‘Pruning your bushes?’ Brennan laughed. ‘I’ll show you pruning your bushes, you wicked girl.’ He seized her about the waist and flipped her on to her back. She gasped her surprise as he burrowed beneath her skirts, throwing them up in the wake of his hands. It was wildly erotic to be bare beneath the sun, to feel Brennan’s laughing breath against her curls. But that was nothing compared to the feel of his mouth on her, his tongue at her furrow, licking her essence. This was an exquisite, intimate enjoyment that had her arching against his mouth, crying up to the sky as he moved from furrow to pearl, his tongue flicking against the tiny nub. She pounded a fist into the ground, helpless against the wave of pleasure that swept her.
She gave in to it, letting it take her away, knowing it was merely a prelude. Before she’d even recovered, Brennan levered himself over her, thrusting deep, starting the pleasure all over again, this time for them both.
‘How’s that for pruning?’ he managed at her ear, his words coming ragged and hard as he thrust again.
‘I, um, think...’ Speech was hard, so very hard at the moment. ‘You are quite the gardener, Brennan Carr.’ Then words and the ability to make them suddenly became unimportant for a long while.
Chapter Fifteen
‘I love Greece.’ Brennan lay on his back, staring up at the sky while she drew idle designs on his chest. Patra thought she might love these moments afterwards as much as she loved the moments that brought them to this point of replete togetherness, when all seemed right with the world because the world was just the two of them. It was an exciting and yet dangerous way to feel. It made her feel young again, innocent again. And it was impossible to sustain.
‘I’ve never been some place where the sun shines so much,’ Brennan mused. ‘In England, the winter lasts for ever. The spring is full of mud and rain until May. Then, when heat does come it makes the city miserable and you have to wear full gentleman’s attire—coat, shirt, waistcoat and cravat—and pretend you aren’t sweltering.’
Brennan shuddered and she laughed. ‘No wonder the foustanella appeals to you so much.’
‘It’s not just the weather,’ Brennan confessed. ‘It’s the food, there’s a freshness to it, a zest. English food is bland, Patra, and heavy. It’s the whole life. I can work hard here...’ He paused and she watched a thoughtful expression cross his face as he searched for the right phrase. ‘I am myself. I’ve been looking for the place where I could be me.’ He smiled up to the sky. ‘I’ve finally found it. I had to travel across Europe to do it.’
He was about to lose it. The guilt began to prickle again. She ought to tell him now, but how could she when he looked so happy, so at rest? She’d gone into the ruse under the assumption that he would leave Kardamyli some day. There had been no rush until Castor had shown up. But Castor’s arrival changed everything. Now, in order to protect him, she had to force him to leave earlier than he would choose. More than that, she was forcing him to give up his dream for her, something he had not bargained on.
Brennan sat up suddenly and rummaged in a pocket inside his waistband. ‘I almost forgot, I have something for you.’ He held up a length of bright blue ribbon and the tempting what ifs began to rise once more: what if he didn’t leave? What if he chose to stay indefinitely? There was hope and horror in that prospect for her. To stay would last only as long as Castor allowed it. Castor would extract his revenge; next week, next month, next year. The waiting for it would become another level of his torture.
‘For me?’ She smiled, trying to ignore the tightness in her throat, the sting of tears in her eyes over the simple gift.
‘I saw it in the market one day. I thought of you. You’ve been wearing your hair down, lately.’ It was ridiculous to feel so moved by a strip of silk. But it had been so long since she’d had a gift that was entirely luxurious, entirely selfish. She couldn’t eat a ribbon, she could only wear it, only be pretty in it—something she hadn’t been able to risk.
‘May I?’ Brennan reached around her. She felt his hands skim the nape of her neck, gathering her hair, felt his fingers firmly tie the ribbon and then linger at her shoulders. ‘Blue becomes you,’ he whispered. ‘You should wear colours more often.’ But colours weren’t practical and colours called attention to the one who wore them. One more price she’d chosen to pay for anonymity.
Shadows were starting to fall, a signal the afternoon was fading and, with it, their time together. Brennan took her hand as they started down the path. She liked the feel of his touch far too much. She’d started this ruse to keep herself safe and it might have achieved that in terms of keeping her out of her friends’ matchmaking line of fire if Castor had not returned. But who would keep her safe from Brennan, who made her feel alive with his broad smile, his laughing eyes, his wicked mouth and that body made for sin? She’d not bargained on such a thorough reaction to him. Things had spiralled wildly out of control where Brennan was concerned. When all of this had started, she’d been mentally prepared to lose him. She hadn’t been prepared to love him.
* * *
Patra was distracted. She had been since the ruins. Even now as she prepared the evening meal, her hands were clumsy. She dropped the knife and sloshed the wine, refusing to take any help when he offered.
Brennan didn’t need Nolan’s gift of perception to know Castor Apollonius was the likely source of her preoccupation. But he didn’t fully know why. Oh, he was starting to. Puzzle pieces were beginning to fall into place. The ribbon had nearly made her cry, a reaction he hadn’t expected. It was a simple gift. Coupled with what Konstantine had shared with him, it told him volumes. This was a woman who had chosen to live a life of quiet self-deprivation since the death of her husband. She had let her home outwardly fall into disrepair rather than take help from the village men. She had eschewed any level of personal luxury for herself, as well. He’d seen the clean but mended quality of her undergarments and shifts. It was as if she’d wanted to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. Until he came along.
That was the other conundrum. He understood why she’d agreed to his ruse. It helped preserve her anonymity, it took her away from legitimate, real social relationships. But no matter what she’d intended to get out of their arrangement, she’d come alive for him, and now she wanted to retreat. Now that Castor had come along. Her past and her present had collided and it scared the hell out of her. Why?
It was time to find out. He’d seen the quiet stoic woman she’d been in the marketplace months before. That woman hadn’t been happy. But the woman who had danced in his arms beneath the stars, the woman who had roused so thoroughly to his lovemaking, was a happy woman in those moments. He didn’t want to lose her, not now when he’d just found her, not now when she had just found herself. If he could do just one thing right, one thing that mattered, he wanted it to be this. Patra Tspiras deserved to be redeemed.
Outside, they set the table in the grove together, laying out dishes of olives and tomatoes, goat’s cheese and hummus, wine and bread. Patra tried to light their candle and burned her fingers on the match. Brennan took the matches from her and laid them aside. He would get no better opening than this. ‘I think we need to talk before you burn something more than your fingers.’
Patra sat down and gave him a wary look. ‘Talk about what?’ She was going to make him work for her confession.
Brennan didn’t back down. He held her gaze steadily. ‘What it is that has you distracted: Castor Apollonius. Tell me about the war, Patra. Tell me about your husband and how he died.’
She baulked with a pretty smile. ‘Why does it matter? It’s all in the past. It can’t be changed.’ Her hand slid invitingly to his leg. She was going to seduce him into forgetting his questions. Brennan recognised the manoeuvre. He’d used it often enough in the past to avoid unpleasantness. He covered her hand where it rested on his thigh.
‘To defeat one’s past, one has t
o face it,’ Brennan said quietly, firmly. ‘But you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here and I want to know what happened between you and Castor. The village believed he was going to marry you, sweep you off to a life of riches and prestige. They believe, too, that you cried off for political reasons. I think it was more than that.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Patra, Castor will return. If you want to protect me, you have to tell me. What caused a passionate woman to retreat from her community, to retreat from life?’
* * *
For all of her efforts to fade into anonymity, it had finally happened. Castor Apollonius had come back for her. Brennan had a right to know why. It was his life that was in danger. She withdrew her hand and folded both hands on the table. She couldn’t bear to feel the moment when he became repulsed. She held his blue gaze, so full of genuine concern. It might be the last time he looked at her like that. She wanted to savour it, remember it. ‘I will tell you,’ she said slowly. ‘But you will hate me for it when I’m finished.’
He shook his head, wanting to voice a protest. She cut him off. ‘You don’t know what I have done.’
She started at the beginning, painting a picture for him of life during the war, of how Castor’s organisation, the Filiki Eteria, had brought real hope to the cause for the first time, of how Dimitri had joined the brotherhood, as had others in the village and throughout the Peloponnese. Everyone was full of patriotic fire, wanting to do their part for independence. There had been meetings and plans. There was optimism. This time things would be different.
‘I was caught up in it, too. As a young girl, I’d listened to my parents tell tales of failed rebellions in the northern provinces. As I grew older, I understood these rebellions were isolated incidents, individual groups who couldn’t hope to succeed for long against the mighty Ottoman Empire. When Dimitri and I married, the Filiki were on the move to change that. They were organising Greeks spread throughout the empire. This time there was a co-ordinated effort, the Ottomans would be forced to fight on multiple fronts. The Greeks would become like the many-headed hydra of myth.’
She could hear the pride rising in her voice as she recounted the early days. ‘It worked. The Peloponnese had risen up. Those days of victory were heady. But in retrospect, I see now that the victory had been a bit overestimated. The Turkish troops had seceded most of the Peloponnese not because they were outgunned by our efforts, but because their resources were all focused on the mainland against Ali Pasha. But it was victory and the Filiki used it to raise more troops, to fight more battles in the hopes that one of the Great Powers—Britain or France or Russia—would see our ability to win and come to our aid.
‘That had been in 1821. In 1822, we were still waiting and still dying for the cause as Turks fought to retake the Peloponnese.’ Patra remembered those bloody days, days spent worrying over Dimitri who was travelling with the fighting force, days of worry that if the army fell, what would the Turks do in retribution when they came to the village? The Turks at Tripolis had been massacred. ‘Our great fear was that they would come here wanting revenge, if they could get here.
‘That was when we met Castor. Morale was flagging. The Filiki sent him to raise our spirits.’ Castor Apollonius had been the military leader of the corps in this part of the peninsula. He’d been a handsome, patriotic firebrand of a man, full of charisma and persuasive skill. His presence had been reassuring in those difficult days, reassuring to her. He was also passionately devoted to the Filiki Eteria and he inspired that passionate devotion in others as well, even when the war dragged on and it became clear that blind devotion to the Filiki was misplaced. ‘My husband was away fighting. I clung to Castor’s reassurances desperately. I regret ever thinking that fervent patriotism was synonymous with human goodness.
‘By 1823, one thing was clear: the Great Powers were only going to aid in moderation now that victory seemed inevitable. Some British came as a result of the Filiki’s efforts and the efforts of Greek clubs in London. But they only came independently, as private citizens who wanted to help the cause like your English poet, Byron, or military men who lent a hand training troops out on the Ionian Isles. The French came later, helping to sweep away the Turks at Modon, but too late to make much difference for Dimitri.’ The telling became more difficult here. She could no longer talk just about the war, just about facts.
‘Your husband fell at Modon,’ Brennan encouraged gently.
She had to be strong and go forward. She would not be the death of one more man who had the misfortune to care for her. Patra gathered her control. ‘He was killed and it was all my fault. By then, I had known Castor for three years. I thought Castor was my friend, our friend. He had Dimitri transferred to his regiment “to keep him safe”, he assured me. I was unaware Castor’s feelings ran far deeper and far differently than mine.’
She watched Brennan’s face, knowing the moment he understood her meaning fully. She could see waves of emotions roll through Brennan; there was the righteous anger of chivalry, of wanting to protect her from such injustice. She felt his question before he asked it.
‘How can you be certain of such a thing?’ She didn’t blame him for asking. It was not doubt that drove the question, it was incredulity. What sort of man did such a thing?
‘Do you know the story of David and Bathsheba, the one from the Bible?’ Her lips had suddenly gone dry, her throat squeezed. She’d never told anyone this. Would Brennan believe her? Would it matter if he didn’t? If he thought she was a lunatic, it would be enough to drive him off and that was what she wanted.
Brennan’s own voice was hoarse, his mind making awful connections. She could hear it in the strain behind his words. ‘King David puts her husband on the front line of battle where he knows the man will be killed.’
‘That’s how I know.’ Her voice was hushed in the darkness. ‘That’s why I fear for you. He’s made it very plain if he can’t have me no one will, not even my husband.’
Chapter Sixteen
Good God, Apollonius was a murderer and a psychotic bastard. Brennan was glad he wasn’t standing. He would have been reeling. Apollonius had used the veneer of patriotism and friendship to set up a murder, to steal another man’s wife. The last part gave Brennan chills. A man wanted him dead.
It wasn’t the first time a man had wanted him dead over a woman, but it was the first time it had been articulated with such cold-blooded premeditation. Usually, when he was chased down by angry husbands, et cetera, it was very much in the ‘heat of the moment’. If those men had succeeded, they would certainly have regretted their actions by light of day. Apollonius was not a man who had regrets. If he wanted a man dead, he’d already justified it to his soul.
Brennan watched Patra. She was waiting for a response, waiting for him to hate her, to think she’d played the harlot in her husband’s demise. He wanted to leave the table, change locations so they could begin a new conversation. He rose and held out his hand as he’d done the night before. ‘Come walk with me.’
He could feel the tension in her body as she took his hand, her touch wary. He still hadn’t responded to her revelation. What did one say after learning of their own murder attempt? What did one say to a woman who had lived with the knowledge of her husband’s murderer all these years? Heaven help the man, him in this case, who had to respond to both. There was no comfort he could give that would be adequate. He took refuge in a question. ‘Why didn’t you tell someone?’ But he knew the answer before she voiced it.
‘Who would believe me? There was, there is, no proof. Men die during battle. Modon was no different, in many ways it was worse. A lot of men died there. Why should Dimitri have been any different than any other soldier who fell? People would say my grief made me desperate, that it made me willing to lash out at any convenient thing or person in an attempt to blame someone for my loss. It is what grieving people do, after all.’
And Apo
llonius had made himself very convenient. Everyone had thought he would marry her, that grief had brought them together. Apollonius and she had already been close thanks to the war. Brennan felt his gut clench with something primal and possessive. He could imagine Apollonius setting himself up as the close friend of the deceased and the deceased’s widow. He could imagine Apollonius holding her as she sobbed, offering words of comfort, telling her how her husband had died a warrior’s death, how he’d been with Dimitri at the last, probably at great risk to himself, making himself out to be a hero in the débâcle. Brennan could imagine punching Apollonius in the face for such treachery. His fist clenched involuntarily. He’d make sure he got his chance. ‘Apollonius is a vile bastard. I am sorry, Patra.’
They reached the hammock, a scene of more pleasant memories, and Brennan wanted to invoke those memories now to hold back her darkness and guilt. He got on first and stretched out before pulling her down beside him. It felt good to hold her, to be able to offer her comfort. But he was aware gentle caresses and words like sorry were not nearly enough. They did not make up for the years she’d gone without smiling, gone without dancing, without socialising, not only because no one would believe her about Apollonius’s scheme, but because she was protecting the cause. Apollonius was the village’s link to independence, to the great cause their men had died for, a cause they believed in. What had Konstantine told him? They loved independence more than they hated Apollonius? Patra had protected the cause all along, keeping it pure in the minds of the town, at great expense to herself.
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