‘You should hate me, Brennan. I’ve put you in danger.’ She sighed against him.
‘I don’t hate you. It’s not your fault. The fault is entirely Castor’s.’ Brennan realised something else, too, as they lay together in the hammock, now that the truth was between them at last. ‘Is it just me Apollonius wants to kill or is it any man who gets close to you?’
‘Any man,’ Patra whispered, as if a quieter voice made the disclosure less dangerous. ‘He told me so himself.’
It explained so much. Why she clung to the guise of devoted widow for years beyond her required mourning, why she refused her friends’ efforts to see her marry. She had made herself as inconspicuous as possible. Even her home had become inconspicuous. She’d refused the villagers’ help because that help would have been male. It would have risked drawing Apollonius’s attention to the men who helped her. Perhaps the fall into disrepair had been somewhat calculated. She’d been protecting everyone, not just the cause. Until he’d come along and ruined everything.
Brennan shut his eyes tight against the guilt. What a fool he had been. ‘I didn’t understand.’ His words were inadequate. It wasn’t so much his possible murder that haunted him now, but his hand in what he’d done to her. She had been safe, free of trouble until he’d started painting walls, thatching sheds and using her to escape the parson’s mousetrap. He’d drawn Apollonius’s attention to her with his stupid ruse. ‘I have to make this right for you, Patra.’ He had no idea how to do that but he would find a way. It wasn’t fair for her to suffer because of his foolishness.
‘Why do you have to make it right?’
‘None of this would have happened if I’d let you be. You were willing to dance with me, but nothing more.’ He could see why now. Hindsight was brilliantly, blindingly, painfully clear. She had known what would happen. She’d tried to warn him. ‘This is all my fault.’
* * *
His fault? How did he reason that? Patra levered up carefully on one arm, the hammock swinging from her efforts. ‘How can it be your fault, when it’s all mine?’ She was the one who had drawn Castor’s attention in the first place and caused Dimitri’s death. She had known what would happen if she encouraged Brennan’s attentions, false or otherwise. She was the one who had argued herself into believing that she could steal a bit of happiness, that Castor would never find out. She’d known what sort of fire she was playing with. ‘I knew. I should never have accepted your offer.’ Except then she would have never known this. These last days, swimming at the beach, none of it would ever have existed. Their eyes held and she waited to see the recrimination in them. Surely, he would hate her now for dragging him into this.
The recrimination didn’t come. She had to try harder. ‘I seduced you, last night in fact, after we knew Castor was here.’ Surely that would incriminate her. But it only made him laugh. So much for trying harder.
‘I seduced you, too. I would say we’re fairly even on that score. You started it last night, but I get credit for the swimming, St Spyridon’s and at least for part of last night. I get credit for this, too.’ He kissed her slowly then, his mouth lingering on hers, calling up once more the warm, sweet heat that gathered in her belly, and pushing her fears aside for something far better. She couldn’t give in. Not yet. She couldn’t let him brush this off, couldn’t let him pretend this didn’t matter. She had to have his word that he would leave.
‘Brennan,’ she murmured between kisses, ‘Apollonius will see you dead. We can’t ignore him.’
She felt his lips turn up into a smile where they pressed against hers. He laughed against her mouth, a warm chuckle. ‘Then I want to be sure I die happy.’
‘You have to be serious.’ But she already knew she was fighting a losing battle. Brennan had miraculously managed to move over her without upsetting the hammock. ‘Have you ever made love in a hammock?’ he whispered against her ear, a hand sliding beneath her skirts.
‘No, have you?’ Her thoughts were still on the other conversation, the one they needed to have.
He laughed down at her, his eyes sparking. ‘No. I don’t even know if it’s possible, but we’re going to find out.’ He moved too quickly and she gave a yelp, part-laughter, part-scream, as the hammock rocked dangerously. ‘All right, rule number one: everything happens slowly.’ Brennan laughed, letting the hammock settle before he moved again.
Everything did happen slowly, which was as much torment as it was treat. Making love in a hammock was definitely an art form. ‘I think it would be easier naked,’ Brennan teased, sliding into her with a sigh. ‘Ah, at last.’ In the rising heat of their desire, it had seemed to take an age to get her skirts up.
But ‘at last’ was merely a prelude to another kind of waiting. The torture-treat wasn’t nearly over. Brennan was meticulous with his strokes; sliding in deep, only to pull back in a deliberate retreat through her slick channel and slide in again until her body was more than ready to remind her she had not had her pleasure tonight. And, oh, how that pleasure built. He knew where to slide, where the most responsive parts of her channel would quiver with sensation as he slid past. She fought the urge to buck, to rock against him. Such a motion would definitely overset the hammock and see them on the ground. But the inability to do so only added to her rising need for release.
‘Please, Brennan!’ she urged with her words what her body dared not. Her hands knotted in the mesh of the hammock, every muscle straining in the effort to stay still. She was almost there. She wanted two, maybe three hard, fast thrusts and this delicious torture would be over.
Brennan flashed her a sinful grin, knowing full well he was the source of her agony and her ecstasy. One wicked word hovered on his lips. ‘Wait.’ She risked pummelling him with a fist but he was too fast. He pinned her wrists, drawing them slowly up over her head, his breathing starting to come in hard pants that punctuated his words. ‘I. Wouldn’t. Want. To. End. Up. On the ground. Just now.’
And, in truth, neither did she. She stilled as he came into her one final time and she knew the wait was worth it. This was not relief, or even release. This was rapture. Every fibre of her body felt his muscles tense and relax, tense and relax as his release pulsed, as he poured life into her. Maybe it moved her so intensely because she recognised the danger he was in and she knew, deep her in heart, the end was very near.
Brennan collapsed against her, his skin faintly sweaty. ‘Ah, now we know. It’s possible.’ He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. ‘The lengths I go to for science.’ She wanted to laugh with him, but her thoughts were far darker than his. It would kill her to lose him, to lose his laughter, the light he brought to each day. She hadn’t realised how dark her days had become until he’d burst upon them. Well, she had survived darkness before. She would survive it again. Only this time, she was much more aware that surviving wasn’t living.
She reached up a hand to push all that untidy auburn hair back from his face. She wanted to be able to see him when she asked him, ‘A man wants you dead. Doesn’t that bother you?’
He gave her the impish half grin that brought the village women to their knees. ‘It does, but I refuse to obsess about it. I’d rather think of the silver lining.’
‘Oh? What would that be?’
‘It adds to the authenticity of my courtship. Surely I must be sincere in my attentions if Apollonius wants me dead.’
She wouldn’t let him laugh it off this time. She held his face between her hands as if that would make him more serious, as if that would stop him from smiling. ‘Brennan, why don’t you hate me for this?’
Brennan sobered. She could feel the muscles of his face letting his smile fade. He lifted himself from her, very carefully. Her body stilled, her breath caught. He was beautiful and primal in this moment, his body taut with intention. Whatever he was about to say was more important than anything he’d ever said to her. ‘Patra, look at me. I wan
t you to see me when I say this because I have never said it to another woman before.’ There was no boyishness about him now. He was all man. The warrior in him frightened her and thrilled her. ‘The reason I don’t hate you is because I’m too busy loving you.’
She stared at him, stunned. The words took her like a blow to the stomach. It was the best she’d hoped to hear and the very worst. ‘How can you possibly love me?’ Time had been too short. She’d done a terrible thing to him. There were so many reasons to argue. But Brennan put a finger to her lips.
‘Hush. A man knows these things.’ Brennan swallowed, his throat working obviously, a sign of what this confession had cost him. ‘I love you. That’s all that matters. You don’t have to say the words for the sake of good form. I’m not asking for reciprocity. You don’t have to love me, but I love you.’
But he wanted it, might crave it even. She could see it in his eyes. She thought of St Spyridon’s when he’d told her about his parents. How there hadn’t been enough love to go around once they’d been done loving each other. She saw him clear by the light of the moon. That was his mission, his gift: to spread love, to let people know there was enough love. No one need be left out. And maybe, just maybe, after giving all that love, someone, somewhere, would give a little back. To him.
She wanted to be the one to do it. No matter how foolish, no matter what the cost. Castor Apollonius and his threats could go hang. Whatever happened, he would have that. ‘I want to say them.’ Her voice was hoarse, her throat a little dry. His blue eyes darted away from her. ‘No, now it’s your turn to look at me.’ Strength returned to her tone. ‘I want you to see me when I say it.’ She used his words against him, and his eyes slowly, hesitantly returned to her.
‘I love you, Brennan Carr. I love your spontaneity, I love how you eat piles of food, how you make every ordinary day an adventure. I love how I feel with you, like I’m alive again, like anything is possible...’ she paused and smiled ‘...like making love in a hammock. I love your heart, your kindness. I saw you give Widow Anastas the extra fish.’ She thought he blushed. ‘I love you.’ And she did. She loved him enough to give him up. Wasn’t that what love was all about? Self-sacrifice for another?
‘You forgot to mention my body. You love my body,’ he joked. She would have swatted him for insouciance, but it was his way of coping with the intimacy of feelings put into words, something he wasn’t familiar with. She wished she could make sure he became comfortable with such a thing, but that required him being comfortable with himself and the idea that he was worthy of love. Such acceptance took time. She doubted she would have that much time. She would not have him long enough.
She laughed. ‘And I love your body.’ She ran her hands up his arms, revelling in their corded length, their strength. ‘I would like nothing more right now than to have that body carry me into the house and make love to me in a proper bed.’
‘Mmm...’ Brennan bit her neck. ‘Why don’t we stay here and do the hammock again?’
‘I don’t think I can survive it.’
Brennan slid a hand underneath her blouse. ‘You’ll survive it because this time we’ll both be naked.’
She smiled, moving her arms to help him with her clothes. ‘Why not?’ Once more into pleasure’s breach she slid because she didn’t know when she might get the chance again. He loved her and she loved him. They’d said powerful words to one another. But those words didn’t change the situation they faced or what she had to do. If anything, they made it more imperative. Another man who loved her wasn’t going to die for her. When Castor returned, she’d go straight to the devil himself and bargain for Brennan’s life with her very soul if need be.
Chapter Seventeen
Castor looked at the report. It was official. He hated the Englishman. Hated him enough to interrupt his circuit of the coastal towns to come back to Kardamyli and send out the invitations to his banquet two days earlier than planned. It had taken a day and a half of hard riding to return, but he couldn’t stay away knowing every day he did was another day the Englishman was in Patra’s bed, filling her head with ideas of freedom, making her forget who she belonged to.
Castor crumpled the report with a vicious fist. He hated the Englishman for more reasons than his possession of Patra. The Englishman was to be envied. He commanded the village’s affections. People liked Carr. His secretary’s report had held more details than merely the salacious ones of what had gone on at Patra’s house. The men liked drinking with Carr, the women insisted on buying his fish. Konstantine Zabros’s business had never been better. He made people smile. People would follow him if he ever understood his own power.
Leaders recognised other leaders and Brennan Carr was definitely a leader. That made him dangerous to Castor. Castor was honest with himself. The people of Kardamyli followed him these days out of fear, not out of a sense of fealty. He wished it could be otherwise. He recognised fear had limitations. It wore off if it wasn’t exercised and regularly proven. It appeared Patra was proof of that. For four years, he’d stayed away, confident that she was his, confident that she’d learned her lesson about drawing men to her. He’d been busy in Athens, focused on his political advancement with the new king, and the last suitor, a farmer from a neighbouring village who had barely shown interest, had been easily chased away.
He had been certain all he had to do was wait for Patra to recognise he would be her only option, ever. He’d been wrong. While he had been building a future for her, for them, among the elite in Athens, she’d taken an Englishman to bed, thinking it was safe to do so, forgetting she belonged to Castor. It would be best for all parties involved if Brennan Carr simply disappeared. Castor fingered a sharp letter opener. He’d kill Carr if he had to, but as a foreign national, Carr’s death might come back to haunt him. He’d rather just have Carr leave. He glanced at the clock on the table-turned-desk in his makeshift office. It was nearly ten o’clock. The banquet was tonight and he rather thought he’d see Patra come through his door any moment. He knew what made her tick. She would want to ‘save’ Brennan.
The thought made him laugh. She might understand how he operated, but she still made the same faulty assumption about dealing with him. She assumed because she played by the rules, he did, too. He wondered what she’d bring to barter. He might even take what she offered. But that wouldn’t change the outcome. He’d do whatever he wanted to do in the end, bargain or not.
His secretary stepped into the office, a figure in skirts following behind him. ‘You have an appointment, Captain. Widow Tspiras has requested an audience.’
He looked up with a smile. ‘What a pleasant surprise and right on time, too.’ He loved it when his machinations came together. ‘Well, well, well, Patra. I see you have come to beg.’
* * *
Patra had known exactly where to find him. Wherever Castor went, he had a personality that was larger than life, that filled every room, attracted every eye. It was what made him such a charismatic patriot for the Greek cause. He was handsome and immaculate, always, even in the morning. No one would guess he possessed such dark sins beneath all that perfection. Once upon a time, even she hadn’t guessed. How could she expect others to when he was a consummate master of his masquerade?
She hated that she was so predictable. He’d known she was coming. He’d known the invitation would bring her running. ‘Come sit and eat, Patra. There is fresh coffee and bougatsa.’ He waved towards a small table and two chairs where the pastries were laid out. ‘I remember how much you like them. Do you still have a sweet tooth?’ He winked as if they were old friends, as if there was no spilled blood between them. She wanted to slap him.
‘I prefer to stand and I am not hungry,’ she bit out tersely.
He made a moue of disappointment. ‘I had them prepared especially for you.’ Her temper rose at his audacity. He’d been that certain she’d come.
&nbs
p; ‘Are you sure? I can’t possibly eat in front of a lady.’ If that were true, it would be one of the few things he wouldn’t deign to do in front of a lady and certainly not the worst. If he was waiting for her to give him permission, she wouldn’t do it. It was a petty battle, but she was not about to condone even the simplest of his behaviours.
‘I came to tell you to leave Brennan Carr alone.’
Castor gave a cold laugh. ‘You came to tell me? Not to ask me? My, my, Patra. You’ve grown bold or else he must mean a great deal to you.’ Castor’s brown eyes glinted dangerously.
‘I came to tell you because he means nothing to me. He means nothing to you. He is not a spy. He is not part of the cause. He merely stumbled upon the village and decided to stay. That is all. He is innocent.’ This was the lie she had to sell. If he was convinced Brennan was nothing to her, he would leave Brennan alone.
Castor made a great show out of smoothing the crumpled papers. ‘After reading the details of my secretary’s report, I must disagree with that particular assessment. It appears you have a great deal of affection for him. I admit to having some curiosity about the depth of those affections. He is so much younger than you, after all.’ Good lord, what was in that report? Patra felt a cold sinking feeling. He’d had her watched! She decided to brazen it out.
‘You can’t go killing every man who does a chore around my place. He fixed my shed and painted my house.’ Patra held his cold stare with a steely gaze of her own. The last accusation angered him.
‘He did far more than patch a roof. I have it all right here, if you care to read it? Perhaps you might remember this: “They sat at an outdoor table for supper, with candles, before rising and going into the house together around eleven o’clock. The Englishman did not come out again.” Does that sound familiar?’ He shook the papers at her, jealous rage starting to brew. Patra swallowed hard as he came around the desk. She could see the flare of his nostrils, but she refused to flinch. She had a knife. She would use it, she reminded herself, if he came closer, if he tried to touch her.
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