Rake Most Likely to Sin

by Bronwyn Scott

  Laundry was not a good idea. Patra scrubbed at the collar of his shirt, working on a stubborn smudge. When she’d offered, she’d been unaware of how intimate doing the laundry could be—his shirt, her chemises, all lying out in the sun together drying. It might as well be an announcement of her intentions: I mean to take you to bed. Or maybe her imagination was overactive. She was making too much out of a simple chore.

  She did not recall it being an intimate chore when she’d done Dimitri’s laundry, only a necessity, one she’d taken pride in as a new bride. The way a husband looked in public reflected his wife’s ability to care for him.

  Patra shook out a blouse, satisfied it was clean. She draped it on a rock next to her chemise—the one she’d worn swimming—perhaps as a chaperon to prevent it from getting naughty with Brennan’s shirt. Even now, a simple look at the garment raised heated memories; Brennan’s hands on her, his fingers slipping beneath the chemise to touch skin, to touch her breast, then to touch lower.

  Patra reached for another garment and began to scrub. What would Dimitri say about all of this? She and Dimitri had never discussed what would happen if one of them died early. In the midst of war, such talk was bad luck. No one discussed the possibility of not coming back. Would he have expected her to move on? Find another man? Or would he have expected her to remain true to their life for the entirety of hers, aside from the other risk that plagued her?

  In twelve years, she’d not truly examined that question. Her grief at first had been too great and then there had simply been no reason to. The danger posed by Castor made the question irrelevant. Patra stretched her back, her gaze going to the house where Brennan’s shoulder flexed in rhythmic strokes with the brush. He was beautifully made. He reminded her of a picture of David she’d seen once, a young man in his prime. She smiled to herself. Brennan was her own auburn-haired David, for a while. She watched him pause and push a strand of hair out of his face. His hair was wavy, constantly unruly, she noticed, but it glinted gloriously like red-gold in the sun.

  Patra picked up her laundry basket. She had no illusions that Brennan could offer true love even in the hypothetical. For starters, he was an Englishman who’d want to go home some day. Their bargain implied it. Even in a perfect world where her secrets wouldn’t come between them, there were other barriers. He was younger than she was. He would want a family at some point. He was the sort who would be great with children. She’d seen him with them at town functions and in the marketplace. He loved to swing them up on his shoulders and he always had a task for the older boys to do when they asked for work. She could see it in his laugh, with his natural playfulness. Her hand dropped involuntarily to her abdomen. She’d had a child in there once for a beautiful, short while. She might manage to have a child again, but more than one seemed unlikely at her age.

  Patra reined in her thoughts. Family? Children? Where had those come from? From an impossible future, a future that didn’t exist. The week would end. There would be nothing more. There could be nothing more. Under no circumstances would she allow another man to die for her. She needed to be very careful she wasn’t seducing herself with this domestic fantasy, just him.

  * * *

  That afternoon, they sat in the shade of the citrus grove, she with her mending and Brennan with his tools. He’d decided to spend the time refinishing the outdoor table. ‘I’ll sand it down and repaint it. It will look like new.’ He’d said with a confident wink.

  Patra wished she could say the same for her stitches. Brennan Carr at work on the table was proving to be distracting. She was sneaking too many peeks to sew a straight line. ‘Do all English gentlemen have such excellent carpentry skills?’ she asked lightly, giving up on her sewing.

  Brennan snorted. ‘No, hardly. It’s not considered an appropriate skill for a gentleman. The mark of a gentleman is not to have to work.’

  ‘How do you manage it, then, at home?’ She found the effortless slide of his arms nearly as mesmerising as his deboning work on the fish, as he stripped off the rough surface of the table. He did it with such ease it was obvious he’d had practice.

  Brennan shook his head, but didn’t break, his answer coming in rhythm with his strokes. ‘I’m barely a gentleman by English standards, so people barely care what I do. My grandfather is an earl, but he had three sons, my father being the youngest. Then my father had two sons, me and my brother, and each of my father’s brothers had two sons. Bottom line: that makes me the youngest of the youngest. I can claim to be the grandson of an earl, but that’s all.’ He gave a grunt and ran his hand over the surface, testing it for smoothness. She envied the wood.

  ‘What does that mean, to be an earl’s grandson?’ She was genuinely curious now. She knew very little of English ways except for what she’d learned from the officers, but it wasn’t solely a cultural curiosity that drove her as much as a personal curiosity about this man who had planted himself squarely into her life just a short time ago. Although it didn’t feel like such a short while. Konstantine’s party seemed a lifetime ago.

  Brennan picked up a tool to help him smooth the corners. ‘It means I am sent to the best schools, but no one expects me to excel. It means I get to go up to London for part of the Season to dance attendance on the débutantes, but no one expects me to marry any of them. In fact, most hope I won’t because I don’t have any real prospects other than my birth. I’m the gentleman who dances with everyone’s cousin, but I should content myself with marrying a local squire’s daughter or perhaps the daughter of landed gentry near home.’

  She heard the disappointment in his voice, the bitterness that seeped in around the edges of his stories about life in England. That bitterness was somewhat surprising and unusual since he was normally cheerful. ‘No wonder you’re here,’ Patra said softly. ‘I would have left, too, if no one had expectations of me.’ She saw it all clearly in the picture he painted. In England, he was meant to be a pretty ornament. No doubt he looked quite fine in his English clothes and no doubt he was a superb guest, dancing with the débutantes, flirting with the wallflowers, coaxing them to bloom with that smile of his, those eyes, that wink, his confident easy touch. But in the end, all he was meant to be was a decoration.

  ‘I think life in Kardamyli suits you better.’ It was a bold thing to say given the nature of their relationship and the nature of what would happen at the end of the week. But that didn’t make it any less true. She might have only known him personally for a handful of days but she’d watched him for six months in the market. It was easy to see the life he described did not suit him.

  He cocked an auburn brow at her, his blue eyes starting to dance. ‘Do you know me so well, then?’

  Patra raised her chin in defiance of his challenge. ‘I know you’re a man who needs activity, who needs to work. I can’t imagine you living an idle life. I’ve seen you in the market throwing fish with Konstantine, playing with the children, sneaking food into widows’ baskets, and I’ve seen you here. You can’t sit still. Your body needs to be doing something. You like taking care of people, taking care of things, and you’re good at it.’ The guilt began to gnaw. He belonged here and she was making it impossible for him to stay.

  He looked away, suddenly busy looking for a tool. Her words had touched him, she realised. The compliment made him uncomfortable. How novel, Patra thought, that the confident Brennan Carr had a vulnerable spot. Or perhaps he was unused to such compliments? It was hard to imagine the latter.

  He gave up looking for the tool and leaned across the table, bracing himself with his hands on the newly smoothed surface. His gaze lingered on hers meaningfully, his eyes sparking with mischief. ‘Do you know what my body wants to be doing right now?’ Flirting was his coping mechanism, she realised. The compliment indeed had struck a vulnerable place.

  The warm air crackled around them. Patra bit her lip in coy contemplation. ‘Do I get three guesses?’r />
  His eyes dropped to her lips. ‘Do you need that many?’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on, I want to try out the hammock.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Hammocks could most definitely be habit forming, especially when Brennan Carr was in them. He had an easy air about him that made it comfortable to be in close proximity and it unnerved her just how easily she fell into that intimacy with him—and the hammock. He had them settled in short order, her head tucked in the crook of his shoulder, his arm about her, the weight of his body setting the hammock to a gentle rocking motion. To lie here like this, with him, so close, so intimate, held a sense of rightness, like it had on the beach, proving that it indeed seemed natural to be with him. Nothing had seemed like this since...well, just since. She was used to dividing time and experience into life with Dimitri and life after, but she didn’t want to make that comparison today.

  Beyond them, the house gleamed sharp blue and white in the afternoon sun. It looked better than it had in years. ‘I always meant to get to the whitewash,’ Patra began. Perhaps he wondered why she had let the place go. ‘I never got around to it. The first few years, the house didn’t look so bad and I put it off. Then, something always got in the way. There was bread to bake, clothes to wash, soap to make, something in the village that needed doing. But I’d waited too long and it was no longer the simple task of just a single coat. It was so dirty it would require more work than I could do.’ For various reasons. It was more work than she could do on her own and more work than she could allow a man to do, more interest than she could allow a man to show in her for fear it would bring down Castor’s wrath. But those were things she couldn’t tell him today.

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’ Brennan shifted his body slightly in the hammock as if he were uncomfortable with the intended praise. ‘It needed doing and I did it, case closed. I think I’ll start on the olive grove next. Tell me about it, what do you do with it? How much does it produce?’

  ‘It depends. Every other year is a big harvest. That’s standard for olive crops. All of us in Kardamyli are on different cycles so the village as a whole always has a strong crop even if some individuals have a smaller yield that year. I forget where my crop is at. The last three years, I’ve just foraged in the near trees for whatever I needed.’ Patra winced as she thought of how tangled and overrun the grove would be. ‘It will be a mess up there. I have only five acres up on the hill that backs the house.’ Was he thinking of Katerina Stefanos with her enormous acres and regretting his decision?

  ‘Five acres is plenty if you’re not an olive farmer.’ Brennan gave her absolution.

  ‘My husband was a fisherman like Konstantine,’ Patra told him. ‘The olive grove was mostly just for our personal needs and for me. I made soaps to sell and trade in the market.’ She had liked doing that, liked the idea of making her own money to contribute to their little household, liked being able to buy herself an occasional luxury or a small gift for Dimitri. But her financial freedom had died with him. These days, whatever she could make and trade was her sole source of income. It was enough for food, but not much else, certainly not luxuries like a length of lace to decorate a plain chemise.

  ‘Once the olive grove is functional, you could do that again.’ Brennan interjected himself almost directly into her thoughts.

  If she could keep it up. Patra feared that Brennan’s efforts would simply go to waste once he left and wasn’t there to maintain them. She didn’t want his work to be useless. He was giving her small property a second chance. Perhaps if she were careful, she could maintain it. Maybe there was a younger boy in the village who could help her, someone who wouldn’t rouse Castor’s wrath.

  Brennan’s hand moved along her jaw, his thumb at her lip, making her pulse speed up. ‘Stop thinking, Patra. Hammocks weren’t made for it.’

  A light breeze filtered through the grove, cool against her face. It made her indolent and bold. ‘What were they made for, in your opinion?’

  Brennan angled himself up carefully on his arm and leaned towards her, his eyes playful. ‘For this.’ His mouth took hers in a summer-soft kiss, his hand resting warm and steadying on her midriff. Oh, yes, this was definitely going to be habit forming.

  * * *

  Warning to self: dinner in citrus groves could be habit forming. Actually, there was no ‘could’ about it. Brennan was pretty sure it was. There was no question of it when he stepped around from the side of the house where he’d washed up and sniffed the air, catching the scent of trikala. Patra’s back was to him as she set down the last dishes. Brennan smiled to himself, watching her work. She’d taken an extra effort with her appearance tonight. Her hair was been pinned up in a special braid and she wore an embroidered blouse and skirt he hadn’t seen before. For him.

  He wasn’t sure of the last time a woman had dressed especially for him. Had there ever been? There were some whores in Paris who had undressed for him, but it wasn’t nearly the same. A woman in London dressed for herself, dressed to compete with the other women, or dressed to show off her husband’s or father’s wealth. But Patra had voluntarily dressed for him. The gesture was unsuspectingly touching and personal.

  ‘Dinner smells delicious.’ Brennan strode towards the table. ‘Is there anything I can bring out?’ She had worked all day, too, and yet she’d prepared this meal, another personal touch. There was no cook, no scullery crew to do this work.

  Patra turned and smiled at him, her eyes taking stock of his appearance. Brennan felt his shoulders square, felt himself stand taller, wanting to do the freshly laundered shirt justice. ‘Everything is on, just come and sit.’ She stood aside, revealing their newly reclaimed table in the citrus grove and all its bounty. It was covered in a white cloth, a thick candle protected by a glass chimney stood in its centre surrounded by summer dishes: a salad of romaine and artichokes, tomatoes and olives; a bowl of hummus; a small platter of trikala left over from breakfast and a basket of warm pita. A pitcher of wine stood at the ready near durable pottery goblets—other than the linen cloth, there was no fancy china or crystal here.

  London might scoff at the simple food, but Brennan thought it was perfect. Who wanted hot, heavy food when it was so warm? Salads, vegetables and bread were ideal for the climate and there was plenty of them. Patra poured the wine as he sat, handing him a goblet, and he felt like a king. ‘I wish I could capture this in a picture,’ Brennan complimented. ‘The food, the setting, it’s all beautiful.’ He let his voice linger over the last to imply she was included in that.

  ‘If the setting is beautiful, it is because of you.’ Patra gestured to the grounds. ‘You have painted my house.’ She raised her goblet. ‘We should toast to your good health because I can probably find more projects for you to do.’

  Brennan gave a mock groan, but his mind was already whirring with a list of ‘nexts’. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll do the roof of the goat shed. That way, they can stay out of the olive grove.’ He knocked his goblet against hers. ‘Cheers.’ It was good to make plans and he didn’t need to be a genius to realise it was novel, too. He wasn’t usually a plan maker. In London, he had drifted aimlessly from activity to activity.

  Brennan filled a plate for Patra and then saw to his own. ‘How is it you are so good at fixing things if it’s not a gentleman’s standard accomplishment?’ she asked, sipping from her wine glass, waiting patiently for him to finish piling his plate before she began to eat.

  ‘My family’s home is three hundred years old.’ Brennan dipped a slice of pita into the thick hummus. ‘It hasn’t been ours for the entire three hundred years, but that doesn’t change the age. Old houses need help. There’s always a shutter to nail on, a chimney to rebrick.’

  He could see Patra’s mind working through the logistics of the statement and coming to the obvious conclusion. ‘Aren’t there servants who handle that kind of work?’

  ‘Sometimes. Bu
t even then, my father doesn’t notice everything that needs to be done.’ It was the lesser of two evils to admit when compared to showing off his family’s sporadic tendency towards financial insolvency. Repairs cost money and his father had purchased a property beyond his means to sustain adequately. The house had been an impulse buy on his father’s part, one of many impulse buys, such as the racehorse that now lived a life of luxury in their back pasture after his father realised he couldn’t ride the beast. The Carrs weren’t poor, but they often lived beyond their means in ways that stretched their funds. His father was never concerned about where ‘more’ would come from, it would simply come. Eventually. Even if it meant selling a painting or two while waiting.

  ‘Your father’s not a carpenter, then, not like you?’ Patra refilled his glass.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Brennan said, taking an extra-large mouthful of salad, perhaps on purpose to avoid the expectation to say more. It wasn’t always comfortable to talk about his father. But Patra wouldn’t let him off that easy.

  ‘Just no?’ she cajoled with one of her teasing smiles. ‘What’s your father like? Is he like you?’

  That was just it. Was he? Brennan slowly spread another piece of pita with hummus, his words a carefully formed thought spoken out loud. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he is, or maybe he was like me once and he isn’t any more.’ He glanced at Patra. She was watching him, waiting for him, patient. ‘Here in Greece, family is everything, one is judged by who his family is.’ It was true in England, too, but less intensely if you weren’t high-born to the peerage and Brennan wasn’t so high born.

  ‘And you don’t want your family to be the measure of you?’ Patra finished the thought for him.