Authors: Maggie Robinson
Master of Sin (26 page)
“That was well done. But there will be no kissing,” Gemma said, her voice not entirely firm.
Progress.
Progress.
“As your suitor, I would expect
some
token of affection. Perhaps you'll let me kiss your hand.”
some
token of affection. Perhaps you'll let me kiss your hand.”
Gemma stared down as he took her hand in his and turned it palm up. He traced the lines with an edge of fingernail. “Hm, what do I see here? A very long life. A handsome gentleman. A trip over water.”
Gemma snatched her hand back. “You can't read palms!”
“How do you know what I can do? As you said, we barely know each other. Give it back.”
When she made no move to do so, he took her fist gently from the table and pressed a kiss on each knuckle. Her hand trembled at each point of contact.
“Now then.” He uncurled her fingers and touched her palm with his forefinger. “This is your lifeline. It's very long, deep and unbroken. No illnesses to speak of. No tragedies. You will live to bedevil me until you are an ancient crone.”
“That sounds like a fate worse than death for you.”
“Not at all. It's a vast improvement on what I expected early in life.”
“Did you ever have your palm read?”
Andrew laughed. “I did. And then I learned how myself. I told you, I lived with a brother and sister in their family home in the wilds of Cumbria. A ramshackle place, but we fixed it up as best we could. Then we ran a sort of hotel, providing amusement for members of the ton with too much money and too few morals. We hired a fortune-teller once for the entertainment of our guests, and I persuaded her to teach me her tricks.”
“I can only imagine your method of âpersuasion,' ” Gemma said, sniffing.
“There you would be wrong. She was an ancient crone herself. It's rather obligatory in her line of business, you know. But she took one look at my palm and took pity on me. Apparently a palm reader can read the past as well as the future. She told me I'd need all the skills I could acquire to get ahead, and then proceeded to instruct me on fate lines and the Mount of Venus. You'd be amazed how many earls and countesses want a simple answer to their problems, and a few readings of their palms brought me closer to amassing my own fortune.”
“You told them what they wanted to hear.”
“Of course, just as I am acting the love-struck beau as you requested. I always do what is expected of me to further my ambition.”
Judging from her gasp, he'd gone too far. He didn't mind exerting his charm, but having to force it was unexpectedly irritating.
“I don't want you to lie to me!”
“What is courtship then, if not a shiny false face presented to lull the object of desire into submission? I want you, Gemma. That should be enough without me jumping through hoops. I'm tired of life on the stage. I'd like to be myself. Whoever that is, with whatever faults I have. And there are many, as you know.”
Gemma worried a lip with two small white teeth. “I see I was wrong in what I asked of you. I'm sorry, Andrew.”
“Then you'll marry me?”
To his disappointment, she shook her head. “I don't want a shiny false face. I simply want us to get to know each other better. You can dispense with poetry. But a palm kiss would be quite lovely.”
“I won't want to stop there.”
Gemma eyed Marc, who was occupying himself by building blocks up and then knocking them down. “I probably won't want you to.” She sighed. “But we owe it to ourselves not to make any more mistakes. I want to know that you don't see me as just some port in the storm, Andrew. I'm afraid you convinced me altogether too thoroughly that what's been between us is just a convenient dalliance. I'm finding your turnabout a little perplexing.”
Andrew found it perplexing himself. But he didn't want to deal with rational thought now while Gemma sat in her chair looking up at him with hope in her eyes. Instead he brought her palm to his mouth, expelling a breath of air on its surface. Then his tongue drew a slow circle on the center of her hand, his lips pressing down, his fingers kneading hers. She tasted of honey and soap. He replaced his mouth with his finger and swirled over the spot where he'd kissed her, following the lines etched into her little brown hand. “I see palm trees,” he said gruffly.
“You do not.”
“I'd like to. When Marc takes his nap, come into the library. I can show you some maps.”
“Oh, all right. I might learn something. You know how I value education.”
He did. And there was so much he wanted to teach her.
CHAPTER 25
T
he wintry days were busy. Poor Gemma was up to her gilt-tipped eyelashes in one domestic chore after another, cementing her grudging respect for Mrs. MacLaren. Her hands were rough, her back was bent, her nose was red from sneezing through the dust. She still looked adorable to him.
he wintry days were busy. Poor Gemma was up to her gilt-tipped eyelashes in one domestic chore after another, cementing her grudging respect for Mrs. MacLaren. Her hands were rough, her back was bent, her nose was red from sneezing through the dust. She still looked adorable to him.
The kitchen was the one place she was spared from tending toâtrue to his word, Andrew was wooing her with food. When Mary was finally well enough to return, he commandeered her away from the nursery a few hours a day and made her his assistant, slicing and dicing. Gemma seemed to enjoy glimpses of him as she bustled about. She was not put off by his rolled-up sleeves or the sheen of perspiration on his throat as he patiently explained things to Mary as if she could understand him. And actually, the girl was beginning to.
Mary was Gemma's first island success. As she expanded Marc's vocabulary, she always involved Mary. The little maid was even picking up Italian. Gemma said she thought it all boded well for any school she might start.
If they stayed.
He had not won her over to his tropical island retreat as yet. But any school she dreamed of would have to wait. Just the day-to-day living was proving to be a challenge. Gemma was far too immersed keeping Gull House clean and caring for Marc to have time to worry about anybody else. Including, unfortunately, him. He was still kept at broomstick's length from her, and he was growing impatient.
They had fallen into a routine at the end of the day, once Marc was in bed. It was their courting time, but utterly devoid of romance no matter how high Andrew turned up his charm. Instead they sat together before the fire in his cozy library talking of mundane things, often with geography books in their laps. Gemma was sometimes so exhausted she fell asleep sitting up in the worn wing chair in the middle of one of his sentences, like tonight. The girl knew how to deflate one's sense of consequence.
It was toward the end of January, a night of inky darkness inside as well out. The supply of candles and lamp oil was running a little low, and Andrew had not wanted to be wasteful. A single candle flickered at his elbow, casting the room into smoky shadow. Fierce storms had prevented the boat from returning since it ferried Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren to the mainland, a usual winter occurrence according to Mary. It might be another month or more before the regular trips resumed.
He had been spoiled from the age of seven on by having some measure of comfortâthere had been no worry about candles or coal in Donal Stewart's opulent house. For years Andrew had convinced himself the trade-off of being warm and fed was worth what happened beneath the covers every night. Even as a child, he'd been supremely practical. The son of a whore had to be.
So he understood Gemma's reluctance to settle for second-best, to be the practical choice, the port in the storm as she called it. And in truth, there was nothing much practical about her. She couldn't cook, was opinionated, bossy and, although every inch of her drove him to distraction, she was not a great beauty. She'd disappear in a drawing room full of feathered plumes and silks, jewels, and décolletage. Nevertheless, he was determined to marry her and take her away from this frozen wasteland as soon as the weather improved or she woke up, whichever came first. If he could, he'd snap his fingers and transport them instantly across the ocean.
He thought of nudging her, to watch her wide brown eyes blink in confusion like a sleepy fawn as she emerged from her exhaustion. Instead, he gently took the book from her lap and set it face down on his desk. He had carried her beforeâshe weighed so little it was barely a strain to his bad arm. He slipped a hand around her waist and gathered her up against his chest. She gave a little huff and buried her face in his shirt, making no protest as he blew out the candle and headed down the hall.
She was warm and soft and smelled of lemons. When he got her to civilization, he'd make sure she always had as many bottles of scent as she needed. No expense would be spared to get a dressmaker to design clothes to set off her petite figure to advantage, to buy as many gothic novels as she wanted, to make her feel secure and treasured. Thorny though she might be, Gemma was his rose, and he took another breath of her hair as he carried her up the stairs.
Why deposit her on her own bed when she would awaken to a chilly room? Far better for her to remain tucked into him to share his bed tonight. His fire was dependably roaring, his mattress big enough. He would simply loosen her laces and take off her slippers, spread her scented hair across his pillow, and listen to his heart pulse with desire as she lay beside him. Andrew was almost sure he could control the urge to skim her skin with a fingertip, trace the line of her pointed little chin down the column of her neck to her sharp collarbone. He would certainly not push past the fabric of her bodice and palm a perfect swell of breast, her cocoa nipple jeweled against his hand. He would not bend to part her lips and taste herâ
“Mmph!” Her fist flailed on his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I am kissing you, Gemma. It's long overdue. You can pretend to be asleep and let me.”
“You would make love to a corpse?”
“If the corpse was you. I've been good too long, Gemma. Night after night we sit together talking when all I want to do is fuck you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How flattering.”
“I mean it in the best possible way. Until I came here, I'd pretty much lost interest in sex.” He saw her look of disbelief and hurried on. “It's true. Oh, I could certainly perform, but I wasn't especially engaged. I've been told some women make shopping lists as their husbands pump over them. It was like that with me, as though I was a mindless machine, detached from the task at hand, thinking of something else entirely.”
To his dismay, Gemma rebuttoned her bodice. “What did you think about?”
He flopped back on the bed and tried unsuccessfully to kick off his boots. “It rather depended. When I was with a man, I'd often think of a woman I knew. With some women, I thought of men.” He felt his face flame making such a confession. “But when I'm with you, I think of you. Only you.”
“That's a relief,” she said dryly.
“It is. I think about you all the time, Gemma, even when you've got soot on your nose or a wet diaper in your hand. It's as if you've bewitched me.”
A corner of her lip quirked. “Ooh. Pretty sentiments if not pretty words. This is a very satisfactory conversation, even if you don't think much of the whole courting ritual.”
“I'm not courting you now!”
“I admit the bit with the wet diaper lacked delicacy. But you're speaking from the heart, and I like that.”
Andrew snorted. “I have no heart.”
She didn't argue but raised herself up on an elbow to look at him in the firelight. “If I let you make love to me tonightâ”
“Have sex,” Andrew corrected.
“Again, a failure of delicacy. If we have
carnal relations
, I don't want you to think I'll succumb to every pretty word you say and fall into your arms with regularity. We are still getting to know each other, and I need to preserve some semblance of propriety.”
carnal relations
, I don't want you to think I'll succumb to every pretty word you say and fall into your arms with regularity. We are still getting to know each other, and I need to preserve some semblance of propriety.”
“Not an inch of you is proper, Gemma. You are the most vexing, the most maddening, improper female I've ever met.”
“Good.” She sighed happily. “You may ravish me.”
“I'm not sure I want to now.”
Gemma punched him. “Take off your clothes this instant! I might change my mind, too. Any minute.”
Andrew pulled his watch from his pocket. “One ... two ... three ...”
“Oh! You are insufferable! Never mind then. Who knows when I'll lose my head and let you take advantage of me again.” She tried to roll off the bed, but Andrew's arm shot out to hold her down. “Release me, you great brute. I'll scream.”
“You'd wake Marc, and you wouldn't want to do that.” Andrew knew he had her there. She was much too conscientious when it came to his son.
“I won't enjoy myself,” she said stubbornly.
“Oh, I think you will. I know
I
will. This is all I've dreamed about for weeks.”
I
will. This is all I've dreamed about for weeks.”
“What do you mean by âthis'?” she asked, her voice faint.
“This,”
he said, nipping an earlobe. “And
this
.” He took advantage of her blink and kissed an eyelid, feeling her lashes tickle his chin. “Touch me, Gemma. I've never been harder for anyone.”
he said, nipping an earlobe. “And
this
.” He took advantage of her blink and kissed an eyelid, feeling her lashes tickle his chin. “Touch me, Gemma. I've never been harder for anyone.”
Her hand came between them to caress his rigid shaft.
“How is it that you can be so aroused when we've been arguing?”
“I'm hard all day for you, Gemma. I've just said. Devilish uncomfortable every waking hour. When I'm asleep, too.”
She looked at him, her expression sober as a nun's. “It can't last. The lust, I mean. You'll tire of me.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “No doubt. And you'll tire of me. Let's see how long it takes for us to tire of each other, shall we?”
She bit a lip. “This is not the time for honesty.”
“I won't lie to you, Gemma. I've lied too much all my life. There very well may come a day when I look at you over the breakfast table and wonder why such a scrawny little brown thing ever drove me to such madness as marriage. By then, though, you may be fat. And gray. Possibly toothless.” He kissed his way along her jaw and watched her pulse jump.
“You will be bald and have a paunch yourself,” she said, gasping as he lifted her skirts.
There simply wasn't time to undressâhe'd spill into his breeches unless he got inside her right this instant. Her little hand worked to unfasten his falls, and he sprang to freedom.
“I can't wait. Sorry.” He stroked her folds. Short, sharp spears of hair had grown back in since the time he had shaved her. He would tend to them again later so he could feast upon her without obstruction. His mouth watered at the thought, but right now his other end was desperate. He plunged in two fingers. She was as slick and wet as he was hard. “Arguing seems to be an aphrodisiac for us.” He balanced over her, looking down. Her eyes were open, assessing. “I'll make it up to you later. With more delicacy.”
“Do you hear me complaining?”
“Not yet.” He thrust into her, sliding back quickly, teasing. She clutched his rump and pushed him in again.
Tight.
Hot.
Heaven.
Their eyes locked as Andrew drove into her, twisting and pressing himself against her sheath, the distance between them disappearing into jagged bliss. He even relished the splintering pain in his arm as he held himself above her. He could watch her face this way, her sweet face, kissed by tiny dark beauty marks and golden freckles. Her lips were slightly parted, a damp curl spiraling on her cheek near the corner of her mouth. He kissed it away and then plundered, his tongue matching the stroke of his cock, deep, deliberate, slow. Her eyes flickered and shut, and a low moan trembled in her throat.
He held to this tortuous, fevered rhythm until her hips lifted and her heels dug frantically into the small of his back. Her capitulation was glorious. The scent of her sex filled his head, made him increase his pace and edge her over. She writhed helplessly beneath him, gasping into his mouth, her own hand thumbing her bud. She was shameless and perfect and tasted like sin.
No, not sin. To kiss her like this could not possibly be wrong. In fact, he felt closer to right than he ever had.
Too good. Too perfect. It was almost too much.
Breaking the kiss, he raised himself up again. Sweat poured from his body, causing him to regret his hastiness to get inside her. His linen shirt was stuck to his back, and Gemma was crushed by yards of tossed-up skirt. They should be naked, skin to skin. But he could still see the flush spread from her cheeks to her throat to the tops of her breasts beneath her buttoned dress. The rest of her was pink, too, including the exquisite muscles that clenched around him, forcing his pleasure. She still keened and shuddered under him, greedy and heedless, squeezing his cock until he had little choice in the matter but to spend endlessly inside her.
Her eyes opened, her focus pure. Though they glittered with tears, her smile cleaved his heart.
But he had no heart. He'd just said so.
This was simply passion. Gemma was good for him, and good for his son. He could manage to cobble together the qualities of a husband for the sake of his child. Gemma was inventive and attractive and intelligent. A fine companionâwhen she wasn't dressing him down or falling asleep on him.
He lay atop her, steadying his breathing, although if she kept twitching like that he would not be responsible for what came next.
“You did not even remove your boots,” she complained into his cravat.
“I told you I was in a bit of a hurry. Shall I get off you? We can do the whole thing in reverse until we're both undressed, and then we can begin again.”
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