Rake Most Likely to Sin

by Bronwyn Scott

  Only there wasn’t much leisure about it. The pounding persisted and she let out a loud, frustrated sigh. Good lord, where was that sound coming from? It seemed to be coming straight through the wall. As long as the noise kept up, there would be no leisurely anything. She had to go and see the cause of the commotion. Patra rolled over and gingerly got up, testing the quality of her legs. Unfortunately, they held. The last excuse to remain in bed was gone.

  She drew back the white-lace panel covering the bedroom window and let out a startled yelp. Sweet heavens, there was a shirtless man outside her bedroom!

  He leaped back, cursing and spitting out nails at her undignified scream. ‘Lucifer’s balls, woman, do you want me to swallow the nails?’

  She had a full view of him now. This wasn’t just any man standing outside her window. It was Brennan Carr, half-naked, and gorgeously carved; the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and arms, hewn from months of hard work on the boats, the defined planes of his torso narrowing like well-manicured steppes to the waist of his foustanella, the journey highlighted by a thin trail of copper hair arrowing to parts lower. It was quite a sight to wake up to. ‘What are you doing?’ Patra managed to ask once her thoughts reconciled themselves. Gorgeous he might be, but he was also uninvited. Last night wasn’t supposed to have led to this. Having him here was the last thing she wanted.

  Brennan held up his hammer and offered her a cocky grin. ‘I noticed your shutters were loose. I thought I might come by and fix them up.’ Part of her wanted to take his arrogance down a notch. It probably hadn’t even occurred to him she might throw him off her property. But the other part of her recognised this was an act of neighbourly kindness on his part if she would allow it. Could she?

  She looked past him into the scraggly yard where panels of bright blue wood lay on the ground. ‘You’ve done more than nail up some loose shutters.’ He’d taken them down and painted them. They looked pretty and bright. Noticeable.

  Brennan shrugged as if it were nothing. ‘Konstantine had some paint he wasn’t using. I thought they could use a little freshening. There was no sense in nailing them back up just to take them down and paint them later. Better to do them now.’ He nodded to a wagon parked on the edge of her yard, and the donkey grazing nearby with her goats. ‘I brought whitewash, too. I thought I might start on the house once you were up.’ He flashed her a smile.

  She ought to refuse. She ought to say thank you for the shutters and send him on his way for multiple reasons. The more immediate one being, men who did favours never did them for free. The Englishman would want something in return. After last night, she thought she had a pretty good idea of what that was. If so, he’d be disappointed. She couldn’t possibly reciprocate no matter how many shutters he painted. ‘Mr Carr, I thank you for your efforts. They are much appreciated. However, I don’t want to take you away from your obligations.’ Whatever those might be. She had no idea how he spent his days beyond fishing with Konstantine and working Konstantine’s booth in the market.

  He made an exaggerated show of looking around over his shoulder as if searching for someone. He braced his hand on the house wall and leaned in close to the window. His eyes sparked with mischief. ‘Mr Carr? Really, Patra, who is that? You had me thinking my father was here. Last night, you were perfectly content to call me Brennan.’

  Patra felt herself smile in spite of the reserve she wanted to maintain. He was positively infectious, irresistible. She tried again, this time more bluntly. ‘I don’t know exactly what you want, but I have no intentions of sleeping with you in exchange for your services. Some widows might be free with their favours, but I am not one of them.’

  He leaned close again, the nearness of him sending a tremor of excitement through her as his words brushed her ear. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Patra. I don’t have to trade services to have a woman in bed. As for what I want? I’d like a little breakfast if it’s not too much trouble.’ He glanced out towards the road and shielded his eyes against the sun. ‘There’s been some traffic on the road this morning.’ He gave her one of his considering glances. ‘You might want to get dressed. No sense advertising wares that aren’t for sale.’ He smartly stepped out of reach before she could smack him and went back to work, calling over his shoulder, ‘Nothing fancy for breakfast, mind. I like my eggs scrambled.’

  He was worried about her modesty when he was the one strutting about her yard half-naked? Oh, she’d scramble those eggs, all right, right after she added incorrigible to the list of Brennan Carr’s descriptors. It was a good thing he was irresistible because that was the only thing saving him from a hand across his face. That and the truth: it had been exciting to find him outside her window.

  Patra crossed her arms over her chest in a belated bid for modesty. In the commotion of finding a man outside her window and the visual feeding frenzy of feasting on that man’s rather extraordinary physique, she’d forgotten her own; forgotten that she slept in a cotton night-rail that had been quite fine when she’d sewn it seventeen years ago for her trousseau. It had only got thinner over time. It hardly mattered, there was no one to see, but today there had been. She was suddenly conscious of the frayed hemming around the neck, the worn fabric. She was conscious, too, of what that thin material might have accidentally revealed, of how she must look with her tatty night-rail and sleep-tousled hair, hardly a paragon of beauty, much like her house. It had been a long time since it had been important to care about either. It had, in fact, been important to give the outward appearance of not caring.

  Patra retreated into her bedroom, careful to take her clothes behind the screen to dress. She pulled on a loose blouse and a dark skirt and tied on an apron over them. It wasn’t that she didn’t pay attention to her appearance. She did. Just like the inside of her home was neat and well kept, her appearance was tidy and clean, too. She had not let herself go after Dimitri’s death, but she’d had different priorities. She wanted no one’s attentions and there were consequences for that. When there was no one to please, no one to appreciate efforts, those efforts simply stopped being made. She missed making those efforts. She’d liked being a wife. But it was one of many things she’d given up to make sure everyone around her was safe, a small price to pay for saving lives.

  Patra picked her hairbrush up from the small table that served as her vanity and ran it through her hair. She reached for her hairpins and stopped. Usually, she pinned it up in a tight bun. It was severe but practical for working around the house. Maybe, just for today since she wasn’t going anywhere... Patra reached for a ribbon instead. It was dark blue and would hardly be noticeable in her brown hair. Should anyone happen by, no one could criticise her for being too girlish, for standing out and drawing attention.

  In the kitchen, she took stock of her supplies. She’d clearly overslept and her morning chores had gone undone. The goats hadn’t been milked yet or the chickens seen to, but she had a few eggs left over from yesterday, some bread and half a pitcher of goat’s milk. It would be enough and the animals could wait a short while more.

  Patra set about making breakfast, cracking eggs and putting a few pieces of bread on the grill over the fire for toasting, her chagrin over Brennan’s comments disappearing as she cooked. She liked to cook, it relaxed her, it centred her. To be honest, she had entertained thoughts of making Brennan’s eggs runny and burning the toast just to make a point about his ‘wants’, but food was hard to come by and while she enjoyed preparing food, it was time consuming—too time consuming not to do it right the first time. Besides, she had her pride. She could hardly have Brennan believing Katerina Stefanos was a better cook.

  Not, of course, that it mattered what Brennan thought, she reminded herself as she laid the breakfast tray. She was not competing for him. Just because she decided to use a cloth napkin and had picked a blue ceramic plate to serve the eggs on because it brought out their rich yellow colouring, it didn’t mea
n anything. A Greek woman always took pride in her hospitality. It had nothing to do with a half-naked Englishman working in her yard. Perhaps it was simply time she started taking pride in the little things again. There was no harm in it. It had been four years, after all. Perhaps it had been enough time.

  Those were perilous thoughts and it wasn’t the first time she’d entertained them since the moment Brennan had drawn her out on the dance floor. Each grin, each wink, each audacious touch of his, had her thinking she could risk a little more each time, that perhaps she was being overcautious without reason. It was hard to remember the darkness and the danger Castor Apollonius posed when Brennan smiled. Maybe just this once...

  * * *

  Brennan approached the little citrus grove on the edge of the property with its rough-hewn table and chairs, cautiously eyeing the tray Patra set down. Breakfast smelled good, damn good to a man who’d had little sleep and had worked most of the morning through on an empty stomach. He breathed in the morning aroma of toast and eggs. He loved breakfast. It was his favourite meal of the day, his favourite time of day. But he half-expected it to be a trick. He’d made her angry or embarrassed with his comments about her attire, or perhaps she’d been angry before that when she’d assumed he would want something in exchange for his efforts. She’d clearly seen his offer as a bid for what could be delicately termed ‘compensated companionship’.

  She wasn’t entirely wrong. He did want something from her, but not that, at least not in that way. If sex followed, so be it. He wouldn’t say no, but the deal he wanted to offer her didn’t require it. It would be a long time coming before he had to negotiate for sex. Brennan pulled his shirt over his head before settling at the little table, aware that she watched him. He winked and sat down. ‘Disappointed? Do you prefer I keep it off?’

  Patra laughed, which was what he’d hoped. ‘Hardly.’

  He grinned over a forkful of eggs. ‘Well, don’t worry, it’s only temporary. I’ll take it off again later.’

  ‘Are you always like this?’ Patra spread butter on her own toast, a small smile tempting her mouth. She was enjoying this even if she wouldn’t admit it.

  ‘Mostly, but I like getting a rise out of you,’ Brennan answered boldly. ‘It makes you come alive, it makes your eyes light up.’ He watched her take in the words. They might be too personal for the brevity of their association, but they were no less true. He’d felt it last night when they’d danced, when they’d kissed, when they’d briefly quarrelled. He wondered when was the last time anyone had prompted such a response from her. ‘How long have you been out here alone?’ It was a delicate way of asking how long she’d been widowed without being too direct.

  ‘Twelve years this summer.’

  Brennan did the maths. She’d been young, twenty-three at most when her husband had passed. They would have had no more than five years together if she’d married at eighteen or seventeen. It wasn’t likely she’d married any younger. That meant twelve years of trying to care for this place on her own. No wonder it looked a bit rough. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask. What kind of man had her husband been? Young like herself? Older? Had he died of illness or natural causes? Disease? How devoted was she to his memory? Did she mean to spend the rest of her life devoted to it? But he knew before asking that those questions were entirely too personal. Instead, he said, ‘There’s a shed on the corner of the property. It looks like it was once used as a barn of sorts.’ Perhaps it would be easier for her to talk about the land.

  ‘Yes, the roof finally caved in last year and I haven’t repaired it. The goats have been living outside.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Brennan put in quickly. ‘It will only take a couple of days and that way the goats can get out of the olive grove. They’ll chew it to sticks if they don’t and that won’t do your harvest any good come October.’ He’d noticed that situation when he’d arrived this morning.

  ‘The grove probably isn’t worth saving,’ Patra warned him. ‘I haven’t been able to harvest it in three years beyond what I need for my personal use.’

  Brennan leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Isn’t there anyone in the town to help you?’ He was hard pressed to imagine the people of Kardamyli not joining forces to assist someone in need.

  Patra stood up and began gathering the plates, apparently done with the conversation and done tolerating his personal questions. He realised his mistake too late. She didn’t want help and, in her stubbornness, she’d driven off their offers. Now, she was too stubborn to ask for that help back when she needed it.

  Brennan rose, too, helping with the dishes. ‘Thank you for breakfast, it was most enlightening.’

  When she’d gone back inside, Brennan stripped off his shirt, picked up his hammer and went back to work. She would not succeed in driving him off. He needed her compliance too much. But more than that, he had her measure and he knew when someone needed help.

  She might chide him for his shirtless attire, but he noticed she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. She was spending a lot of time outdoors. She came out to gather eggs. She came out to milk the goats. She came out to check on his progress and to make a few idle suggestions.

  * * *

  In the early afternoon, she came back out with a tray bearing lunch and a slim bottle with a spout on it. They ate pita, filling the bread with goat’s cheese and meat.

  At the end of the meal, she held up the glass bottle. ‘If you insist on not wearing a shirt, you’re going to need this.’

  ‘Olive oil?’ Brennan looked sceptical, not following her line of reasoning.

  ‘Not just olive oil. You haven’t been here yet through a Greek summer or even a spring. You’ll have noticed our sun is hot, probably hotter than your English sun. Turn around. Let’s get this on your back or you’re going to burn.’

  Brennan grinned as he gave her his back. He couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘You can rub my back any time you want, Patra. You don’t even need oil.’

  Her tone was brisk on purpose and perhaps more severe than required to take away the implication that this was anything more than a necessary task to perform. ‘You’ll burn without it. Your legs tanned, but you haven’t been without a shirt in this sun. I imagine redheads don’t tan easily.’

  Brennan laughed. ‘As a species, that’s generally true.’ He swiped a finger through the oil on his shoulder, sniffing it. ‘Does it work?’ Her hands felt cool and capable against his skin.

  ‘It works.’ She kneaded his shoulders and he rolled his neck, encouraging her to do it again. ‘It protects against damage at least.’ He could feel her step back from him. He didn’t want her to stop. She passed him the bottle. ‘You can do the rest. Cover your chest and your face.’

  ‘I don’t know if I have your expertise,’ Brennan drawled, knowing full well she’d scold him. Her hands on his chest would be very nice. Still, he had to try.

  ‘You can do it, I have great faith in your oil-applying abilities.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘But don’t work too much longer. I don’t want you fainting from fatigue or heat.’

  ‘Oh, you do care.’ Brennan grinned, pouring olive oil into the palm of his hand and smearing it on his chest in broad strokes. He watched the pulse at the base of her neck leap. She was definitely not indifferent.

  ‘Only because you’re too big, I don’t think I could drag you inside.’ Patra shook her head. ‘I’ll be in the shade with the mending if you need anything.’ Oh, he would. Brennan grinned. He’d make sure of it.

  Brennan finished whitewashing the front of the house and began the process of cleaning brushes and putting away the tools, all borrowed from Kon. He wrapped them in an old cloth and stored them in the wagon. He stepped back from the wagon and surveyed his work. The house looked better already. The whitewash made the house gleam under the sun and the blue shutters on the two windows added a crisp finish. He’d
get the rest of the house done tomorrow. Right now, there was something else he wanted to do, another project to work on.

  He spied Patra under the tree, the mending in her lap. She’d left her hair down today. He’d noticed at breakfast, but he didn’t dare comment on it, after the bit with the nightgown. It made her look younger, freer. She wasn’t old, she shouldn’t dress as if she was. Certainly any mourning obligations to her husband had been satisfied years ago.

  Her long chestnut hair hung in a thick skein over one shoulder as she sewed, humming a Greek tune. The domesticity of the scene caught him unawares like a sucker punch to the gut: Patra sewing, the freshly washed house behind her, the olive groves beyond that. They were a tangled mess right now, but they wouldn’t be when he’d finished. Come October, they would be healthy again.

  He had to stop himself. Would he even be here in October? That was six months away. If he wanted the fantasy he painted in his mind, all he had to do was reach out and claim it with Katerina. It was there for the taking, but he didn’t want it with Katerina. That particular fantasy was lacking something.

  Did he even want a wife? Last night he had been doing everything he could to avoid such a fate. He wasn’t the marrying kind. Marriage was for ever and he could barely manage to do anything for a month. At Oxford, he’d jumped from subject to subject. He’d been fascinated by Aramaic for five weeks and then he’d been fascinated by a merchant’s pretty daughter and that had been the end of Aramaic studies. If he’d managed to stay with a subject long enough, he would have been an expert at something instead of a jack of all trades, master of the only one that mattered—sex. Brennan knew how he operated. He had no staying power. Kardamyli was something of an anomaly in that regard. He’d never stayed anywhere this long. He was just infatuated with the moment, with the challenge Patra presented.

  Patra looked up, biting off a length of thread. ‘Do you need something?’