Rake Most Likely to Sin

by Bronwyn Scott

  An unwary woman would be easily seduced. But she had left her naïveté behind years ago. She was no Katerina Stefanos, or Maria Kouplos, whose heads were filled with idealistic visions of love and marriage. And yet she was not immune to the heat of his body, the smell of his clean, simple soap or those long, strong legs of his, bare and tan in his foustanella.

  In response, a little daring of her own arose. He’d come to her needing a distraction, an escape, from husband-seeking fathers. She could give him that. In exchange for sanctuary, maybe he could give her a little escape, too—an escape from the ill-fated matchmaking efforts of the village matriarchs. Why not let him be grateful? Judiciously grateful, of course. She wasn’t about to go slinking off with him into dark corners for even darker kisses.

  Patra cocked her head and gave him a coy smile that was perhaps out of practice. ‘Grateful? Are your favours so easily distributed, then?’ He could be grateful, but she wouldn’t make it easy on him. He had a small test to pass first. ‘Do you even know my name?’ She had her pride. He might stoke her curiosity, but not enough for her to settle for being nothing more than an interchangeable part in his scheme to resist Katerina’s plans.

  His blue eyes glinted with mischievous satisfaction as he rose to the challenge. ‘Patra Tspiras,’ he announced. ‘I’ve seen you in the village, at the market. You buy Konstantine’s fish on Wednesdays.’

  Patra was glad for the darkness. She could feel a flattered blush start, hot on her cheeks. He’d noticed her. He’d asked about her. The idea that she found pleasure in knowing he’d sought out that tiny piece of information about her was a silly, girlish reaction.

  It was the way he smiled when he said it that made it seem personal, important. It was how he said it, too. Together, it was a most potent combination that did all sorts of things to her pulse against her will. It reminded her she was Patra Tspiras, not simply Dimitri’s widow, as if her marriage and her husband were all that defined her person. She would always be Dimitri’s widow, it was part of who she’d become but not the sum. Sometimes she wanted only to be Patra, to simply belong to herself, to her wants and desires instead of what others required of her whether they knew it or not.

  He made a small bow, his hand on his chest. ‘I’m Brennan Carr.’

  She cut him off with a laugh. ‘I know. Everyone knows.’

  He laughed, too, grinning as he offered his arm. ‘In that case, introductions are concluded. I promised Konstantine I would see to your cheer. Would you do me the honour of a dance?’ He leaned in close once more and she caught the scent of his soap. ‘I think it would ensure the authenticity of my escape, don’t you?’

  And hers, too, Patra thought, taking his arm, even if he was unaware of the favor he did her. For a few minutes she would make her wish come true. For a few minutes, she would simply be Patra. Surely there was no harm in that.

  Chapter Three

  Safe was the first word that sprang to mind as Brennan manoeuvred them on to the crowded dance floor. Patra Tsipiras was safe. She expected nothing from him beyond the moment because she, too, had been looking for an escape. He’d seen it in her eyes when their gazes had brushed. They took up their positions. He fitted his hand to her waist. She placed hers on his upper arm and Brennan leaned in, breathing the comforting scents of lavender and sage. He flashed her a cheeky grin. ‘Be warned, I mean to change your mind.’

  ‘About what?’ She laughed up at him, her dark eyes sparking as they considered him, and Brennan had the distinct impression she was flirting, a realisation that took him somewhat by surprise. She was a sober sort in the market. He couldn’t recall ever having seen her smile.

  The music began and Brennan took them into the first steps of a fast country gallop, his eyes never leaving hers. He might have been unprepared for her bold response, but by Jove he would answer it with boldness of his own. He called her out with a friendly wink and a smile. ‘You don’t want to be here.’

  She blushed at the truth, but her gaze held as he took them through a fast turn. ‘Was it that obvious?’ She laughed again, this time a little breathless, her hair starting to fall in a becoming caramel spill that softened the angles of her face.

  Brennan’s smile broadened. ‘Not as obvious as shoving baklava under a bush.’

  ‘Oh, no, you saw!’ She groaned with good humour.

  ‘Don’t you like baklava?’ Brennan joked.

  ‘Not three plates of it.’ She laughed again and he swung her through a turn that left her gasping. If there was one thing he was good at, it was dancing. Actually, there were two things he was good at. One usually led to the other, although it wouldn’t tonight. Patra Tsipiras was safe, he reminded himself. She was a quiet widow devoted to her late husband’s memory. But he was having a hard time reconciling what he knew to the woman in his arms.

  There was nothing quiet about this woman, everything about her was alive—her eyes, her body, her throaty laughter—and it spurred him on. He took the turns hard to feel her body come against his, he cut a sharp pattern through the centre of the dancers, dragging her close to do it and she matched him step for step, a live, burning, beautiful flame.

  How had he not noticed before, all those days in the fish market? How had he not seen the dark fire of her eyes? Not heard the innate sensuality of her laugh? Not felt the thrum of life that emanated from her? Probably because he hadn’t been looking and she hadn’t made it easy. There’d been no reason for either of them to have done otherwise. But tonight was different. Tonight, they needed each other.

  The dance ended, the musicians flowing into a reel he loved. Patra turned to go. He saw her hesitate when he made no move to escort her from the floor. Brennan closed a hand about her wrist, his voice low and insistent. ‘One more dance, Patra. Please.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, merely moved them into position and let her happen to him all over again.

  ‘We’d better stop at two,’ Patra suggested, breathing hard at the end of the reel, the voice of wisdom when he would have stayed on the floor with her. This wasn’t London, after all, and there was no hard-and-fast rule about a two-dance limit. ‘I think we can safely assume you’ve satisfied authenticity’s needs.’

  Probably more than satisfied it. He might have exceeded it, if the looks Katerina Stefanos was directing his way were any indicator. Patra noticed it. ‘Katerina doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps you’d better go back and reassure her of your affections.’

  Brennan shook his head, adrenaline still fuelling him. ‘How could I do that when you’ve asked me to escort you home?’ It was a bold gambit. They had not spoken of such plans. Would she refuse? Would she think leaving with him stirred a larger scandal than staying? But she was caught up in the euphoria of the dance, too.

  ‘Oh, I have, have I?’

  Brennan pulled a mockingly serious face. ‘You have, most definitely. There’s a rock in your shoe that is wreaking havoc with your foot.’

  She arched incredulous dark brows. ‘A rock? How about we settle for a pebble?’ Then she added with a sly smile, ‘for authenticity’s sake of course.’

  For her part, Patra did a credible job manufacturing a slight limp while Brennan made their excuses to Konstantine. They were under way within minutes. There was no drama in slipping off, no covertly delivered messages with complicated instructions for a private meeting. He’d simply left with her.

  Safe was turning into fun. So much fun, in fact, Brennan was in no hurry to see the evening end. Who would have thought the small event of strolling down a dirt road, Patra’s arm tucked loosely through his, could be so enjoyable? Overhead the stars were out, even brighter now that they were away from the party lights. Brennan knew exactly where he wanted to go. They’d reached a fork in the path, the left leading up a hill towards one of his favourite places. The right led to her home, although he’d never been there. It was something everyone in a small
town knew. Everyone knew where everyone lived. If he took her there, it would lead to the end of the evening. Patra turned to the right. He made no attempt to follow her or to release her arm. It was decision time.

  She tossed him a quizzical look, her eyes dropping to the light grip he had on her arm. ‘I can see myself on from here.’

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ Brennan let his eyes scan her face, let them linger on her eyes, looking for truth. He held up his other hand, revealing the prize he carried. He had grabbed it off a table as they’d left the party. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine and the view at the top of the hill is spectacular.’ He grinned. ‘So, let me ask you again. Do you really want to go home?’

  The question wasn’t meant to be difficult. She should want that, just as Patra knew what the right answer was: yes. She wanted to go home, wanted to be alone. That had been her original intent. She’d fulfilled her end of the bargain. She’d rescued him from Katerina’s possessive clutches. She had every right to claim her escape, and yet, that smile of his and those eyes on her face were the undoing of her. She wasn’t naïve. She knew what he wanted, what all young men wanted. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit to being at least a little flattered he wanted some of her attention. She’d be a liar, too, if she didn’t admit her attraction to him. It was hard to be alone even when there was no other choice and she’d been alone so very long. She’d been good for oh, so very long, too—not calling attention to herself, living quietly on the edges of society in all ways, encouraging no one to take an interest in her. Now, here he was; tempting her with his good looks and his superb dancing. He tempted her with more than that. He was fun and he was kind. Those qualities were far more important than looks, she’d learned. Looks could be deceiving. Actions less so. She’d noticed tonight how he’d not wanted to embarrass Katerina and he would not force his attentions where they were not wanted. He was giving her the choice to climb the hill.

  Or not. If she said no, he’d escort her home, wine unopened, view unseen. Kisses untasted, bodies untried. The last part rose unbidden in her mind. He might be willing to push those boundaries, but she was not. If she went up that hill, she needed some rules in place with herself. She was not kissing this bold English adventurer who had probably kissed half of Europe on his journey here. All right, no kissing. Other than that, why not? Why not climb that hill and look at the stars. Temptation beckoned. Surely one night would be safe enough. Who would know? Who would tell? And the Englishman wouldn’t be here for ever. If the matchmakers in the village didn’t take care of that, his own nature would. He was perfectly safe as long as it was just one night.

  Patra cocked her head to one side, giving the impression of serious consideration. ‘You said you have wine?’

  Brennan shook the bottle. ‘Are you in?’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on. It will be worth it, I promise.’

  * * *

  It had better be, Patra groused halfway up. The hill was steeper than she’d anticipated and dancing shoes weren’t ideal for climbing in the dark. If she hadn’t had a real pebble in her shoe when they’d left the dance, she most likely did now. Brennan reached out a hand for her and she gladly took it.

  ‘How are you doing? We’re almost there.’ She could hear the smile in his words, feel his enthusiasm, as he offered her encouragement. It struck her then that Brennan Carr was a little bit impetuous. People didn’t simply, spontaneously, climb hills in the dark. No, he wasn’t just a ‘little bit’ impetuous. She’d wager he was a lot impetuous. If he lived like he danced, he was probably in the habit of throwing himself headlong into adventure after adventure without thinking about the consequences until it was too late, like he had with Katerina Stefanos. What had started out as fun had quickly turned into something more serious.

  Oh, this was bad, she didn’t want to be curious about him. Curiosity led to questions and questions led to answers and answers to familiarity. The less she knew about him, the better for them both.

  The ground smoothed out and the shrubbery gave way, the path expanding to a wide, flat area. Brennan gave an exultant crow, ‘We made it! Just look at that!’

  She had to concede the view was spectacular, well worth every pebble in her shoes. The sky seemed close enough to touch, the stars near enough to pluck with her fingers, while down below, she could make out the dark shape of boats bobbing in the harbour and the faint glow from Konstantine’s party. Down there, the crowd would be noisy, but up here, it was quiet and peaceful. There was no music other than the crickets and the night birds. Behind her, she could hear Brennan rustling in the bushes.

  ‘Here it is,’ he announced, pulling out a blanket. He shook it free of little pieces of twigs and dried leaves before spreading it on the hill. He patted the spot beside him. ‘Come and sit, Patra, and enjoy our view.’

  She sat and he worked the cork loose on the bottle, pulling it the last bit of the way with his teeth. ‘I don’t suppose you have any glasses under a bush, too?’ she teased.

  He gave a perplexed glance. ‘No, why would I?’

  Patra shrugged, feeling silly for having asked. ‘I just thought, since you were so prepared...’

  He grinned, unfazed by her implication. ‘I come up here almost every night to watch the sunset and sometimes to think.’ He jostled her with a friendly elbow. ‘You’re surprised. You thought I brought girls up here all the time.’ He passed her the bottle, letting her drink first. ‘You’re the only one and I wasn’t even sure you would come. It seemed presumptuous of me to bring glasses.’

  ‘Maybe you say that to all the girls,’ she pressed, testing only partly in jest. There wasn’t a girl in the village who wouldn’t climb this hill with him.

  ‘Well, I don’t.’ Brennan gave her a firm look. ‘You’ll just have to trust me.’ She’d like to, Patra realised. She supposed it was the inviting openness of his face. Women probably confided in him all the time. It had been a long time since she’d trusted anyone, confided in anyone. Her secrets were too dark for that. There was no one she could tell, no one she could burden with the evil that hovered on the fringes of her life. But hope hovered on those fringes, too. Maybe the evil was gone now. It had been four years since Castor Apollonius had last pressed his wicked suit. Perhaps this time he was gone for good, finally convinced she would never be his. Maybe, she could risk just a little.

  ‘Can you do without them? The glasses?’ Brennan asked.

  During the war, she’d done without a lot more than glasses. Patra shot him a daring look and tipped the bottle back, taking a deep swallow of the rich red wine, feeling adventurous and decadent—for a moment, free. The wine tasted good after the dancing and the climbing. She passed the bottle back, watching him drink deeply and run his sleeve around the rim before giving it back.

  Brennan stretched out, propping his head on one arm as he pointed to the sky. ‘Tell me what you know about the stars. There’s Cassiopeia, there’s Orion’s Belt.’ He gestured to the familiar arrangements.

  ‘There’s Gemini, the twins, there’s Draco,’ Patra added, scanning the sky. It was better to focus on the stars than to think too much about the very masculine body stretched out beside her in a pose of rather shocking familiarity, as if they were old friends or something more, two people used to one another’s bodies instead of strangers who had shared a dance and an escape. But he was not at all concerned about the intimacy of his pose or their proximity to one another.

  ‘You know a lot of them. I’m impressed.’ Brennan’s gaze shifted from the stars to her and she met his eyes, a most dangerous challenge.

  ‘When you grow up around boats and sailors you learn the stars early. Can’t afford not to.’ She reached for the bottle.

  ‘Have you lived here all your life?’ Brennan’s tone was soft, his fingers gentle as they closed around hers, taking back the bottle.

  ‘All of my married life. Kardamyli is my husband’s
home. I came here as his bride.’ As an innocent eighteen-year-old, flushed with love, looking forward to the life she and Dimitri would make in his town. She did not volunteer where she was from. It would make for more questions. Did she miss her home? Did she ever think of going back there? Did she have family? Those answers dug up memories she didn’t want tonight, reminders of all she’d lost instead of focusing on all that she still had. ‘What about you? Where do you live?’ Perhaps if he talked about himself, he’d be less inclined to want to talk about her.

  ‘I’m from a place called Sussex, south-east of London.’ He seemed reluctant to say more. She understood. Places carried memories. She hadn’t meant to pry, only to distract. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t like to talk about it.’

  Brennan shook his head. ‘No, it’s just that I’ve been gone for two years. It doesn’t seem like I’m from there any more. I’ve been travelling with friends. We’ve seen a lot of places and now I suppose I feel a little rootless.’

  She’d not heard of the friends before. ‘Where are your friends now? Will they be joining you?’

  ‘No.’ Brennan chuckled, his eyes starting to spark again. ‘The funny thing is, they all got married. Haviland married in Paris, Archer in Siena and Nolan in Verona, although Nolan met his bride in Venice. They all asked me to stay with them, but I just wanted to keep moving.’

  Patra played with the fringe of the blanket, twisting it between her fingers, daring herself to ask more personal questions, daring herself to satisfy her selfish curiosity. ‘So here you are. Kardamyli isn’t exactly a tourist destination.’

  Brennan shrugged again, unbothered by her probing. How wonderful to be such an open book. ‘I like it here, though. I like being some place where there’s no other Englishmen, no one who might know me. Here, I can just be me.’ He let out a sound that was half groan, half laugh as if he was remembering something unpleasant. ‘You should have seen Rome. It was crawling with English. I could go days without seeing any Italians. It was awful.’