Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson

course. It would help socialize him, too.”
    â€œThe boy is not even three years old. Surely he’s too young for school.”
    â€œOf course. I’m not talking about giving Marc a slate and expecting him to write his numbers. But there is much he could do with two or three little ones like himself.”
    Andrew looked at his son, who was placing a glob of egg on his spoon to carry to his mouth. The egg slipped between his fingers, and with determination Marc picked up the egg and tried again. Quite a bit of his breakfast seemed to be on him rather than in him.
    â€œIsn’t Marc enough for you to handle, Miss Peartree?”
    â€œI’m sure I could manage a few more children for an hour or so a day, sir. For that matter, I would love to start a little school for the older children. Once I pass my trial, of course. When you hire a village girl to assist me. If you employed more people from the settlement and founded a school, you will increase your consequence here. It would behoove you to look after your people.”
    His people! As though he was a feudal lord. The MacEwan owned the rest of the island, absent landlord that he was. The idea that Andrew had an obligation to anybody was ludicrous.
    â€œI did not employ you to teach the world, Miss Peartree, just one small boy. Cecily. Sarah.”
    Miss Peartree frowned at him, all traces of good humor gone. “What I am proposing would be of benefit to us all. You’d engender the goodwill of the islanders, Marc would have playmates, and the local children would have advantages. I’m perfectly capable of tending to Marc and instructing the others for an hour or two.”
    â€œI cannot agree. Unless, perhaps—” He broke off, watching the hope return to her piquant face. “If you tell me your name, I might consider your idea.”
    Miss Peartree crumpled her napkin and pulled Marc from his high chair. “I, too, cannot agree. There is no need for an employer to know anything so personal about his employee.”
    â€œGood lord. It’s only a name. You know mine. What if I had to write you a bank draft instead of pay you in coin? Is your name so awful you’re ashamed of it? Griselda, perhaps? Horatia? Clytemnestra?”
    â€œGood morning to you, Mr. Ross,” she said, clutching a sticky Marc to her chest. “If you have need of us, we will be in the nursery.”
    She stomped off, or stomped off as loudly as someone her slight size could muster. She was just a little slip of a thing, and it was outrageous to Andrew that she could have provoked him so completely. He saw her glistening wet body rising from the bathtub in his mind’s eye at the most inconvenient times, with the resultant effect.
    She needed to go. There would be no school or houseful of children here for his son. He’d find some old battle-ax to care for Marc and keep him to the straight-and-narrow path he’d chosen in his newest incarnation. It was a jest of the vastest proportions that his lust had been so piqued by a girl who looked enough like a boy to pass for one, barring her magnificent fall of caramel hair. Andrew dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter and pushed himself away from the table.
    How would he spend his day? It was storming again, storming always, it seemed. The ocean beyond the grassy point was gray-green and furious, the rain pelting against the wavy glass. His arm ached like the devil with the damp, but that was no excuse for him to skip his exercises. If he didn’t do what his Parisian doctor ordered, his limb would atrophy—just as his brain was becoming stunted by the lack of stimulation here. He’d been in residence just a few days and already was regretting it.
    But where else could he go to keep Marc safe? London was out of the question for so many reasons. People knew him there, knew his past and proclivities. His son would never have a fair chance, and Andrew feared the city’s