Rake Most Likely to Sin

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Patra?’ Brennan murmured, his breath warm against her breast. ‘You’re thinking.’

  ‘You’re awake already.’

  ‘I’ve been awake. I could feel you playing with my hair and I wanted to enjoy it.’ Brennan chuckled, the sound of it vibrating soft against her chest. It was a warm sound, a comforting sound. ‘But you’re not thinking about my hair.’

  ‘No, I’m thinking about this,’ she lied, sliding her hand beneath the covers to his phallus and feeling it pulse to life. Far better to do this than to waste her time in regrets. There would be enough time for that later. He gave her a wicked smile and pulled her atop him with a lazy drawl, his hands settling on her hips. ‘You said you wanted to make love to me, here’s your chance.’

  She took that chance, sliding confidently down on his phallus, already roused and primed from her hand. She rode him slowly, focusing on his pleasure, on the dark-cobalt flames of his eyes when she cupped her breasts, lifting them high and running her thumbs over them, the sharp intake of his breath when she ran her hands down her body and in between his legs, and again when her nails grazed the vulnerable inner skin of his groin.

  ‘Zeus have mercy!’ Brennan bucked, his head back, his hands gripping her hips tight as she moved on him. She loved seeing him like this, loved knowing that he wanted to lose himself in this thrill, a thrill she could give him, and perhaps a thrill only she could give him. He groaned, the pleasure-pain moan of climax sweeping towards him as he thrust with her. This was not a game for him, but something unique, and it intoxicated her. He wanted this with her, wanted to lose himself with her and that was perhaps the most glorious of compliments, to share this intimacy together. He lost himself then, his body pulsing its confirmation, and maybe for a few moments she lost herself, too, to hopes, possibilities and improbabilities.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The captain wasn’t going to like this. Castor Apollonius’s secretary slipped from his hiding spot in the hillside and stretched his cramped limbs. He’d waited an extra half hour just in case the Englishman had come out of the house. The Englishman hadn’t. He didn’t expect the man would. As to what the Englishman was up to in there, the conclusion was obvious, even if he hadn’t witnessed (which he had) the long romantic dinner in prelude. There were only so many reasons a man went into a woman’s home this hour of night.

  Whatever else the Englishman might be, he was definitely in bed with the captain’s lady. The two of them were bold indeed. The Englishman had barely waited after Castor had left town before hotfooting it out to her place. The secretary chuckled. For the Englishman’s sake, he hoped the sex was worth it because there would be hell to pay when the captain got back. Perhaps Patra Tspiras had forgotten what fear felt like, or what happened to those who displeased the captain. He would send out his report immediately with a rider in the morning. Once the captain heard the news, he would likely come back early.

  The secretary pulled a small notebook from his pocket and took out a stubby pencil to jot down a few reminders. When it came to Patra Tspiras, the captain would want details.

  * * *

  The devil was in the details. Brennan moaned and stretched in the morning sun, his arm reaching across an empty pillow. That was detail number one. Patra was already up and moving. He could hear her in the other room. That was a first for him. He never slept the entire night with a lover. He was the first one up, the first one gone. It avoided messy aftermaths.

  That he hadn’t been this morning was further proof as to how extraordinary the night had been. Their lovemaking had been more than a physical release; a part of him had not wanted to escape the aftermath and what it might mean. Never had he worked so hard, or waited so long, to seduce a woman as he’d waited for Patra Tspiras. He’d once talked a woman into bed within five minutes of meeting her. Compared to the days he’d laboured here, the latter seemed an eternity.

  Now that it had happened, the comparison to other affaires seemed inept. This was no seduction. Seduction implied some sort of game, it required strategies and manoeuvres, none of which were truly in play here. What had occurred between him and Patra had been entirely natural and it was entirely new territory for him. He’d not lied when he’d said it would be a first for him, too. He was used to whores and courtesans with their tricks, bold women of the ton who had their own games they liked to play with a willing young man who gave them back their youth for a night. But not virtuous widows who loved with contemplation, with honour, for whom this act meant something more than physical pleasure and yet there had been an expectation of that, too. Hence detail number two: the aftermath. Domestic tranquillity.

  The clatter of pans and the spicy scent of trikala met him as he swung out of bed and padded towards the basin and pitcher of washing water. Brennan poured water and lathered his face with soap. This was the simple dream, wasn’t it? Waking up to a meaningful day of work, hearing the comforting sounds of a breakfast being prepared? In his shiftless years among the ton, this was the intimacy he’d hungered for. It was no wonder his affaires had left him empty. He brought the razor down the side of his cheek, slicing through stubble, wishing he could slice through the thoughts in his mind as easily. If this was what he’d unconsciously been seeking, what did it mean? Now that he’d found it, what did he do about it?

  Was it merely the life in Kardamyli that satisfied him or was it something more? Was it Patra who satisfied him? And how could he know such a thing in the span of so little time? It was easier to believe it was Kardamyli that pleased him. He’d been here long enough to know that. But Patra? All logic told him it was too soon to know. A few days, a magical night in her arms, did not warrant a lifetime. And yet, weren’t the tales of his friends evidence to the contrary? Evidence that the coup de foudre existed?

  Brennan finished washing and reached for his clothes. They had been carefully laid out for him on the chair, another detail that demanded his attention, a reminder of what it felt like to be cared for and cared about. It was a simple, thoughtful gesture, made personally for him. It was not the act of a paid valet who cared only for his salary. Patra had picked his clothes up from the floor where he’d let them fall last night and laid them out. The gesture mattered. Such personalised thoughtfulness mattered.

  Brennan thrust his arms through his shirtsleeves and pulled it over his head. What would Patra say if she knew what he was thinking? An imaginary line had been crossed. He couldn’t pretend sex had just been sex. The stronger realisation, though, was that he didn’t want to pretend. His very thoughts were a clear violation of their agreement—to use one another to avoid permanent entanglements. Between last night and the episode with Castor in the marketplace, the ruse was becoming decidedly real.

  Brennan fastened his foustanella around his hips. Was that why Patra was up early? Why she hadn’t remained in bed? He understood too well the urge to want to flee the bed when things got too close. Had that propelled her out of bed this morning? Had she, too, realised a line had been crossed and even now was grappling with her response? Would she, like him, be willing to go forward with the line behind them, or would she demand they retreat back to the safety of the ruse where nothing was as it seemed?

  She had a lot at stake—her fear of Castor to overcome, her reputation in the village to preserve. He understood those were significant things to risk on a young stranger who had so little to offer her beyond himself. But she was not the only one with something at stake. For the first time, Brennan felt nervous over what a woman’s response might be. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to fight for it. Already, a campaign was forming in his mind. There wasn’t a woman yet he couldn’t win. He wasn’t going to stop now.

  Brennan stepped out into the main room of the house. Before last night, he’d never been inside. His time here had been conducted out of doors. Most of Greek life was. Houses were small, made for coolness and shelter, but not for gathering
, not like English town houses with their drawing rooms and ballrooms that could accommodate two hundred, and dining rooms that could seat twenty-four. The inside was neat and well kept, clearly bearing the brunt of her housekeeping efforts. Patra turned from the cooking, a tray in her hands loaded with his new breakfast favourites, trikala and honey-drizzled yogurt, a smile on her face. Time for phase one of his campaign. He favoured her with a dazzling grin as he took the tray. ‘What shall we do today?’

  * * *

  It had taken some effort to talk Patra into having a day off, but by the end of breakfast, Brennan had convinced her to take a walk into the hills. They would be alone, away from the reminders of her worries. She had packed a lunch basket and he had slung it over his arm as they set off. It was cooler higher in the hills and there were some ruins Brennan had wanted to see. Patra knew them and she gave him a history lesson as they hiked the distance.

  ‘This is the area that we call Old Kardamyli. We live closer to the sea now, but it wasn’t always possible or safe. In the hills, it’s easier to see who might be coming and it’s easier to defend,’ she explained. ‘Two hundred years ago, this part of the peninsula was overrun with bandits and crime. Wealthy families would build stone towers to protect an area.’ She shot him a sly look. ‘Of course, those families weren’t doing it purely out of altruism. If you wanted the protection of the tower, you had to pay for it in tithes and allegiance.’

  They came to the stone tower and Brennan was surprised to see it was more than a tower, but actually a jail and a church; St Spyridon, Patra lectured, as they stepped inside the cool, dark interior.

  ‘St Spyridon? I’ve never heard of him.’ Brennan laughed. ‘He doesn’t have a very popular name. I can’t imagine children being named Spyridon, not like Matthew or James or Peter.’

  Patra gave him a friendly punch in the arm. ‘That’s because you English have such a limited imagination when it comes to names. Peter, James, bah! What plain names when you could have Agfayah or Ambrus.’

  ‘Or Spyridon. It sounds too much like spider.’ Brennan gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘Of which I am sure there are plenty in here.’

  Patra laughed. ‘Not scared, are we? It is an abandoned church. What did you expect? As for Spyridon, you might rethink your attitude about him. He was a wonder-worker in the third century. The stories of the saints tell he used his earthly goods for the benefit of those around him, even the homeless. God gave him his ability to heal in exchange for his selflessness. There are other stories, too, about the people he healed.’

  They came to a ledge hewn into the church wall and Brennan stopped to sit. He pulled Patra down beside him. ‘I think this proves how useless Oxford really is. I spent four years there and never learned about Spyridon or the stone towers.’ There was a lot he hadn’t learned in college.

  ‘What is Oxford?’ Patra asked.

  ‘A university in England that gentlemen send their sons to. We’re supposed to be finishing our education there, but everyone knows we’re not. It’s a pretty open secret. We spend more time drinking and wenching.’ Brennan sighed. ‘I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t stick with any subject long enough.’

  ‘Why do they send you if they know you’re not studying?’

  ‘To get us out of the way, I suppose. Better to make trouble far from home than at home where they have to deal with us. Better to let the deans clean up our messes,’ Brennan joked. ‘I always felt it was more true in my case. My parents were far too eager to get rid of me.’ Patra didn’t laugh.

  ‘And this “Grand Tour” you’re on? Is it meant to be educational, too?’ she asked quietly in the dimness of the church.

  ‘Yes, it’s supposed to introduce us to new cultures and political systems so we’re prepared to take up our roles in the diplomatic corps or our seats in the House of Lords if we’re heirs.’ Brennan blew out a breath. ‘Of course, those are not situations I’ll be offered.’ He could only imagine how many wars he might inadvertently start as a diplomat, instead of stop. He could hardly see himself spending hours poring over the words of treaties or sitting through tedious negotiations. He’d rather be throwing fishing nets with Kon.

  Patra’s hand stole over his. ‘Why did you come, then?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ Haviland and Archer had come for legitimate reasons, as part of their station in life. But he and Nolan had been escaping the shadow of scandal yet again. It was hardly anything to brag about. It would definitely not impress Patra or prove to her he was a reliable sort, certainly not after the story he’d told her at dinner.

  ‘Now I absolutely do. You can’t say that and not tell me.’ She paused, maybe rethinking the wisdom of her protest, maybe imagining all the bad things he could have done. He had to tell her.

  ‘I was my friend’s second in a duel. Duelling is illegal, but we did it anyway. He did it, technically. But I was his second, so when it was decided that all would be forgiven if Nolan just went abroad for a while to let everything cool down, I went with him.’

  ‘Was it over a woman?’ Patra breathed, clearly caught up in the romance of a duel.

  ‘No.’ Brennan laughed. ‘I’m sorry to ruin it for you. It was over a dirty accusation at cards. A viscount’s son accused Nolan of cheating and Nolan’s honour could not let the lie stand.’ He remembered that night in striking clarity. Haviland and Archer had left the club. The viscount’s son would never have made the accusation in front of them and their bloodlines. But Nolan and Brennan didn’t have the status, they could be provoked. ‘My friend has this talent, it’s a gift really—like Spyridon’s wonder-working.’ He winked at Patra. ‘He can count cards. He never loses.’

  She would be disappointed in him. It had been a stupid duel for a stupid reason. But her next words surprised him. ‘Of course you went with him, even though you didn’t have to. You’re loyal, you said so yourself. It’s the same reason you came after Castor for me.’

  Maybe it was the dimness and the quiet coolness that was acting on him, maybe it was her words and the absolution they carried. In London everyone saw him as the man most likely to sin. But she saw him as the most likely to save. Brennan leaned near her ear, his voice low. ‘I will be loyal to you, Patra. I give you my word. I promise.’ God, how he wanted her, right here in the church, this beautiful woman who saw the best in him. He would have promised her anything to have her.

  He wanted last night again, to see if it could be repeated. He’d felt physical pleasure himself on countless occasions, that great draining sensation of becoming utterly empty. He placed a kiss in the soft spot between her neck and the lobe of her ear, his hand skimming her ribs, issuing an implicit request. She gently pushed him away. ‘Not here,’ she admonished.

  ‘But somewhere else, perhaps?’ He nuzzled her neck, feeling her pulse rise beneath his lips. With Patra, the sex was different, it had been not so much about emptying himself, but about being completed. He had not been alone at the end. He usually saw to the woman’s pleasure first. Last night it had been mutual, seeing to one another’s pleasure together. She’d been there with him, not before him.

  She laughed her acquiescence, a deep throaty sound. ‘You are persistence itself.’

  Brennan put an arm about her waist and led her out of the church, into the sunlight. ‘You require it.’ But he was no Spyridon. He would win no awards for sainthood. He wasn’t nearly selfless enough. Outside, they found a grassy patch shaded from the sun in a corner of the tower ruins. Brennan shook out their blanket. ‘This is the best I can do.’

  Patra moved into him, pushing him back on the blanket, and straddled him. ‘The best you can do? I shall be very disappointed if that’s true.’ She slid a hand up his foustanella, finding him rising and ready. She gave a wickedly flirty smile. ‘I see that you lie, sir.’

  * * *

  This was an intoxicating, dangerous game she playe
d with herself. Last night had become a slippery slope to more pleasure. It would make the end more difficult when it came—and it would come. Five more days remained of this fantasy at best and she wanted to make the most of them. There was something she could give him in the interim, something that might make up for what she’d cost him in the end. He couldn’t and wouldn’t love her, not when this was over. But maybe she could help him love himself.

  Brennan’s confession in the church had made her ache even though he’d couched it in humorous remarks about English education. She’d seen the real tragedy beneath the words. This handsome, charming man didn’t know or understand his true worth. And she railed silently at the family who had taught him such doubt. She wanted to teach him differently. Patra pushed his shirt up, running her hand over his torso. ‘I don’t think I mentioned how handsome you looked in the market the other day.’ She bent over him, making a kissing trail up his chest. ‘I like the throwing-fish act.’

  Brennan grinned. ‘Is that all it takes to entertain you? A shirtless man throwing fish?’ He was putting himself down again. She was starting to see his humour in a different light.

  ‘Well, not any shirtless man,’ she prevaricated playfully, drawing a nail back down the kissing trail and feeling him shudder. She could hardly confess more at this stage of their relationship, which was awkwardly both existent and non-existent. She might acknowledge to herself that the line between pretence and reality was a bit blurry at times, but she never wanted him to suspect it. For starters, it wasn’t part of the ruse, but the ruse was beginning to matter less with Castor’s reappearance in her life. What mattered now was that he believed she wanted him to leave. ‘Oh, I’m not picky. It doesn’t have to be fish. It could be a shirtless man repairing my table, painting my house, pruning my bushes. I am looking forward to that.’