Rake Most Likely to Sin Page 6

  Brennan grinned, covering up the moment of inner turmoil with nonchalance. ‘Yes, I do. I need an answer to my proposition last night.’ She gave him a quizzical look, unsure what to say. He stretched out in the grass beside her. ‘You know, the one I made right before I kissed you.’

  Chapter Six

  Of course he would mention that. Patra felt her cheeks flush and she struggled to thread her needle. He really didn’t play fair. Last night was supposed to exist in a vacuum, it wasn’t official, it wasn’t supposed to count for anything beyond a momentary escape. How was it that a singular evening had now become the basis for a proposition? A proposition she didn’t quite remember. In her defence, she’d been more focused on his mouth at the time than she’d been on the words coming out of it.

  Brennan reached over and took the needle from her, threaded it deftly, much to her irritation, and set it aside. ‘Perhaps you need a reminder?’ His voice was a low seductive ripple of words. ‘I believe I was like this.’ His body angled close to her as it had been last night, the mere proximity of him sending a heated rush through her. ‘My hand was just so.’ His palm cupped her jaw, warm and welcoming against her skin. ‘My mouth was here—’ here being a scant half-inch hovering above hers ‘—and I said...’

  Patra swallowed, his touch doing all sorts of things to her self-control. She remembered now. ‘Something about joining forces.’ At the time, she hadn’t given it much credence, just words murmured in flirtation at a hot moment.

  ‘Well? What do you think? We both have unwanted suitors. By pretending to be together, we can convince them their attentions are futile.’ It was hard to resist when his voice was a husky murmur against her throat, his mouth teasing her with its nearness, making her memory crave his kiss. ‘It would be worthwhile, Patra.’

  Patra summoned the last of her willpower and pulled back. ‘Worthwhile for whom? You? What happens when you leave? I will be the poor jilted widow.’ That was only the obvious concern. Brennan only thought it would be worthwhile for him. He saw this as a long-term escape from Katerina’s clutches.

  ‘For you, too,’ Brennan argued, dropping his hand from her cheek. ‘You can satisfy the town’s desire for you to socially engage while not having to entertain one of those greybeards under false pretences.’

  On the surface, it did look like an expedient solution to the rather pesky problem of her insistent suitors. Still, she wasn’t naïve. She doubted his motives were entirely altruistic. ‘Somehow I doubt it’s that simple,’ Patra challenged. ‘Do you think to use it as a ploy to land yourself in my bed? Steal a few more kisses?’

  ‘Nothing will happen that you do not wish. What we do inside the privacy of the ruse is up to us alone,’ Brennan said solemnly. She believed him as far as that went. He was a rogue, but he had honour. He would never force himself on her. But that was the problem. She highly doubted there’d be any force involved. What if she did wish for something more? Or thought she did?

  Last night was proof enough that he could coax a response from her, that she was not immune to the pull of attraction between them. The power of attraction would rear its head as it had last night. They could not spend time in one another’s presence and remain entirely unaffected. Did she dare explore that pull when it surfaced again? Above all, could she keep Brennan safe from her secrets? Anything more than a temporary association with her could be, well, deadly, if the wrong people heard of it.

  And yet, maybe it would be safe enough. How long would Brennan truly stay? Who would tell? The argument from last night rose, joined by the recent mantra that had taken up residence in her mind: maybe four years was long enough, maybe Castor had let her go. Brennan was an Englishman, he was leaving. He had no future here, nothing that could be held against him. Castor Apollonius couldn’t touch him. Patra shut her eyes and made a quick, silent promise. For a short time at least, she could have what the Englishman offered; a convenient ruse and perhaps a little more should she decide. But only under one condition: she would release him at the first sign of trouble.

  Patra swallowed and met his blue eyes. There was a calm reassurance there, encouraging her, persuading her she was going to make the right decision. Did any woman ever say no to him? ‘All right, I accept your proposition.’

  Brennan leaned in with a wide smile, his hand taking her cheek in a soft caress. ‘You won’t be sorry.’ But he didn’t back away.

  ‘What are you doing?’ In less than a second it became a rhetorical question. Her body knew what he was doing. Her lips had already parted, her eyes were already half-closed.

  ‘An old English tradition,’ he murmured, picking up with his seduction where he’d left off a few moments ago. ‘Sealing our deal with a kiss.’

  Patra let herself sink into it because she wanted to, because his kisses were intoxicating, and because it was better than the alternative of giving into the small voice of dissent that lingered somewhere in the back of her mind, crying out that she was going to regret this, only to be answered with the response familiar to hedonists everywhere, but not today. For now, that was good enough. Today, everything was all sunshine and light.

  Modon, on the Peloponnesian Peninsula

  Candlelight threw shadows on the stone walls of the dark room, lending a covert air to the meeting as the Grand Master of the Filiki Eteria uttered the words that fired Castor Apollonius’s blood. ‘There has been a development. I need you to do something for me.’ This was what Castor lived for: deadly opportunity. This wasn’t the first conversation he’d had with the Grand Master that started this way or took place in such a locale. Secrecy and privacy, were the watchwords of the Filiki Eteria, especially in these times where their power was contested by the new government in Athens. It was a situation Castor was eager to do something about.

  Castor inclined his head respectfully towards the man who had spoken. ‘I am at your disposal, as always.’ He kept his voice calm, but his heart was beginning to race, his adrenaline beginning to flow. At last, the Filiki Eteria, the organisation that had been the success behind the independence movement, was ready to move again. It was about time. The years since the war had not seen the organisation grow in power as anticipated when King Otto took the throne of Greece. Instead, the Filiki Eteria had diminished and King Otto was a mere boy. It was time for the second phase of independence; doing away with the monarchy, or at least with Otto, and setting in his place a man who wasn’t controlled by the powers of Europe.

  ‘We need to gather a group of men. It is time to go to Athens.’ The Grand Master turned to face him, speaking the words Castor had yearned to hear for years. ‘We will need loyal men from the Peloponnese. It is why I have been asked to handle this and why I am asking you to be my emissary.’

  Castor acknowledged the compliment with a nod. The men of the Peloponnese had seen the brunt of the fighting during the war. They deserved the honour to serve prominently in this second phase, they’d earned the right to be part of the group going to Athens.

  ‘I want you to start in Kardamyli, Brother Castor.’ The words took Castor by surprise, but he was careful not to show it. The Grand Master liked cool-headed men, not those guided by passions.

  ‘Why Kardamyli?’ It was a bold question to ask the head of the Filiki Eteria in this region. One did not challenge him even when that person ranked as high in the organisation as Castor. He had not been to Kardamyli for four years, although he had men watching the village on occasion. She was there, the woman he couldn’t forget.

  The Grand Master drummed his fingers on the desktop, his eyes on him, studying. ‘There are reports of an Englishman lingering there. I thought there might be some help in that for us now that we’ve decided to make a move against Otto.’

  This was not news. Castor’s sources had informed him of the Englishman’s presence a few months ago when it became evident the man was going to stay around. But it had been of
no consequence at the time. There was something more the Grand Master was not telling him. He was going to have to probe for it. ‘What is the Englishman to us, sir?’

  The Grand Master gave a wry smile. ‘He may have information about Britain’s willingness to help us.’

  Castor lifted his brows. ‘You think he’s a spy?’

  ‘If he is not, he can be an example. Perhaps he can be used to coax Britain to our aid. I doubt Britain will look favourably on one of their own being killed abroad.’

  ‘Ah, you mean to make a martyr of him?’ Castor could see how that would be useful. Britain might think twice about supporting a monarchy that couldn’t keep their people safe.

  ‘I want you to take the lead on that.’ The Grand Master paused, his words coming slowly. ‘There is something else. Our dear, departed Brother Dimitri’s widow is still there. She might be of use to us as a translator if she could be persuaded to join us once more. You’ve always taken a special interest in her. Perhaps you could persuade her, perhaps renew your acquaintance with her.’ The Grand Master’s tone was mild, as if he didn’t guess at the depth of emotions Castor associated with Patra Tspiras.

  Castor felt his blood heat at the mention of her. Once, he’d waited for her to finish her grieving, to come to her senses and acknowledge the passion between them, and she had rejected him outright. He absently fingered the hilt of the blade at his belt. He had sworn years ago that if he couldn’t have her, no one would.

  He bowed to the Grand Master, betraying none of the inward excitement stirring over this mission. ‘I will go to Kardamyli. I will leave as soon as arrangements are made.’ This time she would not refuse him. He was done playing the gentleman. What he couldn’t take by persuasion, he would take by force.

  Chapter Seven

  To refuse was futile, Patra thought with a laugh, her feet sinking into the sun-warmed sand on the quiet beach. It had been the motto of the week. She’d had a week now to get used to the ruse, to him. But there was so much she hadn’t bargained on, such as his constant presence. He made a point of seeing her for part of every day, even if it was simply stepping away from the fish stall just long enough to take a stroll through the market. Of course, she knew it was all for show. No one would believe Brennan had an interest in her or she in him if they weren’t seen together. Market strolls were a perfect way to suggest a relationship was budding, the natural product of having shared a dance which had led to doing a few repairs around her home.

  Brennan had masterminded a very believable progression of their relationship for all to see and he was careful not to push the boundaries of propriety in public. But they were not always in public. That was when she had to remind herself it was all a ruse, an act, most particularly on days like today when there was no one to perform for and it was far too easy to forget.

  Water lapped at Patra’s toes, covering them with warm waves. Brennan had wanted to go swimming and so they had. It was outrageous and potentially scandalous: swimming. With Brennan Carr. She could add that to the growing list of things she shouldn’t have done but had.

  Brennan had been quite persuasive. It was too hot to work this afternoon, the beach was a hidden cove, no one would see, he’d said, flashing her an irresistible smile and holding out a hand to help her up on the narrow seat of his borrowed work wagon. So here she was, toes digging into the sand, waves pushing against her feet and her pulse racing because one never knew what Brennan would do next, or what he’d invite her to do next.

  This week, she’d discovered it wasn’t so much what Brennan did that was scandalous as much as what he got others to do. She was leading herself down a dangerous path; first dancing, then star-gazing, sharing meals and now this. She recognised he hadn’t broken his word that nothing would happen she didn’t desire. She couldn’t help herself and it just seemed to get easier and easier as the choices grew. The problem wasn’t Brennan, it was her, all her. She was making choices that created intimacy. And now, apparently, nudity.

  At the water’s edge, Brennan was already stripping out of his shirt and tossing it aside with unabashed glee at the prospect of the sea. His joy reminded her of a child let out of school for an unexpected holiday. It made her smile and it made her jealous. When was the last time she’d felt that carefree? Watching him shed his shirt stirred her own hunger. She wanted to claim that same freedom for herself, too.

  He didn’t stop there. He let the foustanella drop to the sand just beyond the water, offering her an unobstructed view of firm, muscled buttocks. They were marble hard, a sculptor’s delight—and a woman’s. Who wouldn’t want to run a hand over such a masterpiece? She could see the horizontal line of color that delineated those white buttocks from the tan of his uncovered back.

  Brennan glanced over his shoulder, unbothered by her gaze. ‘Are you coming or are you just going to stand there and look?’ Something he clearly wouldn’t mind, she realised. He was comfortable with himself, confident in his body with clothes or without. It was an earthy trait, not something she’d have expected from a gentleman, certainly not the gentlemen officers she’d met during the war.

  ‘Well?’ Brennan challenged with a grin. ‘Come on!’ The envy she’d felt became yearning. She wanted nothing more than to be like him, to be confident in her body the way she had been once. To revel in what her body offered instead of fear it. Twelve years was a long time to hide. If this week had proven refusal was futile, it had perhaps also proven that she was safe now. Castor had moved on. She should move on, too.

  The decision made her exultant. Here on this beach, with this man, she would shed the last of the chains of the past. She favoured Brennan with a smile that answered his challenge and reached for her shoes, then her stockings. Her skirt fell and she pulled her loose cotton blouse over her head, until she stood on the beach wearing only her chemise.

  ‘That’s so much better.’ Brennan’s grin was infectious as he held out his hand. ‘I’ll race you in!’ She slipped her hand in his, and they began to run, splashing and laughing in the warm waves. In an instant, swimming actually became about swimming. Any self-consciousness over nakedness or wet, revealing chemises evaporated in the wake of the magic conjured up by these waves. This was living, this was fun. She felt reborn in the waters, a part of her experiencing this freedom for the first time.

  Brennan executed a shallow dive and disappeared under the surface. Only then did she realise she hadn’t looked at him, except for his buttocks. The realisation spoke volumes about the nature of this expedition. Perhaps it was possible that a man and woman could have fun together without it having to mean something sensual?

  Brennan surfaced several yards away and broke into a crawl stroke that showcased the muscles of his arms, the sleek athleticism of his body as it cut through the water. She abruptly rescinded her position. No. It was not possible. He was showing off for her now, but it made her grin. Maybe Brennan couldn’t help it. Everything was a big flirt to him, even her, even inside the parameters of this make-believe arrangement. Maybe that was all right. Why not flirt, why not enjoy one another’s company as long as it was safe? And it was.

  Patra dived beneath the water and swam out after him. She had some showing off to do, too.

  They swam together, daring each other to silly races. They dived beneath the surface to swim with the colourful little fish. The waves were calm, the water warm and they were in no hurry for it to end. When they were exhausted, they flipped on to their backs and let their bodies bob on the waves. The sun was starting its slow descent by the time they decided to swim back to the beach. Their towels and a blanket waited, warm from the afternoon. Brennan wrapped his around his waist and stretched out on the blanket. ‘This is all I need: a beach, some sand, water, a blanket or two.’ He gave her a melting smile. ‘And a lovely woman to share it with.’

  Patra wrapped her towel about her and sat beside him, but she could feel her
own awareness of their rather clothesless state start to return. Perhaps it had been his words. She shoved the self-conscious feeling aside, trying to hold on to the magic as long as possible. She looked out over the water. To look at him would be too potent. She feared it would wreck what was left of the magic. ‘You surprise me. You’re not like any gentlemen I know. They have to have their estates, their fortunes. Their lives are too complicated to settle for beaches and sand.’

  Brennan chuckled. ‘You’re a lady of mystery, Patra. What do you know of English gentlemen?’ he teased. ‘I think you’ve been holding out on me.’

  ‘There were British officers on the peninsula during the war. We encountered a few,’ she offered, turning to give him a brief glance.

  ‘Is that how you learned English?’ Brennan propped himself into a half-reclining position, levered up on one arm.

  Patra nodded. ‘Translators were a rare commodity this far from Athens and I had an aptitude for it.’

  A little wall of silence sprung up between them. Brennan’s voice was quiet, serious, when he breached that wall with tentative solemnity. ‘You were involved in the war then. Is that how you lost your husband?’

  The hesitancy of his tone suggested he recognised he was pushing the boundaries of polite conversation. But, Patra thought, why not push that boundary as well when the two of them had pushed so many limits already today? She played with the fringe of the blanket, plaiting it into little braids. Perhaps this was part of her new freedom, acknowledging the past instead of hiding from it. ‘Yes. Early 1825. He was with Ibrahim, Mehmet Ali’s son, in the fight at the Turkish stronghold of Modon. The Turks on the peninsula had no intention of going easily and we had no intentions of letting them stay.’

  Brennan nodded gravely. ‘The scorched-earth campaign. I’ve heard of it, very intense.’

  ‘How did you guess?’ She hazarded a sideways look at him, fearing she’d see pity in his eyes.