Master of Sin Read Online Free

unearthly howl.
    â€œWhat is that?” she asked, seeming more alarmed by the cry of a two-and-a-half-year-old than the menacing sinner before her.
    â€œMy son.”
    One of the men was bouncing Marc into the kitchen, trying in vain to stop the child’s hysterical tears. To wake in another strange place with even more strangers was the last straw for the poor little devil. Before Andrew could go to him, Miss Peartree ran across the floor.
    â€œBambino, cosa c’e di spagliato ? Povera bambino! E tutu bene,” she crooned, taking Marc and his blankets from the man. She put a grubby hand on his forehead. “Mr. Ross, your son is very hot.” Her hand lingered. “Burning up, actually. Poor mite. You need to light the stove so I can bathe him to get his fever down. Don’t boil the water, just heat it a little. Tell this man to get some kindling. What I foraged won’t be nearly enough.”
    Surely Marc was warm from sleep. From woolen blankets. From screaming his head off. “I brought peat,” Andrew said stupidly.
    â€œI don’t care what his name is! Are you just going to stand there?”
    No, he was not. He went back outside and organized the men as best he could, cursing silently in every language known to him. Marc would be fine. He had to be. It was Miss Peartree who needed a bath.

CHAPTER 2
    H is rehired housekeeper Mrs. MacLaren returned with the wagon’s second load. After a bit of creative detective work on his part, Andrew had found her husband among his little work crew. He had persuaded Mr. MacLaren to fetch her from the village, offering them both employment and rooms under his leaky roof by drawing watches and dishes and beds and handing over several more crowns. The MacLarens agreed to work days only, returning to their own seaside cottage, garden, and goats. At least Andrew thought it was a goat. It may have been a sheep. Mr. MacLaren was no artist, and his own right hand did not work as well as it used to. He could barely read his own writing. He should have bought a Gaelic-English dictionary in Paris, if they sold such things. Andrew would send for one at once.
    And send for a new governess. He could not possibly tolerate Miss Peartree one day longer than absolutely necessary. Right now she was pointlessly arguing with Mrs. MacLaren about Marc’s luncheon. The child, already much improved, was naked, beating a wooden spoon on a bucket, his fever-flushed cheeks rosy and cheerful. The great clatter of pots and pans punctuating the women’s conversation had sent Andrew from the kitchen into what he assumed was his library. There were plenty of shelves, but no books.
    Andrew started a fire and stared out the sleet-spattered window. He would have to buy books to keep himself occupied, a ferry-load of them. Once, he’d purchased a very naughty set of volumes depicting virtually every sexual position known to man—even some he had not tried personally, and there were very few. Those books would not be unpacked on these shelves where his son might stumble upon them. He expected Edward Christie had crated them up with all his other possessions from the Albany and they were somewhere about. He would burn them, every last depraved page. They’d make a roaring fire and save on peat.
    He would give his soul for a brandy. Well, he probably had no soul to give. Donal Stewart had taken it long ago. But surely there must be spirits somewhere in this house. On this island. They were in Scotland, after all. He could walk back through the muck and the wet to the village. He’d not seen a pub through the gloom, but there had been a tiny stone church. He’d make do with communion wine if absolutely necessary.
    Andrew sat down at his desk, lay his head down, and closed his eyes. His arm ached like the very devil. He was in a hell entirely of his own making. What had possessed him to trust Christie with these arrangements? He would have been better off