Master of Sin

by Maggie Robinson

To punctuate her words, she contracted her muscles one last time. Andrew thought his head might explode.

  “I will tell you about my wicked past, only it’s not so awfully wicked. My stepbrother was the first. And only. His name was Franz.”

  One lover. If Gemma asked for a list from him, he would be unable to recall half of the men and women he’d serviced, having deliberately blocked them from memory. She had no reason to be embarrassed—it was he who had the wicked past. But he’d revealed enough tonight and would volunteer no more.

  Gemma relaxed on his lap, causing him one more slide of glory. His cock never wanted to leave her warmth, so he would lie and listen to her tale before he made her leave. Which he would. Had to.

  “When my mother married Herr Birnbaum, I fell in love with him at once. I was stupid. Fifteen.” She sighed. “Girls at fifteen should be locked up.”

  At fifteen, Andrew had fallen in love, too, or at least in lust. He and Nicky had carried on their clandestine relationship while they were at school and after, when Andrew went to live with him and Caro. That had been disaster for all three of them, ending in Nicky’s death.

  Would his usual tripartite nightmare come tonight after Gemma left his bed? He almost felt he deserved the torture.

  She was waiting for him to say something, so he did.

  “Did he force you?”

  She rose up suddenly and wrapped her shawl around herself to shield her body from his gaze. His cock missed the hot honey of her, but his mind was glad she was talking. Moving away. They could not do this again. Ever. He pulled the sheet up, matching her in modesty.

  She picked at a thread from her shawl, pulling until the fabric bunched. “Oh, no. I was quite willing. Insistent if you must know. You have just seen what happens when I make up my mind.” Her lips quirked. “I set my cap for him and hoped to become his bride. That’s where I got the name Peartree, you see. It’s my own little joke. Birnbaum means Peartree in German, not that I want to be married to Franz now. Heaven’s no, not at all. But the name seemed nice and conventional and suitable for my new life as a governess.”

  She lay back down beside him, still worrying the fraying thread of her shawl. “Anyway, after our parents found out—which they did with almost instant alacrity because we were horribly, foolishly indiscreet—Herr Birnbaum sent me to school back in England. I begged to come home, but he wouldn’t let me, not even for Christmas. My stepfather had high hopes for his son, you see. It was one thing for him to marry my mother. No one knew what she was in Vienna, and he was so very proper and powerful he would have frozen anyone out had they ever criticized her for one second.

  “But I was not good enough to marry his precious Franz. The bastard daughter of an Italian courtesan? Unthinkable. So they kept me away.”

  Gemma, a courtesan’s daughter? By God, she was telling the truth earlier. He’d paid it no mind. The two of them, children of sin.

  The irony was not lost upon him. But he didn’t dare laugh after what she had just done to him. He’d never in his life been so mastered.

  He frowned. An expensive Italian courtesan was quite different from an Edinburgh streetwalker. He was still fathoms beneath her.

  Andrew ripped his self-pitying thoughts away. He pictured a skinny, lonely girl in Bath, spending holidays with the headmistress and spinster teachers. “How old was Franz when he took your maidenhead?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “But you were so much younger!” He was outraged for her. A decade at that age meant the difference between being a child and an adult. She’d made a choice, though. Andrew had not had the opportunity.

  Gemma leveled her gold-flecked eyes at him. “I was the daughter of a whore, Andrew. I knew what I was about. I’d watched my mother seduce even the hardest of hearts. Sometimes she had to, to keep a roof over our heads. Quite frankly, I believe Mamma was a little proud of me for the first time, although she would never admit it and jeopardize her new marriage. I was always a bit of a disappointment to her. She was so very beautiful.”

  He stilled her nervous hands. “As are you.”

  She shook his words away. “I am nothing like her, nothing at all.” Her hands trembled and he held them tighter. “My stepfather wanted me to stay at school, to teach. He offered Miss Meredith quite a bit of money to have her keep me, but I was not suited. I left a year ago when I turned twenty-one. Miss Meredith said she had no lessons left to teach me and didn’t dare turn me loose on the other pupils for fear I would corrupt them. I went back to Vienna, vowing to be good. But then our parents were killed in a carriage accident. Franz took me to bed again the night of their funeral. I thought we would marry.”

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “The usual sort of thing. I worshipped him like a panting puppy, but he just used me. He told me—he told me a few months ago he’d never really cared for me, but I was handy at fifteen and handy now. I wasted years of my life pining for him.” She tugged her hands away and knotted the shawl. “He’s engaged to someone now, a perfect little blonde fraulein from a good family with a big dowry. I couldn’t hang around waiting for the wedding, so I sold some of my mother’s jewelry and went to London. To see my real father.”

  “Who is he?”

  She bit a lip. “The Earl of Barrowdown.”

  The same name of her previous employer? Before he could question her, she hurried on. “My mother was his mistress for many years, but when she became pregnant, he suddenly found his moral compass and threw her out. He has a wife and real children and has never claimed me. Needless to say, he was not at all sympathetic to my situation when I told him what Franz had done. Like mother, like daughter, he said. Told me it was a pity I didn’t share her looks because it would be hard going for me as a whore.”

  Her bottom lashes were tipped with tears, but her stubborn jaw was set. “So I forged his reference. Said I was governess to his grandchildren—he’s quite old now, you know. Miss Meredith helped me, bless her. Lord Christie was very impressed.”

  If Andrew was ever in Vienna, he’d make a special visit to Franz Birnbaum to knock out a few teeth. The Earl of Barrowdown would be next.

  “You little liar.” Andrew swept his thumb across her cheekbone. She leaned into his palm and shut her eyes.

  “It takes one to know one.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be honest. But you—I don’t even know your name, except it’s not Miss Peartree.”

  “Gemma Anna Bassano.”

  “And yet you are so very English. How did you manage it?”

  “I grew up in London, remember? My mother found other men to keep her after I was born and made sure she was never caught with child again. We even lived on Jane Street for a time. You’ve heard of it?”

  Andrew nodded but said nothing. He knew it well. Jane Street was the most notorious street in London, where only the most exclusive mistresses were kept. Gemma’s mother must have been very accomplished, but he doubted she was anywhere near as perfect as her daughter.

  “We traveled, too, when Napoleon was not at our heels. My mother met Herr Birnbaum at a spa in the Tyrol. Good hunting ground, she said, and she was right. Even after he discovered her past, he was smitten. My mother was—oh, I can’t even describe her. Full of life and joy. Short like I am, but her figure was superb, even at forty. Every man fell in love with her. Herr Birnbaum didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Franz must have been jealous.”

  “Yes, he was. Franz was his father’s golden boy. Literally. He was tall and blond and the center of his father’s universe until my mother came into the picture. He resented her, and he didn’t even know about her background, though I think he suspected. Even if I had not been determined to sleep with him, he would have found a way on his own. To get some sort of revenge despoiling the virgin daughter of his unwanted stepmother. I wanted so very much to be despoiled, though,” she said, wistful.

  “It was just sex. It meant nothing,” Andrew said. He’d told himself that tale for
decades.

  She looked up at him. “I know that now. I know what it means to lo—to care about someone.”

  Love? She didn’t mean it. Couldn’t. But she was nestled in his arms, her hair a satin fall of burnt umber and gold, her slender body pressed against his, her lips bruised from kisses and truth.

  She felt too perfect in his bed. He had to get rid of her.

  “Did you hear me, Andrew? I almost just said I love you. Please say something back, even if it’s to tell me you’re putting me on the next boat.”

  He pulled away. “I’m putting you on the next boat. I cannot love anybody, Gemma. I’m not made that way.”

  “Nonsense. You love Marc. You saved his life.”

  “That’s different! And some might say I’m depriving him of his heritage. He could be a duke.” He ran a hand through his hair, desperate now to get her off the bed and out of the room. Out of his life.

  She smoothed his hair down. “Your curls are growing in. What a curse you have—such male beauty. You probably think I lo—care about you only because of your appearance.”

  She was “almost” saying it again. For most of his life, Andrew had been an attractive, charming chameleon, adapting to whatever role was required. Surely he could become someone unattractive, uncharming. A lizard of the first order. He slipped on the mask. “You don’t love me, Gemma. We’ve just been stuck here. Trapped, with no one to talk to and nowhere to go. You’re bored, just like I am. It’s only natural that this nonsense has happened between us.”

  “Define ‘this nonsense.’ ”

  “The fucking,” Andrew said brutally. “It’s been a long time without for a man like me. I could have fucked Mrs. MacLaren as she bent over to sweep the hearth just as well. As your stepbrother said, you were handy.”

  “Don’t do this, Andrew,” she whispered.

  “Gemma, Gemma. I told you before I fucked you who I was. You went into this with your eyes wide open. And your mouth. And your cunt.” What else could he say to drive her away so he wouldn’t have to see the shock and pity on her face? “I do want you on the next boat, Gemma. I’ll write you a reference, though. Maybe your next employer will think you’re a good fuck. I’ve had better.”

  She looked at him. Scornful, not hurt. She wasn’t running from the room or cursing at him for his cruelty. “Now who is the liar? You won’t get rid of me so easily, Andrew. You don’t fool me for a minute.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She stood up, regal in her shawl. “You need me. Your son needs me.”

  “I’ll get somebody else for Marc. I’ve always planned to.”

  “I won’t go. I told you that weeks ago, and now I’m even more sure.”

  “Why? Because I made you come? That’s what I do, Gemma. I make everybody come. It was just sex. It meant absolutely nothing.”

  “We’ll see. Pleasant dreams, Andrew. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Before he could argue, she shut the door behind her. Bloody hell. What was wrong with the girl? He’d been a perfect prick. Insolent. Contemptuous. He’d taken her and then thrown her away. She didn’t seem to know it.

  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 come—as he said, that’s what he did. But he had nothing else to give her.

  CHAPTER 16

  For 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 silent—Andrew 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—if anything, she’d held him in dislike at first. But now—

  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 ‘my 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.”

  “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.