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Authors: Maggie Robinson

BOOK: Master of Sin
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Andrew stalked across the room and snatched the book from her hands. “I have no intention of placing them on the shelves! Nor will I put up with your meddling, Miss Peartree.”
She raised her pointed little chin. “You have employed me to help raise your child, sir. I think I should have some influence in what is appropriate for the household.”
“You do? I believe I should have even more influence than you, and right now your presence in this household is about to be terminated.”
That chin grew more pugnacious. “You cannot sack me every day, Mr. Ross. I won't go. You do remember that I still have that pesky contract in my possession. Any magistrate would uphold my right to this job.”
“Your right! You serve at my pleasure, Miss Peartree, and may I say I am getting
none
.”
She bristled. “I was not hired to give
you
pleasure, Mr. Ross, but to teach your son. And I will not have you ogling me when I take a bath, either.”
“Ogling! You were naked in my kitchen. I challenge you to find a man who would not notice such a thing.”
“You
noticed
for an exceptionally long time.” She picked up another erotic book and skimmed through it. “Judging from your taste in reading, I begin to understand you. Your poor wife. I feel now more than ever I must clarify the terms of my employment.”
This was outside of enough. Andrew was not about to let this impudent creature dictate to him. If she could snoop on him, he could turn the tables. When he had the opportunity, he'd go through her reticule and tear the vaunted contract to shreds. “There are no terms. You are fired, Miss Peartree. I suppose I'll have to put up with you until the next boat comes, but I'll carry you up the gangplank myself when it docks.”
She snapped the book shut. “You will not lay a hand on me, sir, if you know what's good for you.”
Andrew loomed over her, but she refused to back down. Her face was mutinous, her lips a bloodless thin line of disapproval. He fought back the incomprehensible urge to kiss her. She'd probably bite his tongue in two.
She was driving him mad. He must get hold of himself. Marc needed this woman now, no matter what Andrew thought of her. In just a little over twenty-four hours his son was becoming a happy child again. Andrew truly understood for the first time just how difficult it must have been for Marc all these weeks to be surrounded by strangers who didn't speak his language. Andrew had only been on this island a day, and his frustration was getting the better of him. The only person who understood him was the virtuous, vicious little Miss Peartree, and he was afraid she understood him only too well.
He sighed wearily. “Look here, Miss Peartree, once again we are at sixes and sevens. I assure you my first concern is for my son. Keeping that in mind, I am willing to overlook your argumentative behavior. As we are in absolute agreement about the contents of those books, that is one less impediment between us. Rest assured I will not be laying a hand on you now or in the future. If you can keep a civil tongue in your head, I shall endeavor to do the same, and perhaps we can see what transpires in the next two weeks.”
She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “So I am to be on trial.” “As am I. Should I offend your delicate sensibilities in any way,” he said over her snort, “you may leave and I will fulfill the financial obligations of your contract. You'll be paid for the full year, even if you spend a mere two weeks here. Fair enough?”
Her eyebrows knit. “Not really. You might go out of your way to be offensive, ensuring that I will leave. I can think of any number of objectionable tricks you might play.”
Andrew sat down heavily at his desk. “Miss Peartree, I'm too tired to play tricks, objectionable or otherwise. I've had a bad few months. I simply want to be left in peace. I want my son to get used to me. That's not too much to ask, is it?”
“N-no, I suppose not.”
She looked as if she wanted to say more, but he cut her off. “Well then, that is all. Let me get back to my books. Mrs. MacLaren might have need of you in the kitchen if you truly insist on being helpful to someone.”
“Unlikely. Are you sure—” She had the sense to stop when he gave his most glacial stare. “Very well. I suppose I'll see you at supper.”
“I will dine alone tonight. Here in the library. Please tell Mrs. MacLaren.” The last thing he needed was more time spent in Miss Peartree's company. Let her dine in the kitchen with Marc, or even in the dining room. He was not equal to another inquisition or her unsettling effect on him.
“Yes, sir.” She wavered a moment and finally turned, tripping on her voluminous skirt. Andrew rose from his chair, shut the door, and turned the key. At least he'd be alone for the rest of the afternoon, unless he was called to referee another fight between his housekeeper and governess. Though they seemed to enjoy hurling insults at each other that neither one could understand.
Miss Peartree was an odd little thing. She didn't have the demeanor of a servant, so it was up to him to school her, if he could stand her company for any length of time. How ironic that a boy from an Edinburgh slum was now more smoothly polished than any lord of his acquaintance.
Over the next half-hour, Andrew consolidated all the erotica and tapped the boxes shut with Pan's hoofed feet. He would store them until he could sell them. No point in throwing good money after bad. He must know someone perverted enough to enjoy this particular collection. He would write to the few he trusted and see if he could recoup his investment.
Which reminded him. He needed to make a list. Needed to replace his parlor sofa if Miss Peartree's nose was accurate. But first he'd line his shelves to help him endure the days ahead. His conversations with Miss Peartree must be limited. Andrew imagined pretty soon he'd turn into a doddering old cripple, talking to himself and counting snowflakes and seabirds.
 
Something about Andrew Ross smelled to high heaven. A man as handsome as he was shouldn't need dirty books to find his satisfaction. Although, Gemma realized, now that he was out of society perhaps those awful books and his hand would be his only comfort. It wasn't as if she was going to tumble into his bed. Or bend over the parlor sofa like the first picture she saw. That looked most uncomfortable. Her mamma had always advised her a little variety in the bedroom was the key to male happiness, but Gemma had no intention of making any man happy in whatever room she found herself in. Especially Andrew Ross.
It was true she had not entered the library solely to be useful. There was unfinished business between them from this morning. She could not very well have spoken of it over lunch, not that Marc or Mrs. MacLaren would have understood a word. It wanted a private moment, but as soon as she was in the man's presence, he put her back up.
Faced with an hour of idleness, Gemma didn't dare to take advantage of the comparatively fine weather and go outdoors. Marc could wake and would expect her to be nearby. Really, at some point she would
have
to sit down with Mr. Ross, for surely he wouldn't enslave her to his son twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They needed to set the conditions for her employment, at least as long as she
was
employed. His daily threats to remove her from his house had already become tiresome. Perhaps a girl from the village could be hired for a few hours a week to give Gemma respite, not that there was anything to do or anywhere to go. Mrs. MacLaren had been prevailed upon to take Marc with her so Gemma could have her disastrous bath this morning, but the woman couldn't be depended on to do her any more favors. They had reached an uneasy truce—or at least Gemma thought they had. Mrs. MacLaren was no longer wild-eyed waving knives around and shrieking like a banshee. Marc's presence had a quelling effect on her, and his father was even more powerful. Mrs. MacLaren seemed besotted by Mr. Ross. Mr. MacLaren had better watch out.
There was no doubt Andrew Ross possessed his unfair share of charm. Gemma had been subjected to a parade of men through her mother's life, but she could not recall any one of them coming close to Andrew's physical perfection. He was so tall, so blond, so very blue-eyed, like a Viking god returning to the Western Isles. Wounded in body and spirit, he was even more appealing. Vulnerable. Although he did not wear mourning for his late wife, it was clear it pained him too much to speak of her.
Unless—
Unless he was responsible for her death. Gemma stumbled as she mounted the stairs to her bedroom. She was becoming fanciful, having read far too many gothic novels. Looks were often deceiving, but surely a man who so resembled an angel could not have killed his wife. Though perhaps he had caused her accident and was so steeped in guilt that he couldn't talk about it. She could not quiz his poor little boy, who refused to even call the man “Papa.” It was almost as if Andrew Ross was a complete stranger to him.
Gemma threw herself down on her bed and sighed. There was a mystery here. Oh, dear. Her mother had despaired of her curiosity, calling her a little terrier after a rat when Gemma wouldn't leave well enough alone. “Be careful what you catch,” her mamma had warned. “Rats have sharp teeth and they carry disease.” Andrew Ross's teeth were blindingly white and even, and he looked clean, but who knew what lurked within? And how could she find out without winding up like the late Mrs. Ross? If he decided to toss her over the cliffs, Mrs. MacLaren certainly wouldn't object.
Didn't she owe it to her own safety to discover what Mr. Ross was hiding? For she certainly wasn't going to get any straight answers from him. A proper governess might not rummage through her master's belongings, but Gemma was not a bit proper, and she hadn't been a governess long enough to teach herself propriety. She was used to living by her wits, and one handsome employer should not drive them from her.
There might be clues in all those books downstairs as to what kind of man Andrew Ross was. Already she knew his taste for sins of the flesh. She'd really like to examine those erotic books a bit more closely to further her education, but couldn't, seeing how Mr. Ross had staked out that room and rarely ventured out of it except to eat and sleep.
Sleep. She had nothing else to do at the moment. And as Mr. Ross had said last night, she needed stamina to deal with Marc. Gemma closed her eyes, listening to the crash of the waves beneath her window. Tomorrow she'd figure out a way to begin her investigation of her employer. For now, she'd steal a nap while she could.
CHAPTER 5
T
he sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds all morning, but it was still a second day of relatively good weather. In an unprecedented act of civility, Mr. Ross had actually invited Gemma and his son to stroll down to the village with him, but Gemma begged off. Making a great pretense of sneezing and pinching her little nose until it looked realistically red, she convinced him to go by himself and gave him a long list of things to look for in the tiny village shop. As soon as she heard the front door slam, she hurried into the library, plunked Marc down with his favorite spoon and pan, and began her search.
The shelves were lined with books now and interesting bric-a-brac. The boxes were empty, stacked neatly against the wall, but for three that had been nailed back shut. The “bad” books, no doubt. Gemma had nothing with which to pry them open, so she concentrated on other areas. A cursory glance through the desk drawers yielded the same old ledgers and papers relating to Gull House that she had already committed to memory while she was stuck downstairs for two weeks waiting for the Rosses' arrival. She'd almost been desperate enough to bird-watch herself, but the weather had been so inclement she soon disabused herself of that notion.
Wait. She hadn't been waiting for the Rosses. She'd been waiting for the Rossiters. She was almost positive that was the name that Baron Christie had given her in the employment interview. Of course, she had been terribly nervous what with lying left and right, so maybe she had heard the name incorrectly. However, she found a yellowed sheet of foolscap and the nub of a pencil and began her second list of the day.
 
Name???
 
There was nothing personal in the desk except for a list that Mr. Ross had begun himself, listing necessary items of furniture for the house. She was pleased to see the addition of a new sofa on it, as well as the word
toys
. There had been very few items in Marc's baggage that could amuse him. As if to emphasize her thought, Marc rapped noisily on the saucepan.
“I hope your father buys you quiet toys. I shall go mad otherwise, sweetheart,” she told Marc, taking the sting out of her words with a smile. Not that he knew what she said. She pulled a book down from the shelf.
It was an ordinary history book, no bookplate affixed to the frontispiece with its owner's name. Someone had defaced it during reading. Various words were underlined, and tiny notes were written in the margins throughout. She could be mistaken, but Mr. Ross didn't strike her as a scholar. He seemed too physical to be contained behind a desk for long. She could see him riding to the hounds, swimming across a lake, or boxing, stripped to the waist. When he had come in from his walk yesterday, he'd taken her breath away. His color was high, his fair hair windblown, his eyes sparkling from whatever adventure he'd had.
And then of course he'd ruined it with his smirk when he saw her in that big green bag. Mrs. MacLaren had brought back a frightful compilation of clothes yesterday, too ugly for even the impoverished islanders to wear. Most looked as if they were the remnants of a failed church jumble sale, sent over the water by well-meaning do-gooders. Who in their right mind would ever wear the hideous purple-and-scarlet-striped gown she had on today? It had made her dizzy to see herself in the looking glass this morning.
Gemma put the book back and took down another. More scribbling inside. On the fourteenth book, she finally found some evidence of Mr. Ross's previous life, a newspaper clipping pressed between the pages. It advertised the latest effort by the gothic romance author who wrote the wildly popular
Courtesan Court
series. Those books were a secret sin for the girls at Miss Meredith's—curious that a gentleman would care about such entertainment. To her delight, she swept through the shelves and found a nearly complete set, well-thumbed, if she were any judge. It seemed Mr. Ross had catholic tastes, or at least the taste of a fifteen-year-old girl. No, that was unfair—the series attracted countesses and chambermaids alike. Whoever wrote them must have made a fortune.
For a second, Gemma wondered if Mr. Ross himself was the author. Impossible. No gentleman could have the perspicacity and wit of the anonymous “Lady X” who wrote them. There were several volumes that she had not read, and she put them aside. Surely Mr. Ross would not begrudge her reading in her spare time. If she ever had any. Marc was a handful.
To emphasize that point, he had abandoned his drumming and stood before her, his chubby arms raised. “Up!” he begged.
He was so smart, already picking up English and Gaelic. Her mother had always claimed the best time to teach a child a foreign language was when they were learning their own native tongue. Francesca would have loved this little boy.
Gemma swooped him up for a cuddle, and he settled his nose into the crook of her neck.
“That tickles,” she smiled down on him. She wiggled her fingers on his sides, and he screamed in delight, right in her left ear. “Oh, I see you're protecting your papa's privacy. I was bad, wasn't I, snooping about. I wish you could tell me what I long to know.”
“And what is that, Miss Peartree?”
Good lord. Andrew Ross stood like a thundercloud in the doorway. Marc began to whimper. Gemma snatched her list from the desk and stuffed it into her apron pocket. “Oh! You startled me.”
“What are you doing in my library?”
“Why, looking at books, of course! I found three I've been longing to know about,” she prevaricated, hoping he would confuse what she said now with what she said seconds ago. “The Lady X
Courtesan Court
books. They're among my favorites. You're back from the village rather soon.” She set Marc down on the rug, where he picked up the wooden spoon and pretended to eat from the empty pot.
“The shop was closed.” Mr. Ross looked as if he wanted to say more, so she went on the attack.
“I'm glad you're back. We need to discuss my time off, so I can actually read these books. You can't possibly expect me to spend twenty-four hours a day seven days a week looking after Marc without any kind of break.”
She could see from the surprise on his face he had expected exactly that. “When I was originally hired, I assumed I was coming to a normal sort of household with at least a nursery maid,” she continued patiently. “Gull House is
not
normal. Mrs. MacLaren cannot be expected to spell me—she has the duties of two or three people as it is.”
“I'll look into hiring someone,” he said, his voice clipped. “Until I do, I imagine you'll try to shake me down for an increase in your salary.”
Gemma felt her face flush, never a good sign to those who knew her. “I never said anything of the kind. The terms Lord Christie and I came to were most generous.”
“Then I can't bribe you to go away?”
“You agreed to give me a two-week grace period to see how Marc and I get on. Should I fail that, I won't even want the year's salary you promised me. I'll get on the next boat without a backward glance.”
Foolish, foolish
. But he'd set her teeth on edge, accusing her of avariciousness. She needed money like everyone else, especially now that her trunk had gone missing, but was not about to sell her soul to get it.
He gave her a sour smile. “I forgot about our bargain. Before I go employing anyone to please you, let's see if you please
me
. Can you manage being a slave to my son for the next thirteen days?”
“As long as I am not a slave to you! But you're going to have to add staff here eventually. Unless you can't afford to.”
His face shuttered. “My finances are none of your concern.”
He looked haughty as a duke. Perhaps he really was the runaway son of some grand house, forced to flee to the Continent after killing someone in a duel. Where he met his tempestuous Italian bride who drove him mad with desire. Until she came to her senses and tossed him out on his beautiful bottom.
Gemma
had
noticed. The man's clothes were exquisitely and expensively tailored. He definitely had money. And eclectic taste in literature and the arts and sciences, if she were to judge him by his book covers.
But what healthy young man would choose to bury himself here on this windblown volcanic rock, unless he really was hiding from trouble? Gemma's curiosity had only intensified from her aborted search. The mysterious Mr. Ross was concealing something, she was sure of it.
Just as she harbored one or two regrets of her own.
Marc chose this moment to commence beating on his pot. Gemma jumped a mile.
“You really have to find something else for my son to occupy himself with. At this rate, he'll grow up to be a chef and we'll all be deaf.”
“There's nothing wrong in good, honest employment. Those that provide nourishment and sustenance to people should be valued, not mocked,” she said primly.
“I have greater hopes for Marc.”
“Do you want him to follow in your footsteps?”
A look of horror crossed Mr. Ross's face so quickly Gemma was not entirely sure she'd seen it. “I want him to have the freedom to choose what he is to be.”
“An admirable goal.” Gemma bent to pick up Marc again. “Did you ever do one of your drawings for Mr. MacLaren yesterday? Sketch a set of blocks? They would be far less noisy unless Marc decided to throw them at you. I'm surprised you didn't pack his toys when you left Italy. Surely he had some.”
“There was great confusion when Giu—when my wife died. I thought it best to make a clean break.”
“Hmm. I cannot agree with you. Children prefer stability. Comfort and familiarity.”
“I know that now. Let's agree, Miss Peartree, that I was a very poor father before. I'm learning every day.”
Gemma was surprised by his humble admission. Perhaps he wasn't a duke's son after all. Cooing to Marc, she made for the door to leave the man alone with his books.
His words stopped her in her tracks. “I'll have that piece of paper you hid in your pocket.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I shall not give it. You looked as guilty as a child caught stealing from a cookie jar when I looked into the room. The note, please.”
What had she written that would damn her? Feeling mulish, she fished the crumpled list from her pocket.
“ ‘Name?' That's all? What does this mean, Miss Peartree?”
“Uh, nothing, really. I was going to write down a list of books I wished to borrow from you. So that we were clear that I had them, and you couldn't accuse me of stealing them.”
“Are you frequently accused of stealing from your employers, Miss Peartree?”
“Of course not. But until I know you better, I did not want to take any chances. Some gentlemen are very particular about their libraries.”
“I am not one of them. I would never begrudge anyone their love of reading, one's chance to improve one's mind. I daresay even you could stand some improvement.”
“And you as well,” she said dryly. It seemed her quick thinking—lying, really—had saved her from an uncomfortable few minutes. She shifted Marc to her other shoulder. “I'm going to take Marc upstairs for his morning rest.”
“Before you go, I have another question for you.”
Gemma sighed. Escape had been too easy.
“What is your name, Miss Peartree?”
She couldn't help but giggle. “Listen to yourself, sir, and you will have your answer.”
“Your
given
name, Miss Peartree. I'd like to know it.”
“Why? You are my employer, Mr. Ross, not my friend.”
“Nevertheless.” He stood, waiting. Well, he could wait forever. For some perverse reason, she did not ever want to hear her Christian name from his lips. It would be too intimate. Too dangerous.
“I'm sorry, sir. My name is
mine
.”
The look on his face was most gratifying. Singing to Marc up the staircase, she would save her investigation for another day.
 
The little brat.
He'd caught her red-handed pilfering through his things, and somehow she'd managed to make him feel in the wrong.
And she was perfectly right. Had he expected her to assume all the responsibility for Marc without any respite? Marc had several nursemaids at the villa, and of course there was a raft of other servants seeing to the duca and duchessa. Gull House was a far cry from the luxury the child had known. Its starkness was almost a welcome punishment to Andrew, but Miss Peartree certainly could not have expected such hardship. She'd never stay.
And that was what he wanted, wasn't it? One way or another, he would drive her off. He had to. She was a little brown tick burrowing under his skin, growing in importance every day. She was a danger to his resolve for all she was a blessing to his son. The longer she stayed, the more he and his son would come to depend upon her, and then it would be impossible to get rid of her.

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