Rake Most Likely To Sin

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 blame 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.

An unwary woman would be easily seduced. But she had left her naïveté behind years ago. She was no Katerina Stefanos, or Maria Kouplos, whose heads were filled with idealistic visions of love and marriage. And yet she was not immune to the heat of his body, the smell of his clean, simple soap or those long, strong legs of his, bare and tan in his foustanella.

In response, a little daring of her own arose. He’d come to her needing a distraction, an escape, from husband-seeking fathers. She could give him that. In exchange for sanctuary, maybe he could give her a little escape, too—an escape from the ill-fated matchmaking efforts of the village matriarchs. Why not let him be grateful? Judiciously grateful, of course. She wasn’t about to go slinking off with him into dark corners for even darker kisses.

Patra cocked her head and gave him a coy smile that was perhaps out of practice. ‘Grateful? Are your favours so easily distributed, then?’ He could be grateful, but she wouldn’t make it easy on him. He had a small test to pass first. ‘Do you even know my name?’ She had her pride. He might stoke her curiosity, but not enough for her to settle for being nothing more than an interchangeable part in his scheme to resist Katerina’s plans.

His blue eyes glinted with mischievous satisfaction as he rose to the challenge. ‘Patra Tspiras,’ he announced. ‘I’ve seen you in the village, at the market. You buy Konstantine’s fish on Wednesdays.’

Patra was glad for the darkness. She could feel a flattered blush start, hot on her cheeks. He’d noticed her. He’d asked about her. The idea that she found pleasure in knowing he’d sought out that tiny piece of information about her was a silly, girlish reaction.

It was the way he smiled when he said it that made it seem personal, important. It was how he said it, too. Together, it was a most potent combination that did all sorts of things to her pulse against her will. It reminded her she was Patra Tspiras, not simply Dimitri’s widow, as if her marriage and her husband were all that defined her person. She would always be Dimitri’s widow, it was part of who she’d become but not the sum. Sometimes she wanted only to be Patra, to simply belong to herself, to her wants and desires instead of what others required of her whether they knew it or not.

He made a small bow, his hand on his chest. ‘I’m Brennan Carr.’

She cut him off with a laugh. ‘I know. Everyone knows.’

He laughed, too, grinning as he offered his arm. ‘In that case, introductions are concluded. I promised Konstantine I would see to your cheer. Would you do me the honour of a dance?’ He leaned in close once more and she caught the scent of his soap. ‘I think it would ensure the authenticity of my escape, don’t you?’

And hers, too, Patra thought, taking his arm, even if he was unaware of the favor he did her. For a few minutes she would make her wish come true. For a few minutes, she would simply be Patra. Surely there was no harm in that.

Chapter Three

Safe was the first word that sprang to mind as Brennan manoeuvred them on to the crowded dance floor. Patra Tsipiras was safe. She expected nothing from him beyond the moment because she, too, had been looking for an escape. He’d seen it in her eyes when their gazes had brushed. They took up their positions. He fitted his hand to her waist. She placed hers on his upper arm and Brennan leaned in, breathing the comforting scents of lavender and sage. He flashed her a cheeky grin. ‘Be warned, I mean to change your mind.’

‘About what?’ She laughed up at him, her dark eyes sparking as they considered him, and Brennan had the distinct impression she was flirting, a realisation that took him somewhat by surprise. She was a sober sort in the market. He couldn’t recall ever having seen her smile.

The music began and Brennan took them into the first steps of a fast country gallop, his eyes never leaving hers. He might have been unprepared for her bold response, but by Jove he would answer it with boldness of his own. He called her out with a friendly wink and a smile. ‘You don’t want to be here.’

She blushed at the truth, but her gaze held as he took them through a fast turn. ‘Was it that obvious?’ She laughed again, this time a little breathless, her hair starting to fall in a becoming caramel spill that softened the angles of her face.

Brennan’s smile broadened. ‘Not as obvious as shoving baklava under a bush.’

‘Oh, no, you saw!’ She groaned with good humour.

‘Don’t you like baklava?’ Brennan joked.

‘Not three plates of it.’ She laughed again and he swung her through a turn that left her gasping. If there was one thing he was good at, it was dancing. Actually, there were two things he was good at. One usually led to the other, although it wouldn’t tonight. Patra Tsipiras was safe, he reminded himself. She was a quiet widow devoted to her late husband’s memory. But he was having a hard time reconciling what he knew to the woman in his arms.

There was nothing quiet about this woman, everything about her was alive—her eyes, her body, her throaty laughter—and it spurred him on. He took the turns hard to feel her body come against his, he cut a sharp pattern through the centre of the dancers, dragging her close to do it and she matched him step for step, a live, burning, beautiful flame.

How had he not noticed before, all those days in the fish market? How had he not seen the dark fire of her eyes? Not heard the innate sensuality of her laugh? Not felt the thrum of life that emanated from her? Probably because he hadn’t been looking and she hadn’t made it easy. There’d been no reason for either of them to have done otherwise. But tonight was different. Tonight, they needed each other.

The dance ended, the musicians flowing into a reel he loved. Patra turned to go. He saw her hesitate when he made no move to escort her from the floor. Brennan closed a hand about her wrist, his voice low and insistent. ‘One more dance, Patra. Please.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, merely moved them into position and let her happen to him all over again.

‘We’d better stop at two,’ Patra suggested, breathing hard at the end of the reel, the voice of wisdom when he would have stayed on the floor with her. This wasn’t London, after all, and there was no hard-and-fast rule about a two-dance limit. ‘I think we can safely assume you’ve satisfied authenticity’s needs.’

Probably more than satisfied it. He might have exceeded it, if the looks Katerina Stefanos was directing his way were any indicator. Patra noticed it. ‘Katerina doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps you’d better go back and reassure her of your affections.’

Brennan shook his head, adrenaline still fuelling him. ‘How could I do that when you’ve asked me to escort you home?’ It was a bold gambit. They had not spoken of such plans. Would she refuse? Would she think leaving with him stirred a larger scandal than staying? But she was caught up in the euphoria of the dance, too.

‘Oh, I have, have I?’

Brennan pulled a mockingly serious face. ‘You have, most definitely. There’s a rock in your shoe that is wreaking havoc with your foot.’

She arched incredulous dark brows. ‘A rock? How about we settle for a pebble?’ Then she added with a sly smile, ‘for authenticity’s sake of course.’

For her part, Patra did a credible job manufacturing a slight limp while Brennan made their excuses to Konstantine. They were under way within minutes. There was no drama in slipping off, no covertly delivered messages with complicated instructions for a private meeting. He’d simply left with her.

Safe was turning into fun. So much fun, in fact, Brennan was in no hurry to see the evening end. Who would have thought the small event of strolling down a dirt road, Patra’s arm tucked loosely through his, could be so enjoyable? Overhead the stars were out, even brighter now that they were away from the party lights. Brennan knew exactly where he wanted to go. They’d reached a fork in the path, the left leading up a hill towards one of his favourite places. The right led to her home, although he’d never been there. It was something everyone in a small town knew. Everyone knew where everyone lived. If he took her there, it would lead to the end of the evening. Patra turned to the right. He made no attempt to follow her or to release her arm. It was decision time.

She tossed him a quizzical look, her eyes dropping to the light grip he had on her arm. ‘I can see myself on from here.’

‘Do you want to go home?’ Brennan let his eyes scan her face, let them linger on her eyes, looking for truth. He held up his other hand, revealing the prize he carried. He had grabbed it off a table as they’d left the party. ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine and the view at the top of the hill is spectacular.’ He grinned. ‘So, let me ask you again. Do you really want to go home?’

The question wasn’t meant to be difficult. She should want that, just as Patra knew what the right answer was: yes. She wanted to go home, wanted to be alone. That had been her original intent. She’d fulfilled her end of the bargain. She’d rescued him from Katerina’s possessive clutches. She had every right to claim her escape, and yet, that smile of his and those eyes on her face were the undoing of her. She wasn’t naïve. She knew what he wanted, what all young men wanted. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit to being at least a little flattered he wanted some of her attention. She’d be a liar, too, if she didn’t admit her attraction to him. It was hard to be alone even when there was no other choice and she’d been alone so very long. She’d been good for oh, so very long, too—not calling attention to herself, living quietly on the edges of society in all ways, encouraging no one to take an interest in her. Now, here he was; tempting her with his good looks and his superb dancing. He tempted her with more than that. He was fun and he was kind. Those qualities were far more important than looks, she’d learned. Looks could be deceiving. Actions less so. She’d noticed tonight how he’d not wanted to embarrass Katerina and he would not force his attentions where they were not wanted. He was giving her the choice to climb the hill.

Or not. If she said no, he’d escort her home, wine unopened, view unseen. Kisses untasted, bodies untried. The last part rose unbidden in her mind. He might be willing to push those boundaries, but she was not. If she went up that hill, she needed some rules in place with herself. She was not kissing this bold English adventurer who had probably kissed half of Europe on his journey here. All right, no kissing. Other than that, why not? Why not climb that hill and look at the stars. Temptation beckoned. Surely one night would be safe enough. Who would know? Who would tell? And the Englishman wouldn’t be here for ever. If the matchmakers in the village didn’t take care of that, his own nature would. He was perfectly safe as long as it was just one night.

Patra cocked her head to one side, giving the impression of serious consideration. ‘You said you have wine?’

Brennan shook the bottle. ‘Are you in?’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on. It will be worth it, I promise.’

* * *

It had better be, Patra groused halfway up. The hill was steeper than she’d anticipated and dancing shoes weren’t ideal for climbing in the dark. If she hadn’t had a real pebble in her shoe when they’d left the dance, she most likely did now. Brennan reached out a hand for her and she gladly took it.

‘How are you doing? We’re almost there.’ She could hear the smile in his words, feel his enthusiasm, as he offered her encouragement. It struck her then that Brennan Carr was a little bit impetuous. People didn’t simply, spontaneously, climb hills in the dark. No, he wasn’t just a ‘little bit’ impetuous. She’d wager he was a lot impetuous. If he lived like he danced, he was probably in the habit of throwing himself headlong into adventure after adventure without thinking about the consequences until it was too late, like he had with Katerina Stefanos. What had started out as fun had quickly turned into something more serious.

Oh, this was bad, she didn’t want to be curious about him. Curiosity led to questions and questions led to answers and answers to familiarity. The less she knew about him, the better for them both.