Authors: Maggie Robinson
Master of Sin (17 page)
He'd have to be resolute. Now that he'd scratched this itch, he needed no more of Gemma Anna Bassano. He knew what it felt like to be embedded in her heated slit, knew how sweet her mouth tasted, touched her velvet skin, inhaled her lemon verbena fragrance. Watched her as she came apart over him again and again, her face lit with fierce joy. He may have been able to make her comeâas he said, that's what he did. But he had nothing else to give her.
CHAPTER 16
F
or a rejected mistress, Gemma spent a peaceful night, dropping off to sleep almost the instant her head touched the pillow. She was not going to take Andrew's words to heart, for she knew he didn't mean them. And she would need all her wits about her in the morning when the battle began again.
or a rejected mistress, Gemma spent a peaceful night, dropping off to sleep almost the instant her head touched the pillow. She was not going to take Andrew's words to heart, for she knew he didn't mean them. And she would need all her wits about her in the morning when the battle began again.
Without Marc to wake for, Gemma slept much later than usual. It wasn't until the front door slammed that she came to abrupt consciousness in the cold room. The day was not bright, but the snow had stopped falling. She stretched, still naked beneath her blankets, and evaluated her circumstances. There was no headache to remind her she'd had too much punch. Her body was pleasantly sore from lovemaking and dancing. Her unbraided hair was a dreadful tangle, but she'd soon remedy that if she got the courage to get out of bed. How pleasant it would be if there were a maid to light the fire and bring her a cup of chocolate and the gossip pages, but she would have to fend for herself.
Wrapping up in a worn woolen robe, Gemma stirred up the coals and coaxed the fire along. The house was dead silentâAndrew must have been the door-slammer. Perhaps he'd gone to the village to fetch Marc or, worse, arrange for her to sail on the ferry. She couldn't possibly leave today. She'd only just unpacked.
Her hair required a good ten minutes of attention. Then Gemma dressed in one of her proper gray governess gowns with a starched white collar and cuffs, forgoing the prim little cap that went with it. As tempting as it would be to wear something more fetching for Andrew, she had decided to set the tone. By day, she would be Marc's teacher and companion. But the nights would belong to Andrew.
Whether he wanted her or not.
Oh, he wanted her. There was no escaping the hunger in his pale blue eyes. But he didn't think he deserved her, foolish man.
Overcoming his past would be a formidable challenge, one that Gemma was not sure she was equal to. She needed her mother's sensible advice even more than her scandalous nightgown.
The kitchen was empty, the hearth dark. Gemma lit the stove and boiled water for her tea. She was too nervous to swallow more than a mouthful of toast, wondering what Andrew would say to her when he came back. Wondering what she would say to him. She had visions of him carrying her down to the dock, perhaps even locking her in her trunk with express instructions to let her out only when the ship was miles out to sea.
But surely the ferry had left by now. The crew might not be in the finest fettle after the late night, but they had a schedule to keep. They would return in two weeks, just after the new year. Gemma had fourteen days to convince Andrew that she should stay.
Last night she was ready to settle for one night. Now she knew one night was not enough.
Andrew Rossiter was a man who had done everything with everybody. Gemma was not vain enough to think she could truly turn his head by the usual female tricks. She had neither pulchritude nor fortune, great beauty nor great intellect. What she had was determination, a stubborn pride, and a past of her own. She had thrown her virginity away. Andrew's was taken when he was a small child. How dreadful to grow up with such a “benefactor.” How hopeless his life must have seemed. It was no wonder he'd floated in polluted waters like so much jetsam until he'd washed ashore on Batter Island.
Into her arms.
Into her heart.
Was she silly to believe herself in love? She'd known the man barely more than a month. It had not been a
coup de foudre
âif anything, she'd held him in dislike at first. But nowâ
coup de foudre
âif anything, she'd held him in dislike at first. But nowâ
Now she liked him very much indeed.
A sharp knock at the front door interrupted her reflections. It was not like the MacLarens to come in that way, and in any event they had a spare key. Gemma brushed down her gray skirts and hastened down the hallway.
It was the MacEwan himself filling all the space in the doorway, kitted out in a fresh plaid and jaunty cap, which he held down with one hand against the wind. “Good morning, lass. I saw your man down in the village and thought to sneak up here and have a word with you.”
“He's not âmy man,' ” Gemma said again. Unfortunately, despite last night, that was still true. “Come in.”
“With the greatest of pleasure. I forget just how bad the weather is out here.” He removed his cap and gloves, stamping his boots on the hall rug. “At least it's not snowing anymore.” Gemma wondered if his legs were cold in spite of the thick cable-knit stockings that came to his knees. He followed her into the icy parlor, saw the lack of a fire, and immediately set to building one.
“You don't live on the islands?” Gemma asked, watching him work efficiently. He seemed the sort of man who could kill and cook dinner without blinking an eye, but she was reluctant to welcome him into the warm kitchen. He was the laird, after all.
“Nay. My people did, o'course, years ago, but we had the sense to move to the mainland in my grandfather's day.” MacEwan stood back to admire the flames, rubbing his hands. “He built this cottage for a Sassenach friend. Keen on birds, he was. When he passed, my father had trouble keeping tenants. The house is too fancy for the islanders and not fancy enough for a gentleman. Except for your man.”
“He's
not
my man.”
not
my man.”
“So you keep saying, but I've eyes in my head now, don't I? However, I think I stopped the tongues from wagging too badly. The villagers think you both had a wee too much to drink and lost your heads for a minute under the mistletoe. Just too much Christmas spirits as it were. Mrs. MacLaren seems to think the world of Ross. I don't see it myself, but no matter.”
“What does she say about me?”
“Oh, she tolerates you for what you're doing with the boy. Says you both started off on the wrong foot but that perhaps she was mistaken in what she thought she saw. And what was that anyhow? She wouldn't say.” He lifted a red brow.
Gemma's skin burned with embarrassment. Thank goodness the woman had not revealed the shameful truth to anyone. “As she said, we had a misunderstanding when I first arrived on the island. We get on well enough now. Did she say when they were bringing Marc home?”
“Aye, that's one of the reasons I'm here. Her grandchildren from away have taken a great fancy to him. They'd like to keep him another night.”
Another night alone with Andrew. It seemed too good to be true. “Mr. Ross will have to give his permission.”
“I left her with him drawing those pictures, so I knew he wasn't lurking about.”
“He lives here!” Gemma protested.
“ 'Tis a mystery why the fellow chose to settle here when he has no Gaelic. Says he's a Scotsman, but he talks like the bloody king,” MacEwan said with disgust.
“I believe he's spent most of his adult life in England. And traveled, of course.” To Italy, where he was paid to father a child. She firmly pushed the thought out of her mind.
MacEwan settled his bulk on a fading chair near the fire and looked around the room. “Hasn't done much with the place, has he? Doesn't he have the blunt?”
“Mr. Ross has written to his friend. With a list of things to purchase for the cottage. And my school,” she said brightly, trying to steer the conversation to safer territory. “Did you explain the idea to your people?”
“Aye. You'll have better luck getting the girls to come, I think. But I'll drop a few more words before I leave.”
“Thank you. You must want to spend Christmas with your family.”
“I would if I had one. My men are a poor substitute. I don't suppose,” he said with a devilish grin, “you'd like the job of Lady MacEwan?”
Gemma swallowed hard. “You are not serious, my lord.”
“Who says I am not? You're a taking little thing, although I liked last night's dress much better.”
“Butâbut Iâ”
“Dinna fash yourself, Miss Peartree. I see where your interests lie. I'll not be playing second fiddle to your employer, though he should make an honest woman out of you if you live alone in this house together.”
It was inconceivable that Lord MacEwan knew what had transpired last night, yet somehow Gemma was certain he had guessed. Did she look different this morning? More womanly? Well-pleasured? She crossed her arms over her chest, locking her hands around her elbows and put on Miss Meredith's sternest expression.
“I assure you, sir, that there is absolutely nothing untoward going on in this house. My first and only priority is Marc. I am a v-virtuous woman.”
The MacEwan threw back his head and laughed. It was on this note that Andrew entered the house, slamming the door once again. He paused at the threshold, taking in the MacEwan sitting comfortably on the tatty chair and Gemma looking daggers at him.
“What's all this?”
“N-nothing, Mr. Ross. Lord MacEwan came by to discuss the school plans.”
Andrew frowned. “The school.”
“Aye. The school. I told your little governess that I've spoken to the islanders. She tells me you made a list of supplies for it. Did you get it to the ferrymen this morning before the boat went off?”
Andrew's gaze dropped to the floor. “I gave it to someone yesterday. The boat was gone by the time I got to the landing today,” he muttered.
Clearly, he was unhappy about that, but Gemma experienced a jump of joy. He couldn't get rid of her quite yet. Unlessâ
“MacEwan, would you consider taking a passenger back with you when you leave?”
“As long as you know I've one more stop to make before we head home. What's your business on the mainland, Mr. Ross?”
“It is not I we're talking about. Miss Peartree has decided her position does not suit.”
“I have not!” countered Gemma. She was not going to let him force the issue in front of MacEwan and meekly submit to his edict.
“There seems to be some difference of opinion,” MacEwan said, stretching his long legs out before him. “Perhaps I can act as judge. As laird, I'm often called to settle disputes between tenants on my land.”
“You forget you sold me this property, MacEwan. I'm not your tenant.”
“Och. The legalities. Perhaps I can act as a friend, then.” He winked at Gemma. “What becomes of the school then if Miss Peartree leaves?”
“I don't give a damn about the school. Miss Peartree, I'd like to speak to you. Alone,” Andrew said pointedly.
Gemma looked from one man to the other. MacEwan was enjoying this contretemps far too much. Andrew looked ready to throttle someone.
“Go on then,” MacEwan said expansively, relaxing in his chair. “I'll just wait for the verdict. But you should know we leave this evening. Time and tide tarry on for no man. Or woman.”
Gemma followed Andrew down the hall to the kitchen. Her fire was crackling merrily, but she was cold nonetheless. “You cannot send me away!” she burst out.
“I told you I would.” His voice was level. Calm. Dispassionate, and Gemma wanted to take her fists to him. Or kiss him. She wasn't sure which.
“I'll go, but not today. IâI can't. I feel most unwell.”
Andrew's concern showed for a moment, but then his mask slipped back on. “No doubt it's the fault of all the punch you drank. You'll be fine.”
“I can't leave Marc. Not like this.”
“This is exactly the best time to go. He's with the MacLarens and won't be disturbed by your packing. I'll give you plenty of money, Gemma. You needn't worry about starving. More than enough to tide you over until you find another situation.”
He sounded resolute. Gemma was desperate.
“You can't send me away with Stephen MacEwan. He asked me to marry him. I said no, but I don't trust him an inch. He'llâhe'll take advantage of me. I know it. He's a brute.”
“Did he touch you?” Andrew snarled.
“Yes.”
But not today
.
But not today
.
“I knew it! School be damned. The bastard!”
Blood would not improve the parlor's décor. Gemma did not want to be the cause of any, fearing it would be Andrew's that would be spilled, brawling with a man who was taller, heavier, and had the full use of both his arms. She touched his elbow. “Don't confront him. I promise you I will leave on the next ferry in two weeks' time. That will give me time to pack and plan, and for you to arrange for a woman from the village to care for Marc. Surely you can put up with me for two weeks. It's almost Christmas. You can't turn me out at Christmas. I have nowhere to go.” She fluttered her lashes, making it look as though she was blinking back tears. If he sent her away, she would cry for real.
Andrew hesitated. She was playing on his sympathy, being such an object of pity. Soon she would do everything in her power to make herself irresistible. But today, she sniffed loudly and wiped away a nonexistent tear. Francesca Bassano would have been proud.
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