Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

going to shock the woman again wrapped in a bedsheet.

CHAPTER 4
    A ndrew met the pony cart on the track coming back from the village. His son was seated on Mrs. MacLaren’s generous lap, swathed in a thick sweater, cap, and mittens, which must have belonged to one of her grandchildren. His cheeks were rosy and he was laughing until he caught sight of his father. Instinctively he shrank into Mrs. MacLaren’s bosom, earning Andrew a look of concern from his housekeeper.
    He remembered what Miss Peartree said. If children and animals liked you, it meant something to Mrs. MacLaren. Perhaps he’d have to get a dog to convince the woman he was not a devil, although in his heart he knew he was. His own child was afraid of him. Marc probably felt Andrew was responsible for robbing him of every known thing in his world, including his name. There was no way to explain the truth to him now, or perhaps ever. How could he tell the child he was a bastard, conceived in triangular sin to hold on to ducal consequence? That his parents were dead because of him? Andrew was an expert liar—any lie he told the boy would be preferable to the truth. By the time Marc was old enough, perhaps he’d have a story fashioned that would be palatable.
    He gave a falsely good-natured smile to the little group. “Good morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?” He gestured to the sun, which showed no sign of hiding behind a snow-filled cloud just yet. The MacLarens nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the pile behind them. Clothes for Miss Peartree, Andrew guessed, too late to do him any good. Her naked image was burned upon his eyelids. “I’m just going for a walk. Carry on.”
    The island wasn’t more than a few miles long and wide, and a third of it was his. He took a breath of bracing sea air and watched the birds careen above his head. There must be thousands of them out here. Traces of them were everywhere, from their droppings to the nests tucked into rock and tall grass. He didn’t know one gull from another, but the previous owner of Gull House certainly had. Perhaps the next time it was fair enough to venture outside Andrew would take the man’s journals with him. He needed to do something to turn his mind from the captivating Miss Peartree, although bird-watching might not be sufficiently engaging.
    One night in his new home and he was ready to jump from the rather jagged cliffs on either side of him. Perhaps when his arm was better, he’d teach himself to rappel down them, hunt for eggs himself. He was hungry enough to eat a raw egg right now.
    He headed down the sloping track until the village was in sight and peat smoke perfumed the air. The turf-roofed stone houses clustered close together as though they were cold themselves, facing a sheltered cove. He could see quite a few bundled-up people taking advantage of the sunny day in their dooryards, spinning, mending nets, gossiping. Very likely gossiping about him , talking about his arrival. A humble sign swung in the wind over what appeared to be a tiny store.
    Suddenly, Andrew didn’t want to bear their scrutiny. He took an abrupt turn on a footpath that wound along the eastern ridge. The waves thundered and crashed on the beach below, birds wheeled and squawked in the sky. For a place in the middle of nowhere, the noise was deafening, louder to Andrew than London ever was.
    But yet, there was nothing whatsoever to do.
    Andrew was afraid he’d made a grave mistake asking Edward Christie to secure him property here. It wasn’t as if he missed human contact—he’d had quite enough of that, ever dissembling, fawning, flattering to line his pockets. If he never again had to pay a compliment to a portly viscount or an aging dowager, never had to position himself between an unhappy husband and wife, that would be fine. He’d whored long enough.
    But how was he to occupy himself here? It wasn’t as if he had an estate to