Rake Most Likely to Sin

by Bronwyn Scott

  The marriage was unorthodox by the priest’s standards. He would have preferred they be married inside the church, and he would have preferred Brennan be Greek, but Brennan had been persuasive and compromises had been reached. Brennan was Greek enough for the village and that was all that mattered. The priest placed the stefana—the crowns—on their heads and said the prayers that made them man and wife as tiny warm waves rippled over their feet. Brennan closed his eyes, his hand tight over Patra’s, wanting to capture this moment in its entirety, the moment his heart knew he was home.

  There was partying in the agora afterwards, joyous hours filled with ale and wine, cakes and dancing before the town escorted them to their wedding night on ‘Brennan’s Hill’ beneath the stars.

  ‘Alone at last.’ Brennan smiled at his bride as the voices of the singing townsfolk faded off into the night.

  ‘Never alone,’ Patra said softly. ‘Not as long as I’m with you.’ Her hands untied the laces of her bodice and she slipped out of the overdress, her shift flowing loosely about her, made transparent by the moonlight.

  Brennan swallowed hard against his rising desire. He had all night. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He bent beneath his bush and pulled out the blanket and a large basket.

  ‘The hill gets better and better provisioned,’ Patra teased as Brennan went through the market basket.

  He handed her a carefully wrapped package. ‘I brought it from Venice.’ Venice seemed a lifetime ago. ‘At the time I didn’t know why I bought it. I saw it in a window and it compelled me. I saved it, hoping there would be cause to give it to someone.’ Hoping, but never actually believing he’d find a woman special enough to wear it.

  Patra smiled at him and undid the string. The wrapping fell away and she sighed. ‘Oh! It’s beautiful.’ She held the white-silk nightgown against her. ‘I shall save it for England. Thank you, Brennan.’

  ‘There’s a story behind it...’ Brennan began, thinking of what happened to the first nightgown he’d bought. This one was the second.

  Patra pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Save it for later. I have a gift for you, too.’ She went to a bush of her own and pulled out a much smaller basket. She took out a jar of thyme honey. ‘You’ll have to lie down for it, though.’ Her eyes sparked wickedly.

  ‘I have to lie down for honey?’ Brennan teased, an idea starting to take shape in his mind as he stretched out on the blanket. ‘There’s nothing to put it on.’

  She gave him a hot look that had him instantaneously hard. ‘There’s you.’ She dipped a finger in the jar. It came up gold and glistening. She put the finger in her mouth and sucked. His pulse skipped. Sweet heaven, he was going to spend before a drop of that honey even got on him.

  She knelt between his legs, her hands pushing back the folds of his foustanella until he was revealed to her, the honey dipper dripping its golden offering on the tip of his very ready phallus. She looked up at him, a veritable houri with her hair gathered over one shoulder, her eyes full of emotion. She gave him a slow smile before she bent and took him with her mouth.

  Her tongue moved over his weeping tip and Brennan knew he was going to die. From pleasure. He could see his tombstone now: Brennan Alexander Carr dead at thirty from extensive pleasure. He’d been taken like this before, by women reputed to have great skill in the art of fellatio, but nothing rivalled Patra in these exquisite moments.

  It occurred to him vaguely in some small, detached portion of his mind that could still process thought it was because the act mattered to her. She was not performing for him, not going through some technical routine that had been done perhaps countless times before. This was for him alone.

  Patra’s hand cupped his balls, her tongue trailing down the intimate length of him, her mouth moving around him, alternately licking at him, sucking at him, in a most decadent rhythm. His muscles clenched, tightness building on intensity. His hands anchored in the silky depths of her hair, his body gathering itself for a final, surging release. He groaned, an incoherent sound, part-warning, part-overwhelmed helplessness as the pleasure took him. Patra held him in her hand, letting him pulse and spend in the warmth of her grip.

  He felt both vulnerable and powerful in the moments that followed. Physically, he lay slumped on his blanket, exposed and drained in the most satiated of ways, never mind that he couldn’t have lifted a finger to defend himself if he’d had to. Maybe, he’d have been able to manage something. He’d like to think so. But mentally he was strong, empowered by the dark liquid of Patra’s gaze, the reverence in her eyes when she looked up at him. There was still a journey to be faced. They would leave for England tomorrow, but he would face it with her beside him just as he would face the years of his life. He would never be alone again. He would be loved always.

  Epilogue

  Dover, England—one year later

  Lucifer’s bloody balls! They were going to be late for their own farewell breakfast. Brennan leaned out of the carriage in irritation and surveyed the scene ahead of them. A dray had overturned, blocking the road outside the Antwerp Hotel.

  ‘I told you we should have left earlier,’ Patra teased with a coy smile, poking her head out to see the wreck.

  Brennan laughed and sat back in his seat. ‘Told me, did you? You weren’t protesting that hard. As I recall, you were the one who started it, you with your wicked hand under the blankets.’ They probably shouldn’t have indulged themselves one more time, but it was hard to resist when one’s wife was so very giving.

  Wife. It had been a year and he still loved the feel of that, of knowing she was his. Today, they were going home to Kardamyli, to start their life there together, one year and two weddings later. His grandfather the earl had insisted on doing it ‘right’ in an English church. All the Carrs had been married at St George’s, Brennan was to be no exception. It had taken five months, most of the winter, to plan and his grandfather had spared no expense, turning the purse strings over to Brennan’s mother. By English standards, the wedding had been a success; rose petals and yards of silk galore. The event had been the talk of the early 1838 Season. Patra had looked magnificent in his grandmother’s wedding gown, inspiring summer brides to rummage old family trunks for heirloom gowns of their own.

  Although Brennan far preferred his wedding in Kardamyli, there had been one advantage in all the planning. It had bought his friends time to make the journey. Nolan and Gianna were already in England, but Haviland and Alyssandra had come from Paris. Archer and Elisabeta had come from Siena. They had come to see him marry Patra and they’d stayed for the first part of the Season, too. For Haviland and Archer, it was the first time they’d been back since their own marriages.

  Now it was time for all of them to go home. The others were leaving today, as well. Like him, they’d stayed long enough to assure themselves home was elsewhere. For him, home was in Greece, in a little whitewashed house with blue shutters. He could hardly wait to get there, but it seemed traffic had conspired against him.

  Brennan glanced over at Patra, a single thought passing between them unspoken. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Patra gave him a knowing smile. It was all the permission he needed. He grabbed her hand and flung open the carriage door. ‘We’re going to have to make a run for it.’

  It was almost déjà vu, running through the dawn streets like this, racing the clock. He had done this before. Almost. There were some considerable improvements this time around. There were no men chasing him with pistols for starters. Patra laughed as they ran, a clock somewhere in the city striking the hour. They were officially late. Haviland, Archer and Nolan would never let him live it down.

  They were both flushed when they reached the pier where their yacht was tied, a wedding present from his grandfather. It would carry them past Spain and into the Mediterranean at record speed, courtesy of Sutton designs.

  Applause broke out from
the rail and Brennan sighted his friends, already on board and waiting for breakfast. ‘You’re late. It’s nice to see some things never change,’ Nolan called out, as Archer reluctantly handed over pound notes.

  Brennan laughed. ‘Did you lose again, Archer? As long I’ve known you, you have yet to win a bet with that man.’

  Breakfast was laid out on the deck, making the most of the June sun and Brennan fixed himself a heaping plate. Everyone was in good spirits, talking about plans for when they got home. His friends were as eager as he was to get back to real life. Haviland and Alyssandra had plans to expand their fencing salle in Paris to accommodate their growing clientele. Nolan and Gianna had purchased a second home, this one in London, for wayward boys. Archer and Elisabeta had new foals to raise, and, Archer disclosed, with a wink, a baby to welcome next winter. They’d just learned of it and were now doubly eager to reach Siena.

  Brennan looked at the happiness around the table. Each of them had made peace with their families and their decisions in their own ways as he had. His parents were who they were. He couldn’t change them, but he could change himself. He’d learned he was responsible for his own happiness and he was embracing that responsibility wholeheartedly.

  Plates emptied. Conversation dwindled. The yacht captain approached the table, reluctant to break up the party. ‘We should be setting out soon, Mr Carr.’

  There was a burst of renewed energy as everyone complimented the yacht, a fast new prototype out of the renowned Sutton Yacht Works, a company that had become quite the scandal in the last few weeks, especially since the new owner, Elise Sutton, had recently eloped with the Scourge of Gibraltar, Dorian Rowland, after a hair-raising sailing race against the once-unbeatable Phantasm.

  ‘Don’t you know any reputable people, Bren?’ Nolan joked.

  Brennan cocked his head in thought. ‘I know you. Oh, wait. No, I guess not,’ he joked, but the inevitable could not be put off much longer. It was time to go. As excited as he was to go home, it would be hard to leave—not England, he knew where his home was. But it would be hard to leave his friends. Archer and Haviland would set out today, too, on different boats, in different directions: Haviland and Alyssandra to Calais, Archer and Elisabeta to Ostend.

  The group moved towards the gangplank and Brennan and Patra met each of them with hugs and well wishes for the wives that had made his friends so happy. Brennan embraced each of his friends, thickness in his throat. ‘Haviland, thank you for always looking out for me at school even when I was an underclassman and for teaching me swords. It has, unfortunately, come in handy. I think you made me finer than I might otherwise have been.’ He turned to Archer. ‘Without your excellent riding instructions over the years, such as how to leap on to a running horse, I might have missed the boat two years ago in more ways than one. I would never have met the woman who showed me how to live and how to love.’

  Nolan came last, unusually quiet. The two of them had become close on the tour, the only ones who had gone on to Venice together. Brennan had been the only one in Verona when Nolan had married Gianna on the run. It was a tribute to the new depth of their friendship that Nolan was rendered speechless. ‘Perhaps I owe you the most, dear friend,’ Brennan said loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Thank you for fighting a duel that got us kicked out of the country.’ There was some general laughter and Brennan grinned, holding his friend close, letting his embrace say what words could not—that he owed Nolan far more than that. Nolan would understand.

  The gangplank was lifted and the anchor chain began to roll up. Patra looped her arms around his waist as the sleek yacht edged away from the pier, from his friends. Brennan raised an arm once in farewell. He knew they would do him the honour of standing there until he was out of sight. ‘You will miss them,’ she said softly.

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll see them again.’

  ‘You will,’ Patra reassured him with a kiss. ‘We have a fast boat and the world is changing, distances are getting smaller. Anything is possible when love is present.’ She drew his hand down over her belly.

  ‘Anything?’ Brennan’s breath caught at the implication.

  ‘Anything. Even a playmate for Archer and Elisabeta’s baby,’ she whispered.

  The captain approached discreetly with two champagne-filled glasses. Patra took them from him and gave one to Brennan. ‘I thought a toast might be in order. Sometimes it makes farewells easier.’

  Brennan raised his glass to the shore, to his friends, letting the sun catch the golden liquid. ‘Here’s to four rakes on tour, who managed to take Europe by storm and live happily ever after.’

  Farewells didn’t have to be goodbyes. They could be gateways to the future.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from WED TO THE TEXAS OUTLAW by Carol Arens.

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  Wed to the Texas Outlaw

  by Carol Arens

  Chapter One

  Buffalo Bend, Texas, October, 1883

  In the courthouse of the Honorable Harlan J. Mathers, located at the rear of the Golden Buffalo Saloon

  “Mr. Walker, do I have at least your partial attention?”

  The edge of impatience in the judge’s voice snapped Boone Walker back to the here and now. He shifted his gaze from the woman seated beside his lawyer to the matter at hand.

  “Beg pardon, Your Honor.” From his seat on the elevated defendant’s chair, Boone tried to direct his full attention to the proceedings but it wasn’t easy with the piano player on the other side of the thin wall practicing the tunes he, no doubt, intended to perform this evening.

  To Boone’s mind it sounded jarring and cheap. Even though he’d lived a tawdry life on the run from the law, he didn’t care for the irritating sound.

  “Keep in mind that we are determining your future,” the judge declared, glaring at him from under bushy gray brows. “The decisions made here might grant you your freedom.”

  He doubted that. Even if Judge Mathers personally handed him the keys to his prison cell, he couldn’t imagine that he would ever really be free.

  Public opinion had branded him an outlaw and that stigma would follow him forever; a dirty shadow that the brightest day would not diminish.

  A gust of Oct
ober wind blew a hail of yellow and red leaves past the courthouse window. Public opinion or not, he wouldn’t mind having these cuffs off his wrists so that he could gather a pile of autumn’s glory, toss it up and watch the leaves fly where they might and land where they pleased.

  In spite of the judge’s admonition, his attention returned to the woman. The public at large had not been admitted to this hearing. Other than a few curious faces peeking through the dust-smeared window, there was only him, an armed guard, his tenderfoot lawyer and the lady.

  And she was clearly a lady, as pretty as they came. She leaned forward in her chair, watching intently while Stanley Smythe paced and presented his case. Her eyes crinkled in concentration, a fine line creased her forehead nearly to her hairline. But it was the slight parting of her lips that intrigued him and kept his attention returning to her when it should be on the outcome of these proceedings.

  Why was she here? He was certain he didn’t know her. The women he had been acquainted with his whole life had not been ladies—beginning with the wife of the man he had shot all those years ago.

  “Let me present to you a boy, Your Honor.” His lawyer, Stanley Smythe, swept his arm dramatically toward Boone. The little man stood as proudly as his five-foot-and-about-three-inch frame would allow. “Imagine, if you will, the boy Boone Lantree used to be before he crossed paths with a certain kind of woman. What chance did he have against that cunning taker of innocence? A scarlet woman to the core? And she, along with a vagrant known to be intoxicated at the time, the only witnesses to the presumed crime, other than the defendant’s brother.”