proposal was a proposal, and Andrew's was the first she'd ever received. Franz, to his credit, had never promised marriageâit had been Gemma who'd fantasized he was thinking the words he never said.
Gemma draped her robe onto a chair, crawled into bed, and drew the covers up around her ears. The quivering flames made a dozy random pattern in the ceiling, but it was not enough to lull her to sleep. In five minutes, she decided she was hot and removed one of the nightgowns. In another five, she kicked off the socks. After rolling around in the bed like a die tossed in a game of hazard, she pulled the last nightgown over her head, got up, and unlocked the door.
She was almost asleep when a shaft of light from the hall cut across the bedclothes. Andrew was at the door, holding a small glass oil lamp. Gemma blinked at the brightness.
“May I come in?”
“What choice do I have?”
He didn't move. “You can say yes. Or you can say yes.”
“Just as I thought. I suppose you have a key for my door, too.”
“Yes. I would have been up earlier, but I had a devil of a time finding it. I'm glad I didn't have to use it.”
Gemma sat up on the bed, clutching the quilts over her chest. “I'm not dressed.”
“I'm glad.”
He smiled then, and Gemma's heart stuttered.
“Do you have the proper answer to my question, Gemma?”
“What question was that? I forget. You've said so much nonsense lately I barely listen to you.”
“I've been an ass. Don't argue with me.”
“I wasn't going to,” Gemma said dryly.
He came to her, placed the lamp on her bedside table, and sat down heavily. Gemma tried to stop herself from pitching into him and failed. His warm arm came around her, his lime scent engulfed her, and she whispered, “Yes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nânothing.”
“Between the crackle of the coals and the howl of the wind, I distinctly heard you say something.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Well, I've felt for weeks now this place was driving me mad. Now you've confirmed it.”
“What's wrong with Gull House, precisely?”
Andrew scooted back on the bed and plumped pillows against the headboard, still managing to keep a hold on Gemma.
“There are numerous disadvantages to the property. It's falling down faster than Mr. MacLaren can fix it.”
“He's made considerable progress, considering the weather.”
“Ah, the weather. You asked what was wrong? Look out the window.”
Gemma didn't bother to turn her head. “It's too dark to see anything.”
“Exactly. Even if there was a moon, those damned clouds would obscure it. It's always storming. A man likes to watch the stars when he can. I haven't seen a star in ages.”
Gemma imagined Andrew as a boy, gazing up at a sooty Edinburgh sky. “I'm sure it doesn't storm year-round. From what I've read in those bird journals, the weather becomes quite lovely. And the flora and fauna improve, too, with blossoming plants and the migration of geese.”
“Could have used one for our Christmas dinner.”
“We could celebrate Christmas in July again.” Gemma rested her hand on Andrew's chest.
“The people here would think we're cracked. But then, no one speaks English. Another point in its disfavor, and I'm too old to learn Gaelic.”
“Nonsense. One is never too old to learn anything. Education should be a lifelong occupation. And once my school gets going, the children at least will have some facility with the language.”
“That's months and months away. Who do I talk to in the meantime?”
“Marc. And me.”
“You'll grow sick of me.” He waited hopefully for her to deny it, but she wouldn't. Not yet.
She felt his chin rest on her head and curled her body into him. He was very still, as if he didn't trust that she was not fighting him off tooth and nail. Gemma watched the fire lick and tremble for some long minutes before she spoke again.
“I will consider this Caribbean business, but I think we need to make more of an effort to settle in here. The people have been very kind to you, and Marc is happy. It seems a shame to keep uprooting him.”
“This is the same argument you used about Marc going to the Christies. And how can you say the islanders have been kind? Think what they gave you to wear.”
“I have thought. And cursed over it, too. But they gave me what they had, even if it was stupendously ugly. I didn't have to run about naked.”
“You're naked now.” Andrew's hand drifted under the quilt from her shoulder. She didn't push him away when he found her nipple with casual exploration. She peaked between his thumb and forefinger, shivering.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admitted. Her body was in an utter state of confusion, first cold, then hot, now balanced between the two.
“I can fix that.”
She heard the desire in his sinful rumble. There lay the way to madness.
Abruptly, she extricated herself from his embrace. “Andrew, I know we are compatible physically. You know precisely what to do to cause pleasure, and any woman who marries you will be lucky indeed. But I want to be courted. I've never been. If anything, I courted Franz with silly letters and gifts. No one has ever taken the trouble for me.”
“Pardon?”
“You don't have to love meâI don't expect that. I know you've asked me to marry you because it's the practical thing. I'm here; you're here. I'm good with Marc. And for some reason I don't repulse you. You're looking for a steady life, and that's to your credit. Really, I quite admire your change of heart.” Her words jumped around the room like drunken grasshoppers. Andrew stared at her in shock, watching her lips move as she rambled on as if he couldn't quite hear her. “But if I marry you, I want to remember the days before everything turns to tedium. I want my heart to flutter. I want stolen glances. I want poetry.”
What she really wanted was an entire new brain. Her speech sounded absurd even to her own ears. But she wanted to give Andrew time to adjust to his newfound quest for respectability. This sudden turnaround made her nervous. If it didn't stick, marriage to him would be heartbreaking, because while he did not love her, she was hopelessly, helplessly in love with him.
“You want poetry.” He spoke as if he were rising to the surface from a deep well.
Gemma nodded. “I don't expect Shakespeare, but any few couplets will do, even if you copy them out of one of your books.”
“This is ridiculous.” He rolled off the bed. “We suit, Gemma. We can make a go of a marriage, even through the âtedium,' as you call it. Why dress our relationship up with poetry and flowers? Flowers,” he snorted. “Just where do you recommend I get some?”
“There will be plenty of wildflowers in the spring.”
“Spring! I don't want to be stuck here indefinitely waiting for you to consent to marry me.”
“Andrew, stop your pacing. We barely know each other. Yes, yes, I know,” she said hastily, “we have carnal knowledge of each other. And it isâextraordinary. But we've been at odds more often than evens. You want to make a fresh startâwell, I suggest you start with me. Show me that you want me.”
“Damned ridiculous,” Andrew muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I suppose you won't let me fuck you, either.”
“Would you say such a thing to a woman you'd just met?” she asked, giving him a glacial stare.
“We haven't just met, you little fool! You want me to play games with you, when all my life I've had to, one way or another. Pretend to be someone I'm not. Do things I didn't want to. I'm a bloody master at playing games, Gemma. I doubt you could hold up under them. I'd have you eating out of my hand and on your knees in a day. But that's not how I want it to be. It'sâit's more of the same, and I won't stand for it!” He slammed the door behind him.
That didn't go well. What a speech! Gemma picked her nightgown from the floor and shoved her head into it. She was right. She knew it. Andrew needed to analyze why he thought this marriage was a good idea. So far, she was not convinced that
he
was convinced.
he
was convinced.
Perhaps by spring, she wouldn't even love Andrew anymore if he didn't do better than this. It would pain her to deny him her body, but it was for the best. She didn't mind a marriage of convenienceâbut damned if she were to be used without some sop to her woman's heart.
Andrew threw back a brandy and waited for it to burn some sense into him. He had proposed marriage once before, and it had been even more disastrous than this. When Nicky lay dying from his self-inflicted wound, Andrew had asked Caroline to marry him. The look of horror on Caro's face had driven him to drink then, too. Andrew had loved Caro, but Nicky had loved him, and there was no way to rescue any kind of respectability out of that triangle. And when he'd helped Nicky at the endâCaroline could not forgive him or herself.
What he'd done at twenty was his greatest sorrow, worse than what had been done to him before and after. He'd been so sure it would guarantee him a trip to hell, what did it matter how he lived his life from then on?
But nowânow he had a child to raise. A child he couldn't give up no matter that virtually any other man would be a more proper father and role model than he.
He thought Gemma understood his flaws. He'd been honest enough. Brutally honest. Even after hearing it all in its bare, warty truth, she'd said she loved him, stupid little thing. She was usually so levelheaded. No-nonsense, apart from her weakness where he was concerned. So why was she insisting on a false courtship, with honeyed words and trinkets of affection? Of course he wanted herâthoughts of her had tormented him for weeks. Months, now.
But love? Andrew couldn't do love. And Gemma needed to understand that.
He swallowed the dregs from his glass. A man who kept whiskey in his bedroom was not a man you could depend on. He owed more to Marc. And to Gemma if he expected her to marry him. Shoving the stopper back into the decanter, he stared into his fire until thin gray light pierced the ever-present clouds.
He went to the window. The sea was flat and calm, shimmering silver. There had been many New Year's Days in his life where he'd been up to see the dawn, muzzy-headed and thoroughly debauched. Today was slightly different, although the weight of his past still fractured his thoughts. He needed an hour or three of sleep before he tackled 1821.
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