Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson Page A

many temptations would wear down his resolve. If one skinny little virgin was driving him to madness, what would he do when faced with actual feminine pulchritude?
    He rather thought he could resist the gentlemen now. For so many years he’d not cared where or how he took his pleasure as long as there was some. He’d become endlessly inventive and intrepid in his search for the fleeting moment of passion. But he’d always been happier when involved in a ménage, a soft woman to blunt the rough edges of a male lover.
    It had been a revelation to discover that he was not totally Donal Stewart’s creature. While nothing had ever been forbidden in his life travels, there were some acts that were preferable. But he was done with all that, done for the sake of his son. He had a hand and a brain, and that would have to do.
    Andrew went into the library. All the books were on the shelves now, nothing from his collection of pornography, of course. He and Mr. MacLaren had finally hauled those up to the attics yesterday much to Miss Peartree’s satisfaction, where hopefully a platoon of mice wouldn’t munch on them. Andrew had spent a good bit of money buying the volumes and someday might sell them for a profit. At the time it had seemed money well spent, as anything to provoke his flagging interest in the sexual arts was welcome. He’d been half afraid then he was losing his touch, and therefore his financial independence.
    In his experience, sin had paid very well. There was a roof over his head and his belly was full. He’d made some lucky investments, which now enabled him to live this life of relative comfort. Oh, Gull House was not comfortable yet, but it was his, and in time he could make it a home.
    Andrew picked up the hard leather ball from the desk and set to squeezing. This activity was far more boring than sparring with a partner or riding or fencing, gentlemen’s pursuits he’d engaged in to blend into society and keep fit. He’d much rather be squeezing Miss Peartree’s sweet bum than the ball, and the pressure of his fingers changed when he imagined he was. It was not quite so onerous when his hands cupped creamy flesh rather than dry brown leather. If she were beneath him, he’d run his hands up her slender narrow back and lose them in her silken hair. Whisper sweet secrets in her ear as he took her from behind. Watch his shaft enter and exit with practiced grace. He knew just how to—
    But no. He didn’t think Miss Peartree would allow herself to be sweet-talked into anything. She’d probably be fighting him off like a little spitfire hedgehog, all claws and bristles.
    That could work, too. His hand picked up the pace with the ball, rolling it in his palm in a feverish pitch until his cock threatened to burst through his breeches. In another minute his smalls would be wet and he’d be the victim of a diurnal emission. The ball skittered across his desk, where it thumped to the floor.
    Good lord. What was happening to him?
    Weather be damned. He found his greatcoat hanging on a peg by the front door. Mrs. MacLaren or someone had tucked a faded plaid scarf into the collar, which he wrapped around his neck as best he could with one working hand. Razor-sharp rain hit the top of his bare head the moment he stepped out the door. He could, he supposed, tie the scarf around his head like an old village woman. He’d be a laughing stock if anyone saw him, but he wasn’t heading toward the settlement. If it caused a few goats’ amusement, so be it.
    Thus Andrew Rossiter, gigolo extraordinaire , toast of the Continent and the British Isles, roamed the cliffs of Batter Island wearing a plaid turban like an old blind dowager. How far he’d fallen. But if the price was keeping his son safe and whole, it was worth it.
    He headed to the ring of stones that were all that was left of his Iron Age fort. A thousand years ago, men must have stood here just