Rake Most Likely to Sin Read online

  Brennan returned the embrace for a moment, his voice low for Haviland alone. ‘You told me all I had to do was show up and I did.’

  Haviland laughed, which was what Brennan had intended. Haviland needed to laugh more. He was far too serious, especially these last three months. Brennan knew he’d been busy with arrangements for the trip, but Brennan thought the seriousness came from more than that, from something deeper. Although it was hard to imagine Haviland with any real problems. His life was perfect inside and out.

  If there was trouble inside Haviland’s life, Brennan would know. He’d been going home with Haviland since he was fifteen and Haviland had taken pity on him in school. Haviland’s family was always appropriately civil, always politely welcoming, their home always well ordered, his mother at one end of the dinner table smiling at his father at the other end. It made his own home look like absolute chaos. Even his farewell had been devoid of any real feeling. There’d been no organised goodbye dinner, no teary farewells in the hallway the day he’d left, much as he imagined there’d been at Haviland’s town house.

  His own father had called him into the study five minutes before his scheduled departure, barely enough time to share a final drink. It wasn’t even a private moment. Nolan had been with him, having come to collect him. His father’s parting words to him in London had been, ‘Don’t get syphilis. You know...’ He’d stammered it awkwardly, never comfortable with his paternal role. ‘You know, just in case.’ Brennan had heard the rest of that unspoken message: just in case we need you, just in case your brother can’t get the job done with that mousy Mathilda he married. Then his father had pressed a package of French letters in his hand with a wink, ‘the best they make’.

  The comment had been entirely at odds with his father’s attempt at preaching sexual responsibility. Then again, perhaps not so incongruous. His father had always been more interested in being his friend than a paternal head of the house when he was interested at all. As farewells went, it was what Brennan had expected. It just wasn’t what he had hoped. After all, he’d be gone at least a year, perhaps longer. As last words and moments went, Brennan would have preferred ‘I love you, I will miss you, be safe’.

  Perhaps Nolan was right. Nolan had hypothesised late one very drunk night that he sought out sex to fill an emotional gap in his life. Nolan prided himself on being a student of human nature. At the time, Brennan had laughed. It was easier to laugh at such ideas than admit to them. No one liked acknowledging deficiencies.

  Archer led the horse away to a makeshift stall and the three of them took up positions at the rail, Nolan on one side of him, Haviland on the other as England grew tiny in the distance. Nolan shot him a side glance, mischief quirking his mouth into a half grin. ‘So,’ Nolan drawled, ‘the real question isn’t where you’ve been, but was she worth it?’

  Brennan laughed, because it was indeed hard to admit to mistakes, especially one’s own. ‘Always, Nol, always.’ He silently toasted a fading England. Here was to one more escape.

  Chapter Two

  Kardamyli, on the Greek Peloponnesian Peninsula

  —early spring, 1837

  He was going to need an escape plan. Again. The party in the town square to celebrate Konstantine’s birthday was only an hour in and Brennan was already headed for disaster of the female sort, careening towards it actually. He should not have danced with Katerina Stefanos. Now, he was trapped with her on one side of him, her father on the other, espousing his daughter’s wifely merits to the group, but especially to him.

  Somehow, Brennan had thought this time it would be different. He always thought that, but this time he’d really believed it because this time he was different or at least he’d thought so. He’d reached the ends of Europe here on the southernmost tip of the Peloponnesian Peninsula, he’d swapped his trousers for the traditional foustanella—the kilt worn by men in Greece. He’d traded in the traditional sights that populated an Englishman’s Grand Tour—the Acropolis with its Parthenon, Olympia with its pillared ruins—for the remote fishing village of Kardamyli, a town that was barely on the map, let alone the Grand Tour. In short, he had gone native, as far as an auburn-haired Englishman on the Greek peninsula could go, both figuratively and geographically.

  And it hadn’t mattered. Not really. It went to prove that you could take the boy out of trouble, but you couldn’t take trouble out of the boy. For all the outward changes he’d wrought, for the thousand miles he had travelled, there were, apparently, some things he had not succeeded in outrunning, mainly his penchant for landing in compromising situations without truly meaning to. There’d been the woman in Dover before he’d sailed, the rather possessive prostitute in Paris, the Alpine beauty in Bern, the opera singer in Venice and the opera singer in Milan because he hadn’t learned his lesson the first time. The list was rather, um, lengthy. Now, there was Katerina Stefanos to add to it, another woman who didn’t understand he wasn’t looking to make a commitment, wasn’t capable of making one.

  Her thickset father slapped a paternal hand on his shoulder, his voice booming out to the group over the music. ‘My Katerina makes the best diples in the village. A man will never go hungry with such a woman as her for his wife. A fine cook she is and a fine housekeeper, too, her linens are the whitest, her stitches the straightest. Her mother has taught her well and she has...’

  Wait for it. Brennan fought the urge to cringe. He knew what was coming next, testimony to how many times he’d heard it in the last month: two olive groves as her dowry. He knew! He knew! Enough already! Beside him, the lovely Katerina of the two olive groves tossed her dark hair and looped a bold, proprietary hand through his arm, further indication he had to move fast.

  His sense of urgency was beginning to border on panic. Of all the situations he’d been in, this one was by far the most dangerous. None of the other women in his past had wanted to marry him. They weren’t the marrying types. They’d merely wanted his patronage and his prick. Katerina and her father wanted something substantially more, ah, permanent. It might be time to start thinking of a more permanent solution on his end, too. Maybe this was a sign it was time to move on. He’d been here six months, longer than he’d stayed anywhere on his tour. Where he went from here wasn’t important at the moment. He’d think about that later. Right now, he was interested in a more immediate solution and for that, he’d need an ally. This time, he didn’t have his companions to extricate him. There was no Haviland, no Archer, no Nolan to help him out of this. He would have to manufacture an ally on his own.

  Brennan scanned the perimeter of the dance area, looking for something—someone—that might give him a reason to gracefully leave the group. There was no question of leaving the party itself so soon. It was Konstantine’s birthday and his friend had made a point of wanting him there. Brennan couldn’t disappoint him with an early departure especially when everyone in the village was here.

  ‘There is an old stone house on the far side of the olive groves. Father says it wouldn’t take much to fix up.’ Katerina beamed, her dark eyes slanting his way with a coy glance.

  Olive groves and a house, could they make it any easier for him? Most men of the sort who populated this part of the world would have said yes ages ago. Brennan shifted uneasily on his feet. It was getting harder and harder to refuse politely without appearing rude, or crazy. What man turned down the offer of a pretty wife, a house and an income? No one. That was the problem. There was no one. The recent war had claimed the lives of over twenty thousand. Like many small villages on the peninsula, Kardamyli lacked a surplus of marriageable young men. On those grounds, Brennan understood the persistence of the Stefanos. He even empathised with them. Who was there to marry these girls now with so many young men dead? But he could not sympathise with them...that was where he had to draw the line. Whomever Katerina Stefanos and her unmarried comrades-in-arms wed, it would not be him.

  He
should have seen it coming. Six months was a long time. He’d lived here, he’d spent his days in hard labour beside the men, heaving burgeoning nets of fish until his arms ached, or picking olives during the endless hours of the October harvest. He had revelled in the hard labour and the usefulness of his days. He’d been accepted as one of them with his foustanella and desire for hard work. The village had generously welcomed him and the women knew how to show their appreciation with delicious meals made up of exotically named foods: souvlakis, moussaka, spanakopita, spit-cooked lamb, the tzatziki and always the warm fresh-baked pita into which any number of fillings could be stuffed.

  Only now, that generosity was changing. It had been evident long before Katerina had been so bold as to pull him into the birthday dancing. It had been there in the conversations with the men these past few weeks, a new undertone about his future in the village. Which of the girls did he fancy? Katerina with her olive groves or perhaps Maria, whose father would give a son-in-law half interest in his fishing boats?

  There were so many pretty choices if marriage tempted him. It didn’t and he’d chosen to ignore the signs, because of what they meant. He had two choices: settling down and marrying one of the village beauties, or leaving. He wasn’t ready to leave Kardamyli. For the moment, there was no place he would rather be than here, in the town centre with its music and lanterns and plank tables groaning with food. No ballroom in London could look finer.

  In spite of the new pressure to marry, he liked it here, better than London, better than anywhere he’d been in Europe over the last two years. There had to be middle ground somewhere between matrimony and moving on, some way to prove his loyalty to the village without marrying for it. There also had to be middle ground tonight, too, a place between rudely leaving the party to escape Katerina or staying at the price of pledging his eternal devotion. If he could only find it and fast.

  Katerina discreetly brushed her breasts against his arm and her father gripped his shoulder in not-so-subtle encouragement that he declare himself. After all, Alexei Stefanos had put the world at his feet. What more could a father do for a beloved child? It was more than his father had ever done for him. But the only thought Brennan could muster was run!

  Any moment Katerina was going to suggest they take a stroll and he definitely didn’t want to do that. He had no doubt he’d come back compromised. Funny, he’d always thought if there was to be any compromising situations in his life, they would be the other way around. His panic was full-fledged now. Run, run, run, pounded in his head. To where? To whom?

  Brennan could see Konstantine making the rounds, visiting each cluster of guests. He would reach their group shortly and Brennan knew a little relief. There would be some help in that, but he would need a plan in place by the time Kon got there.

  Brennan quartered the agora with his eyes, his gaze taking in the dancers in the middle, the groups of partygoers on the perimeter, his eyes mentally assessing and discarding his options for an ally; no, not her—too desperate; no, too competitive; already married; good heavens, no, just no; maybe, no, no, no. Two-thirds of the way through the guests he stopped. This would never work. He was being too picky.

  His gaze started around the perimeter once more. No, no, wait. His eyes drifted back to the shadows. There was someone standing on the edge of the light. He recognised her as Patra Tspiras, the widow who bought fish from Konstantine, and she was alone. Better yet. He wouldn’t have to explain himself to everyone around her. Their eyes brushed for the briefest of moments. Her gaze slid away with a quickness that implied guilt over having been caught staring. A smile quirked at his lips. She’d been watching him. It was settled. He would run to her. Escape was in sight. He just needed to pick his moment.

  Konstantine approached the group, slapping guests on the back and kissing cheeks. ‘Are we having fun?’ he asked. His voice, loud like Stefanos’s, boomed over the music to be heard. He gave a broad wink to everyone, making an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘Tonight, I insist everyone have a good time. There is plenty to eat and to drink.’

  Impromptu toasts to Konstantine’s good health went up around them. Brennan saw his opening. He jerked his head towards the dark corner of the agora where Patra stood. ‘I think you’ve succeeded, Kon, with all but one. Perhaps I should go and spread the party cheer.’ He gave a farewell nod to the group and was off before anyone could protest, relief bringing a wide smile to his lips as he sought out the source of his liberation.

  * * *

  She did not want to be here! Patra covertly slipped a plate of baklava into the shadows, wishing she could disappear as easily. Well-meaning friends had been trying to feed her all night. They’d been trying to do more than feed her, in fact; they wanted her to eat, to dance, specifically they wanted her to dance with a sudden rash of male relatives, all of them of an older persuasion, who’d come from neighbouring villages. Patra wanted no part of it. She couldn’t have any part of it even if she did desire one of them.

  She would not have come at all if she could have managed it, but it would have been far harder to explain why she hadn’t come than to simply come and sneak off later once the niceties had been observed. In compromise, she stood off to the side of the festivities, trying hard to blend into the dark and thankful for the small miracle that for a few moments she was alone.

  She was grateful for her friends, but tonight she had little tolerance for their new and misdirected efforts. The older women who had surrounded her in the years since her husband’s death had decided amongst themselves she had mourned Dimitri long enough. It was time for her to remarry, no matter how many times she told them she had no intentions of marrying again.

  A loud burst of laughter from the dancing drew her eye to its source, coaxing a small smile from her. Of course. She shouldn’t be surprised the laughter belonged to the Englishman, Brennan Carr, who was twirling Katerina Stefanos through the steps of a dance. They made an attractive couple with their vivacious smiles and striking good looks.

  Patra felt a twinge of general envy watching them, or was that wistfulness? She and Dimitri had been that way; every day, every dance, every night, a chance to celebrate their life together. Now, that life was over, one more casualty in the fight for an independent Greece, a fight that had taken her husband and her naïveté with it. The naïve loved wholly, completely with mind, body and soul. She never wanted to risk feeling that way again. It took too much from a person, made oneself too vulnerable. But there were plenty of green girls in the village who were willing to risk it. She was probably the only woman in Kardamyli between sixteen and sixty who didn’t entertain ‘interest of a more personal nature’ in Brennan Carr. Then again, she was the only one who couldn’t risk it.

  The dance ended and she watched Brennan lead Katerina back to her father. The look on Katerina’s face was happily possessive. Patra wondered if the Englishman understood. She might hover on the periphery of village life, but even she knew the fathers of Kardamyli were angling to make Brennan a more permanent member of the community.

  Patra watched Brennan shift uneasily on his feet, his eyes darting through the crowd, looking for something, someone. Ah, so he did know. He was getting nervous, as well he should. The sort of Englishman who would come to Kardamyli was not the sort who would stay. Brennan Carr was an adventurer. Marriage and a wife would put a stop to those adventures.

  He was quartering the crowd with his eyes, his gaze inevitably headed her way. She should step, out of his path. She didn’t want company and yet something stubborn encouraged her eyes to meet his when they passed, encouraged her gaze to linger on his in a brief connection before she understood what it was asking. He was looking for an escape and he had settled on her. She moved her gaze away and stepped back, but the damage was done. It was too late to second-guess her choice. She’d stared too long. Now, Brennan Carr was headed her direction, all blue eyes and swagger, and there was no one to b
lame but herself.

  People would be bound to notice, in part because this was most uncharacteristic of her, but mostly because of him. It was no secret among the women folk he’d been setting hearts astir since his arrival. But she’d prudently kept her distance for many reasons. She simply wasn’t interested and even if she was, he was in his late twenties and far too young for her mature thirty-five, until, quite obviously, now.

  Patra swallowed. He stood in front of her, his eyes as blue as gossip reported, his strong tan hands hitched in the wide leather belt of his foustanella riding low on his hips, as he drawled with all the cocky confidence of a man who knew he was right, ‘You were watching me.’

  ‘I was concerned for you,’ Patra corrected, meeting his boldness with a coolness of her own. She nodded in the direction of the Stefanos. ‘You didn’t look entirely comfortable with the proceedings.’

  ‘As well I wasn’t.’ His grin broadened and her breath caught. He had a most expressive face when he smiled. The bones were magnificent, a sculptor’s dream: sharp, jutting cheekbones that framed the straight length of his nose and a mouth that promised to deliver all nature of sin. Objectively speaking, Patra could see what all the fuss was about and what all the fuss was going to be about if he stayed around much longer. Women would go to war over a man like him. He’d become their very own version of a Helen.

  He gave her a meaningful look, his eyes skimming her mouth. His voice dropped to a most private level as his body angled close to hers so that his quiet words could be heard above the music without calling public attention to them. ‘You have rescued me. I am prepared to be grateful.’

  Dear lord, he was audacious! His words sent a bolt of unlooked-for white heat straight through her, whether she was interested or not. A woman might have survived him if all he possessed was a pretty face, but he had charm, too, loads of it, and there were those eyes to consider; a shockingly dark blue like the Mediterranean at sunset. She’d already felt the power of them when he’d sought her out, and now she felt it again, more intensely, as those eyes bestowed the briefest of glances on her lips.