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Authors: Maggie Robinson

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BOOK: Master of Sin
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This year would bring the coronation of the king, a man who'd overstepped his own bounds for decades. If George could elevate himself, perhaps Andrew could, too. The subjects in his tiny island kingdom were few but challenging. If he was equal to the task of changing a filthy nappy, surely he had it in himself to crib a line of poetry and wait for Gemma to fall.
It wouldn't take long. Andrew's fabled charm was rusty from disuse, but he'd buff it enough to accede to Gemma's foolish wishes. Then they'd leave this inhospitable spit of land and seek their fortune under a tropical sun. He longed to see Gemma's dusky skin deepen, her adorable freckles spread like stars in a clear sky. He'd kiss every one and make her glad she'd agreed to be his wife. Marc would thrive under her motherhood. When he was old enough, he could go to school in the Americas where there was little chance to discover his less-than-savory background. Andrew would find new ventures in which to invest in the New World to keep a roof over their head and food on the table.
He ignored the rumble of his stomach. He wasn't ready to see Gemma in the kitchen yet, to watch her burn the toast or lump the oatmeal while she “helped” Mrs. MacLaren. Andrew hadn't yet decided what his first tribute would be—best to sleep on it for a few hours. This was the first day of the rest of his life, and for once, he wanted to get it right.
CHAPTER 24
G
emma groaned. She could have stayed in her warm bed forever, could understand why people turned to laudanum to blur the edges of their days away. But Marc was calling with his usual note of pride.
She scrambled into her robe and thick socks without a thought to her vanity and watched him climb out of his crib like a little blond monkey. She made her usual fuss, applauding and praising, then spruced him up for breakfast. She held his hand as he walked downstairs. He was proud of that accomplishment, too, and she was relieved he was becoming so independent. He was getting too heavy anyhow to carry down the flight of stairs, and Gemma had been terrified of tripping over her overlong skirts and plunging them both to death or dismemberment.
The house was unusually quiet, the fireplaces gone cold. Odd. Generally Mrs. MacLaren and her husband had arrived by now. Gemma didn't think Andrew had given them the day off, although perhaps he had. They may have indulged with their family welcoming in the new year, too. Fiddles and whiskey could have put a damper on their steps up the rise to Gull Cottage.
The boat was due to arrive today, finally taking away the MacLarens' guests. Perhaps they were saying their good-byes, although usually the crew unloaded the boat of its cargo and spent the night in their cramped little cottage down by the quay to sail on the morning tide. Mary wouldn't be coming at all today—she'd caught a cold from her little brothers and Gemma had told her to stay home, taking pity on her as well as trying to protect Marc from illness. Whether Mary could rest in a household full of sick little boys was anyone's guess.
Gemma wouldn't wait for the MacLarens to come to start the fires. She could see her breath indoors, although the sky was pale blue and the wind had ceased wailing. She told Marc to sit back a safe distance from each fireplace as she coaxed the coals to spark, then laid kindling and peat in the grates.
Next on the agenda was breakfast. Gemma really was a dreadful cook, but there was half a loaf of yesterday's bread and water to boil. Marc would be satisfied with some honey and butter on untoasted bread and milky tea. As for herself, she was not hungry at all.
She'd been up hours wondering what Andrew would say to her when he came downstairs. He'd been so angry. If he had slept as little as she had last night, he was likely to be a bear, even less willing to sweet-talk her as a courting swain.
Was she selfish to insist on something more than pure lust as a basis for marriage? Most women would consider themselves fortunate and settle for the kind of unbridled sex Andrew was more than capable of. Had spent an eternity perfecting. A lifetime spent in his bed would weaken the morals of anyone. But Gemma had let lust rule her life once before. Some might have called it calf-love, but she'd been very determined to lose her innocence to Franz. As the daughter of a courtesan, she was completely cognizant of the repercussions of desire. This time, she needed something less physical and more—mental? Was that the right word? She wanted to be more than just a body beneath the covers that temporarily subdued Andrew's demons.
Her disjointed thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the kitchen door. It was far too early for company, not that anyone from the village ever plucked up the nerve to come up here. Gemma tied her robe a bit tighter and pulled the door open.
She recognized one of Mr. MacLaren's sons, the one who spoke a few words of English. He was a shepherd on one of the other islands, a solitary life that enabled him to teach himself some handy phrases. She had danced with him at the
ceilidh
, and he'd tried out every one with her. But this morning, he was not trying to shyly charm her. Once he finished blurting out the reason for his visit, he refused a cup of tea and hurried back to his mother's house.
Andrew came down a few minutes later, fully and exquisitely dressed. His hair had been dampened and the curls brushed down, his shirtpoints jutted to his cheekbones, and his cravat was tied in something so complicated Gemma had never seen its like. She was acutely aware that her old robe was sticky from Marc's honeyed fingers as he sat in her lap, finishing his breakfast.
“Who was that on the path?”
“One of the MacLaren sons. David, I think. He said his mother has broken her leg or hip—I'm not sure which, and they're taking her off to the mainland today to stay with another of her sons, the one in Oban. She needs a doctor. Apparently, she slipped on the path when they were walking home last night, and poor Mr. MacLaren carried her all the way to their house. At her age, such a thing can be dangerous.”
“I'll go. See what I can do.” Gemma nodded. She would have done the same as soon as Marc finished his breakfast. He grabbed his heavy coat from a hook near the back door and disappeared down the hallway. She heard him rummage about in his study, the sound of drawers opening and shutting. From her snooping experience, she knew he kept money between the pages of the old birder's journals. That fact had given her some comfort—if she were ever forced to leave without a reference or salary, he might not notice a pound note or two missing. Now that she was officially a thief and a fraud, stealing from Andrew had not seemed so very awful. If she had to resort to such a thing, he would undoubtedly deserve it.
Gemma wiped Marc's sticky face and fingers and then went to take stock of the pantry. If Mrs. MacLaren wasn't here to feed them, Gemma was very much afraid she would be enlisted. She didn't much care for what she ate, but Andrew and Marc would not be satisfied with cold bread forever. She lifted the lids off crocks and sniffed at the contents. If she was judicious, she could probably get them through the next week on what Mrs. MacLaren had put by.
Gemma didn't think Andrew's library boasted a cookery book, and even if Mrs. MacLaren had left her written recipes—if in fact she was even literate—Gemma could not have read them. Once Mary recovered from her sniffles, she could make some basic dishes to keep their bodies and souls together. Mary was a capable child—she'd shown great aptitude in everything. But Gemma couldn't turn the running of Gull House over to a thirteen-year-old girl.
She pictured the inhabitants of each of the cottages down below. There were far more children than adults, and few women with whom she'd feel comfortable enough even if they could spare the time to work here. She'd called the community “kind” to Andrew, but their feelings were much kinder toward him and his son than they were to Gemma.
Maybe Andrew was right. If they went across the ocean, they might have an easier time of it. But there was no point feeling sorry for herself right now. She'd just have to make the best of it in the kitchen. She knew her way around a fire, and that was half the battle, wasn't it? Fresh eggs and milk were delivered every couple of days, and eggs were easy.
She blushed, remembering Andrew's taunt about the New Year's egg, watching the egg white form the letter of the man you were destined to marry. If Andrew had his way, no eggs would be necessary.
She chattered to Marc as she searched through the supplies, turning her quest into a lesson, supplying the English and Italian words for everything she found. Marc dutifully repeated them but would not be satisfied with a menu list forever. She needed to dress and get on with the business of playing with Marc.
And wait to see what Andrew would say and do next.
 
Hours later, he let himself in the back door. The kitchen was warm but empty. Andrew had spent the morning pressing money upon the MacLarens and writing a letter to the only physician he knew in Scotland, a bisexual fellow named Larrabee who owed him a favor. The money he enclosed would ensure that Larrabee remembered. Andrew had been Peter Larrabee's secret for several years every time the man came down to London without his wife. They'd shared an odd sort of friendship, and Andrew was certain if Mrs. MacLaren needed anything out of the ordinary, Larrabee would see to it himself or arrange for someone else to. Peter spoke Gaelic, an added bonus for the MacLarens, who'd made very few trips in their lifetime off Batter.
It had seemed insensitive at the moment to inquire in the village about a replacement for his cook-housekeeper, and no one had volunteered their services. Andrew had done for himself for years, although he'd had plenty of dinner invitations to keep him from total starvation. His social life had been incredibly full—Venetian breakfasts, afternoon teas, routs, cotillions, and midnight suppers. There was always a need for an attractive extra man in his devilish circle, and Andrew had made sure there was a need for him specifically.
He poked at the stove, stomach growling. He'd left before breakfast and refused all offers of sustenance at the MacLarens' cottage, which was confusingly crowded. Travel trunks were heaped about everywhere, and Mrs. MacLaren's daughters-in-law were withering under her direction between some rather blood-curdling groans to pack up what she needed for her departure to Oban. The woman's leg might be broken, but there was nothing wrong with her tongue. She had enough pep left to give Andrew a smile and thank him for his help, then ordered a son to see him out. He'd spent the rest of the morning walking in what had been the best day in ages, cold but clear, the sky above a dull, bleached blue. It was more vigorous exercise than he'd had since the walk home in the blizzard.
Or in his bed with Gemma.
There was last night's soup left over and a heel of bread. He heated the pot, cut himself a slice of cheese, and poured ale into the single pewter tankard he owned, one that had come with the odd assortment of kitchen equipment belonging to the house. Gull House's original owner must have been even more solitary than Andrew was.
He was just sitting at the table when Marc burst into the room, a harried Gemma trailing after him.
“How is she?”
“She's in considerable pain, but very tough. She was frightening the wits out of her grown children when I left.” He dipped a spoon into the broth and swallowed. “There's hot soup in the pot, enough for both of you, I think.” He busied himself with his meal while Gemma set Marc in his high chair and gave him a small bowl and a handful of crackers.
“Nothing for you?”
“I—” she rubbed her hands nervously. “No.”
He couldn't very well sit here eating while she hovered. He was supposed to be wooing her, taking care of her. What would a gentleman do for his lady? “Come sit down and join me, Gemma.” Andrew rose from the table and ladled soup in a bowl. “You must eat. I insist. This may be the last decent victuals we have for a while.”
Gemma's dimple appeared for a flash and then was gone. “I've taken inventory. I think we shall be all right for a while, if you don't mind very plain fare.”
“How plain?”
“Well,” she said, finally obeying him and unrolling her napkin on her lap, “I've never made bread, but I'm willing to try. There are quite a lot of root vegetables, and jars and crocks of all sorts of things. Some hams. Cheeses.”
“Then we shall eat like kings. I can cook, you know.”
She looked doubtful.
“It's true. Many years ago I lived with two friends. Orphans. We didn't have a pot to p—puree in,” he amended, with a quick glance at his son. “I had a bit of skill in the kitchen, and before we were able to hire a cook, I shared kitchen duties with my friend's sister.”
The color leached from her brown cheeks. Yes, she remembered his confession from that first night of sex. God, he'd been a fool, telling her his darkest secrets. He hadn't gone into detail then, but he didn't want her to dwell on the fact that the man who had asked her to marry him might be considered a murderer in some circles. So he launched into a breezy recitation of all the dishes he knew how to fix. She kept her eyes on her bowl, occasionally fishing something out and putting it to her lips.
“So, if you want to be courted, I can do it with food, Gemma. I'm told I make an excellent pie crust. Light and flaky.” He winked at her.
“I thought the way to a
man's
heart was through his stomach.”
“I can teach you so you can turn the tables on me.” He got up and carried his bowl to the sink. Marc raised his arms as he passed.
“
Finito
, Marc? All finished? Uh-oh, I see a carrot. Quick!” Andrew plucked the vegetable up and pretended to eat it.
“Mine!” Marc opened wide, and Andrew dropped the bit in his son's mouth. “Good boy. You'll grow big and strong.
Grande e forte
.” He freed the child from his chair. Marc headed immediately for the tower of blocks that had a place of honor in the corner.
Gemma put her spoon down. “You've been fibbing about your Italian language skills.”
“Not really. I know a few words.
Bacio
means kiss, for example. I can think of a few places I'd like to kiss.” He leaned over the table and touched the beauty mark on her left cheek. Gemma blinked, her long lashes brushing his finger. “Here,” he whispered. His finger drifted to the corner of her lips. “Here, too.” His thumb stroked the soft flesh beneath her pointed chin, and he lifted her face to him. “Really, I'd like to kiss you all over as I think on it. You would taste much, much sweeter than pie.” For a second he thought she was yielding—she had a drugged look in her wide brown eyes. No, they weren't altogether brown. There were gold bits, floating around enormous black irises. She blinked, her feathery brown lashes tipped with gold, too.
BOOK: Master of Sin
11.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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