Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson Page B

as he did, watching for Viking longboats. The Norsemen had raided, then settled, these islands for centuries, and the glint of gold and red in some of the villagers’ hair was proof that their blood lived on.
    Andrew had no idea who his father was. He fantasized it was some rich toff who spent at least fifteen minutes with his pretty mother, but he could as easily be the product of a back-alley coupling with a fishmonger with a few coins. He thought the former was more likely from the few words his mother let slip when she was into the gin. Her beauty was such that she had been very successful for a while, until illness stripped the flesh from her bones and taking care of a seven-year-old boy had proved to be too much.
    Ah well. Life was full of crooked turns, and Andrew had taken most of them. Here he was at the edge of his land, buffeted by high winds, a straight shot across the Atlantic to the New World. Should Gull House’s amenities pale, he could always start fresh with Marc there. In Boston or Charleston or some such city. He was less familiar with America than he was with the drawing rooms of the ton, but the naïve democracy of the United States might be perfect for him, the bastard-born son of a Scottish whore and his bastard-born son of an Italian duchess. It was something to think about.
    If he went, would Miss Persnickety Peartree accompany him? Would he hold her over the railing, catching her gilt and umber hair as she puked? No, likely he’d be doing that with Marc, who was a very poor seaman indeed. The thought of more weeks on the water with the child brought forth a shudder that had nothing to do with the sluice of icy rain dripping down his neck.
    For good or worse, this was his home now.
    He turned into the wind, unraveling his unusual head gear. Catching it in the nick of time before it blew to Ireland, Andrew tromped along the cliff path, minding the slippery grass. One wrong step and he’d pitch below to the beach. While the sand was brilliantly white, he doubted it would be like landing on a cloud.
    He’d have to speak to Miss Peartree about being cautious with Marc out-of-doors. One day the sun might shine again and the child would want to chase his own ball or a butterfly or a swooping bird. It might behoove Andrew to fence off a portion of the property for a play yard for the little boy so he couldn’t escape from supervision on his short chubby legs. Add wood to the growing list—the island was virtually treeless.
    That would be a project for the spring, however. Soon the ground would be too frozen to pound posts into. By spring, Andrew hoped to have more use of his arm so he could do the pounding himself. It would give him something to do besides lust after Miss Peartree.
    No, by spring she’d be gone. Marc would be speaking English and her particular skills would be unnecessary. Andrew would pension her off with a generous stipend.
    Or so he hoped. A lot could go wrong in a few months. Hell, there were still days to go before the two-week trial was up. Anything could happen.
    But one thing he knew for sure—Miss Peartree would not be joining him in his bed, no matter how much he craved her brown, scrawny little self.

CHAPTER 7
    S lick with sweat in his freezing room, Andrew forced himself to wake up. He didn’t need to see the images again, didn’t need to hear Caro cry.
    The dreams usually came in threes, the same three. One inexorably after the other, even though he fought against them in his sleeping mind. What was the adage? Bad luck comes in threes. In his opinion, his share was a bit more than three, but at least his dark nights were limited to those three turning points in his life.
    First to appear in the Elizabethan shadow of Reverend Raybourne’s School for Boys was Nicky Parker, always young and laughing, always randy. His schoolboy lover who had nearly washed away the staining years of Andrew’s guardian Donal. But he and Nicky had