Rakes on Tour

Outrageous hell-raisers let loose in Europe!

When London’s most notorious rakes embark on a Grand Tour they set female hearts aflutter all across Europe!

The exploits of these British rogues might be the stuff of legend, but on this adventure of a lifetime will they finally meet the women strong enough to tame their wicked ways?

Read Haviland North’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Rebel Already available

Read Archer Crawford’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Thrill Already available

Read Nolan Gray’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Seduce Already available

and finally discover Brennan Carr’s story in:

Rake Most Likely to Sin Available now!

Author Note

Brennan’s story at last! If you’ve been reading this series you’ll know that the other three books focus on ‘place’. The adventures of each hero reflect something associated with the city they’re in (Nolan is in Venice for Carnevale in Rake Most Likely to Seduce, for instance), but with Brennan’s story ‘place’ is not as significant.

His journey isn’t a journey that can be tracked on a map. It’s a personal journey to discover himself— which is a big reason why a lot of people have travelled. Outwardly we travel to see faraway lands, but inwardly we travel to get to know ourselves and what we’re capable of. That’s Brennan’s journey. He discovers himself not in Paris, nor Venice, nor in other traditional Tour venues, but in a small fishing village far off the beaten path.

Of course I should make some mention of the backdrop for this story, which is Greece after the War of Independence. The Peloponnese was central to that conflict, and suffered a high loss of life in the fight, and that provides the background for Patra’s story. The Filiki Eteria is often credited as being the driving force behind the successful achievement of independence, because of its ability to organise a population that had no homeland but was spread throughout the Ottoman Empire and Danubian provinces.

In June 2014 I had the opportunity to travel along the Peloponnese and hear about these historic events that contribute to Brennan’s story first-hand. It was great!

I wish you happy travels. As our rakes’ tours come to a close I hope yours are just beginning.

Rake Most Likely to Sin

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Dover—March 1835

Lucifer’s bloody balls! Was that the time? Brennan Carr reached one arm out of bed and snatched his watch up from the crude table to be sure. He angled the pocket watch to catch what little light was in the room and peered at the watch face. He groaned and fell back on his pillows. It bloody well was. His ship sailed in less than an hour and it wasn’t even daylight yet. Brennan scrubbed a hand over his face. Where had the night gone?

Beside him, the luscious Sarah—no, that wasn’t right, close, but not right—Sylvia? Serena? Cynthia! That was it. The luscious Cynthia stirred and raised herself up on one arm, her other hand exploring under the blankets until she found what she was looking for. She closed a firm, warm hand over his cock. ‘Ah, lovey, like that, is it? You’re ready for li’l ol’ Cynthia again.’ She smiled in the dark, her long blonde hair falling over one shoulder. She executed a smooth move that had her straddling him. ‘Lucky for you, Cynthia is ready, too.’ She giggled at referring to herself in the third person. She sat atop him, scooping her extraordinarily well-endowed breasts into her hands and rubbing them together. ‘Cynthia’s bubbies want you to suck them.’

Brennan blinked. That confirmed it. He must be brutally sober because he distinctly remembered the third-person bit being as funny as hell last night after copious quantities of ale in the taproom, but the hilarity had gone. He was going to be late and being late meant missing the boat. His body might still be enchanted with Cynthia’s charms, but his mind was done with her. He had no desire this morning to prove true the old adage about time and tide waiting for no man.

His travelling companions would worry, especially Haviland. For the past twelve years of their friendship, it had been Haviland’s job to worry about him, but he’d promised himself he’d do better on this trip, give Haviland less to worry about. He would prove he was an adult. So far, only three days out from London, he hadn’t done a very good job.

Brennan politely dislodged Cynthia. ‘I’m sorry, I have to leave.’

Cynthia grabbed his arm and rolled a leg on top of his. She pouted with full lips. ‘Not yet, you can go one more time with Cynthia. No one has to be anywhere this time of day.’

‘I do.’ He tried to move away, but she held fast, resolutely ignoring the clues that he was finished. It wasn’t that he couldn’t overpower her but he didn’t want to make a scene. He’d rather leave politely. Scenes tended to ruin the memories of pleasure that preceded them and Brennan loved pleasure above all else. But Cynthia was surprisingly strong and increasingly tenacious, or desperate.

‘Really, you can’t go yet.’ She smiled brightly and reached for the tie holding back the bed curtains. ‘We could try ropes. We haven’t done that yet.’ She yanked, the tie coming loose in her hands. ‘I could get Mary from the room next door. She wanted a go with you, too. She could...’

Brennan didn’t wait to hear what Mary could do. He leapt up from the bed, pushing Cynthia aside, no longer caring about her sensibilities. It was definitely past time to go. He was starting to divine there was more at play here than a pouting seamstress wanting one more tup before she returned to the shop. He reached for his clothes, shoving his legs through his trousers with haste.

Cynthia rose from the bed, gloriously nude—it was hard not to be distracted—and she might have been successful in keeping him if it hadn’t been for that look in her eye—a hard, calculated look that said the time for games had gone. ‘Surely you aren’t going to leave without paying poor Cynthia. She gave you the whole night.’

Brennan’s fingers stopped on his shirt buttons. Pay her? She was a whore? ‘You said you were a seamstress, that all of you worked at the dress shop.’ He remembered that very plainly. The three girls had come into the dining room of the hotel, smiling and flirting with him and his friends. Nolan had humoured them before going off to play cards. Archer had followed Nolan as usual. The ‘ladies’ had left after that, trading the genteel dining room for the adjoining taproom. He’d run into them there. Idiot! That should have been his first clue; Women in the taproom. There was only one sort of woman who frequented taprooms.

‘Seamstress by day.’ Cynthia closed in on him, advancing. ‘Cynthia has to support herself somehow. This room doesn’t come cheap.’

They’d come here around midnight. She’d explained it was her quarters, just a few streets from the hotel. Brennan hopped into his boots, tugging them up. How was he to tell her he hadn’t any money on him? Everything was packed safely away in his trunk on board ship. That brought on a whole new wave of panic. If he missed the boat, he’d be cut off from all of his support: clothes, money, everything. All he’d have would be quite literally the clothes on his back.

Brennan held his arms out wide in a gesture of contrition and tried a handsome smile. ‘I misunderstood the nature of our association, Cynthia. I never took you for a lady of the evening.’ He used the most delicate term he could think of for her occupation. Perhaps she would see the compliment he intended. ‘We did have a nice time. I had some pleasure, you had some pleasure.’ He knew that much was true. She’d liked him. No one was that good at faking it and he had what might be called an ‘excellent track record’ at supplying pleasurable experiences. He was sure last night had been no hardship for her. ‘Why don’t we call it square?’ He edged towards the door, scooping up his pocketwatch from the table. Too late, he remembered his greatcoat laying over the chair across the room. He thought about crossing the chamber to get it. That was when she screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed some more. She was going to wake the entire building. Which of course was exactly what she intended. His greatcoat would have to be sacrificed.

Brennan threw open the door and shot a look down the hall both directions. People were peering out of their rooms as he bolted towards the stairs. He could hear Cynthia behind him, screaming specific names now—names like Jake, which he thought might belong to some sort of protector. Halfway down the stairs, he heard boots behind him; two men in varying states of undress in pursuit.

Thankfully the wharf wasn’t far. He hadn’t the coin for a carriage even if there was one to be had. Brennan sprinted out into the morning, nearly colliding with a man delivering fruit to the hotel the next street over. ‘Which way to the docks?’ he gasped out.

He ran, following his nose down alleys and narrow streets, as long as they led towards water. The men behind him followed. You’ll make it, you’ll make it...you always do. The mantra coursed through his brain as his legs pumped. This wasn’t the first time he’d been pursued by angry husbands, brothers or other upset male relatives.

He made the wharf and then realised he had no idea which ship was his. Haviland had made all the arrangements and, as usual, Brennan had not listened. Haviland took care of everything, all he had to do was show up. And he hadn’t even quite managed to do that, yet.

It was harder to run on the docks. They were crowded with people and cargo waiting to be loaded. He dodged around crates and wagons. A few drivers called out curses as he spooked their horses with his sudden presence. He darted in and out of people carrying sacks of grain. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder to see if he was still followed. He was horrified to note one of his pursuers had drawn a pistol, no doubt sensing the chase was ending. And it was. He would reach the end of the dock. If he didn’t find the ship, he would be finished. There’d be nowhere else to run.

He heard shouts and looked out towards the far point of the dock. Three men stood at the rail of the ship just beginning to push off from the dock. One of them was waving madly, tall and commanding, his greatcoat flapping in the morning breeze. Haviland! Brennan would recognise that posture of control anywhere. Behind Haviland, Archer and Nolan raced the length of the rail, making wild gestures to something behind him. Archer was yelling full sentences worth of words, but Brennan could only make out one word, Archer’s favourite word: horse. It didn’t make sense. What would a free-running horse be doing here? On cue there was the pounding of hooves, the heavy thunderous breathing of a horse in full gallop and then the horse was beside him, matching his stride to Brennan’s.

‘Get on! Get on!’ Archer cried, cupping his hands around his mouth. Brennan knew instantly what to do. He didn’t stop to think, thinking had never done much for him and now was not the time to re-examine its usefulness.

He grabbed mane and swung up on the horse’s bare back. There was twenty feet to the edge of the dock and then the leap. Brennan didn’t think of the consequences if he missed, or the impossibility of making the jump. This was nothing more than a Liverpool on a steeplechase, no different than racing neck or nothing across the countryside, taking every stile and fence as they came—never mind this horse wasn’t a trained hunter, never mind he hadn’t a clue what this horse possessed by way of skill.

The edge of the dock loomed. Brennan counted down the strides. Four, three, two... Brennan lifted his seat, his body balancing over the horse’s neck, giving the horse the least of his weight to carry over the distance. One... The horse’s hooves gave a mighty push off the dock and they were soaring, airborne over the expanse of dark water. Brennan kept his body still, his eyes forward, forcing his thoughts ahead to the landing, forcing them away from failure, away from falling. It was going to be close and that wasn’t good enough. Close wouldn’t help him or the horse.

Hooves hit wood. Brennan registered a moment’s relief before the horse went down, the momentum of the landing taking the horse to its knees. The horse stumbled and fell on the deck of the boat. Everything was chaos. Hands were on him, Haviland pulling him free of the rolling animal, Archer and Nolan at the horse’s head, urging it to stay down.

Down! He reached frantically for Haviland, pushing him to the deck, and covering his friend with his body. The real danger wasn’t the horse crushing anyone; it was the men on the dock with their pistols. They might have been far enough away from the dock to exceed a horse’s jumping range, but not a pistol’s. Haviland would not accidentally die for him because he’d been too lazy to roll out of a whore’s bed on time. Brennan felt Haviland struggle to rise beneath him, motivated by instinctive curiosity, perhaps not fully understanding the gravity of the situation. ‘Stay down!’ Brennan shouted, his voice sharp as a bullet whined overhead.

Brennan made sure they stayed down a good long while until he felt certain the boat was out of range. He rose first. If anyone had to pay for his sins, it would be him alone. He looked about, giving the all-clear signal. His friends got to their feet, brushing off their clothes and exclaiming over his arrival.

Haviland dusted off his trousers, his gaze moving beyond Brennan’s shoulder. Brennan turned his head, following Haviland’s stare. He could see the men on the docks shaking impotent fists in their direction. Brennan flashed them an obscene gesture of confident victory. The greatcoat he’d been forced to leave behind settled any debt he had with Cynthia and her thugs. One button alone was worth the night.

‘Good lord, Bren, what have you got yourself into now?’ Haviland’s voice was gruff with concern, not anger.

Brennan stopped in the midst of tucking in his shirt tails and quirked an auburn eyebrow at his friend in mock chagrin, trying to keep things light. ‘Is that any way to greet the friend who just saved your life?’ He didn’t do well with any show of sincere emotion and Haviland was nothing if not sincere. It tore at him to see his friend worried and to know he was the cause of it. Again. This wouldn’t be the first time.

Haviland answered with a raised dark brow of his own. ‘My life, is it? I rather thought it was yours.’ He stepped forward and pulled Brennan into an embrace, pounding him on the back affectionately. ‘I thought you were going to miss the boat, you stupid fool.’

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 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.

The ground smoothed out and the shrubbery gave way, the path expanding to a wide, flat area. Brennan gave an exultant crow, ‘We made it! Just look at that!’

She had to concede the view was spectacular, well worth every pebble in her shoes. The sky seemed close enough to touch, the stars near enough to pluck with her fingers, while down below, she could make out the dark shape of boats bobbing in the harbour and the faint glow from Konstantine’s party. Down there, the crowd would be noisy, but up here, it was quiet and peaceful. There was no music other than the crickets and the night birds. Behind her, she could hear Brennan rustling in the bushes.

‘Here it is,’ he announced, pulling out a blanket. He shook it free of little pieces of twigs and dried leaves before spreading it on the hill. He patted the spot beside him. ‘Come and sit, Patra, and enjoy our view.’

She sat and he worked the cork loose on the bottle, pulling it the last bit of the way with his teeth. ‘I don’t suppose you have any glasses under a bush, too?’ she teased.

He gave a perplexed glance. ‘No, why would I?’

Patra shrugged, feeling silly for having asked. ‘I just thought, since you were so prepared...’

He grinned, unfazed by her implication. ‘I come up here almost every night to watch the sunset and sometimes to think.’ He jostled her with a friendly elbow. ‘You’re surprised. You thought I brought girls up here all the time.’ He passed her the bottle, letting her drink first. ‘You’re the only one and I wasn’t even sure you would come. It seemed presumptuous of me to bring glasses.’

‘Maybe you say that to all the girls,’ she pressed, testing only partly in jest. There wasn’t a girl in the village who wouldn’t climb this hill with him.

‘Well, I don’t.’ Brennan gave her a firm look. ‘You’ll just have to trust me.’ She’d like to, Patra realised. She supposed it was the inviting openness of his face. Women probably confided in him all the time. It had been a long time since she’d trusted anyone, confided in anyone. Her secrets were too dark for that. There was no one she could tell, no one she could burden with the evil that hovered on the fringes of her life. But hope hovered on those fringes, too. Maybe the evil was gone now. It had been four years since Castor Apollonius had last pressed his wicked suit. Perhaps this time he was gone for good, finally convinced she would never be his. Maybe, she could risk just a little.

‘Can you do without them? The glasses?’ Brennan asked.

During the war, she’d done without a lot more than glasses. Patra shot him a daring look and tipped the bottle back, taking a deep swallow of the rich red wine, feeling adventurous and decadent—for a moment, free. The wine tasted good after the dancing and the climbing. She passed the bottle back, watching him drink deeply and run his sleeve around the rim before giving it back.

Brennan stretched out, propping his head on one arm as he pointed to the sky. ‘Tell me what you know about the stars. There’s Cassiopeia, there’s Orion’s Belt.’ He gestured to the familiar arrangements.

‘There’s Gemini, the twins, there’s Draco,’ Patra added, scanning the sky. It was better to focus on the stars than to think too much about the very masculine body stretched out beside her in a pose of rather shocking familiarity, as if they were old friends or something more, two people used to one another’s bodies instead of strangers who had shared a dance and an escape. But he was not at all concerned about the intimacy of his pose or their proximity to one another.

‘You know a lot of them. I’m impressed.’ Brennan’s gaze shifted from the stars to her and she met his eyes, a most dangerous challenge.

‘When you grow up around boats and sailors you learn the stars early. Can’t afford not to.’ She reached for the bottle.

‘Have you lived here all your life?’ Brennan’s tone was soft, his fingers gentle as they closed around hers, taking back the bottle.

‘All of my married life. Kardamyli is my husband’s home. I came here as his bride.’ As an innocent eighteen-year-old, flushed with love, looking forward to the life she and Dimitri would make in his town. She did not volunteer where she was from. It would make for more questions. Did she miss her home? Did she ever think of going back there? Did she have family? Those answers dug up memories she didn’t want tonight, reminders of all she’d lost instead of focusing on all that she still had. ‘What about you? Where do you live?’ Perhaps if he talked about himself, he’d be less inclined to want to talk about her.

‘I’m from a place called Sussex, south-east of London.’ He seemed reluctant to say more. She understood. Places carried memories. She hadn’t meant to pry, only to distract. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t like to talk about it.’

Brennan shook his head. ‘No, it’s just that I’ve been gone for two years. It doesn’t seem like I’m from there any more. I’ve been travelling with friends. We’ve seen a lot of places and now I suppose I feel a little rootless.’

She’d not heard of the friends before. ‘Where are your friends now? Will they be joining you?’

‘No.’ Brennan chuckled, his eyes starting to spark again. ‘The funny thing is, they all got married. Haviland married in Paris, Archer in Siena and Nolan in Verona, although Nolan met his bride in Venice. They all asked me to stay with them, but I just wanted to keep moving.’

Patra played with the fringe of the blanket, twisting it between her fingers, daring herself to ask more personal questions, daring herself to satisfy her selfish curiosity. ‘So here you are. Kardamyli isn’t exactly a tourist destination.’

Brennan shrugged again, unbothered by her probing. How wonderful to be such an open book. ‘I like it here, though. I like being some place where there’s no other Englishmen, no one who might know me. Here, I can just be me.’ He let out a sound that was half groan, half laugh as if he was remembering something unpleasant. ‘You should have seen Rome. It was crawling with English. I could go days without seeing any Italians. It was awful.’

She laughed with him because his laughter was infectious and his stories heartfelt. One couldn’t help but be taken in by his sincerity. He was different than her, his life was different. He’d seen so much of the world while she had seen Kardamyli and the town she’d been born in. To her, the fifteen-mile journey between her town and Dimitri’s had been significant, important.

He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘If I wanted to see Englishmen, I would have stayed home.’

‘I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been more than twenty miles from here my entire life,’ Patra said softly. The disparity in their ages seemed to flip. She was thirty-five and yet, in some ways, she lacked his worldly experiences.

He considered her for a long moment, his eyes quieting, his gaze turning serious. His smile faded to be replaced by a small, almost rueful grin. His hand came up to stroke her hair, to cup her cheek. All she had to do was turn her head and kiss his palm. That was the wine talking. The bottle was nearly empty now and she knew she’d been responsible for a significant portion of it. If she kissed his palm, it would invite other kisses, kisses she’d promised herself to avoid.

His voice was soft when he spoke, too. ‘That’s a good sign. You mustn’t have anything to run from.’

How she wanted to argue! It wasn’t true. She had plenty to run from: memories of Dimitri, memories of the war, memories of the man who’d led Dimitri and other patriots to their deaths, who’d coaxed her into believing such sacrifice was worth it. But to argue would mean she’d have to prove it, she’d have to tell her stories, to expose herself.

Brennan tugged at her hand. ‘Come...lie down, Patra.’ And she did, because it was the lesser of two evils to lie down beside him and stare at the skies than to let the evening be overrun with memories of things she couldn’t change and people she couldn’t save.

‘What do you have to run from?’ She stretched out beside him, matching his pose, her head resting on her hand. She had not been this close to a man in ages, certainly not such a virile one.

‘Everything. Nothing.’ His blue eyes flirted with her quietly, the night and the stars adding their own layers of intimacy to this impetuous wine picnic. He would be intoxicating even without the drink. She had to be careful. She hadn’t broken her rule...yet, but she was dancing close to the fire. She was recognising in hindsight there were probably other promises she should have made herself. Don’t lie down with a man you don’t know, don’t stare at the stars with him and absolutely don’t drink wine with him.

‘There was no reason to stay in England, or Paris, or Venice, or Milan, or Siena.’ Brennan’s hand stroked her hair, pushing a strand behind her ear. It was becoming far too easy to let him touch her. It felt far too good.

‘And Kardamyli?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them. Reasons to stay were dangerous.

‘We’ll see. I like it here.’ The implied but hovered in the air. Oh, he was smooth, he knew all the right things to say: If a woman would give me a reason to stay, I might consider it. No wonder Katerina Stefanos had fallen for him. He could certainly bait a hook.

She decided to give him a dose of reality, and perhaps a dose for herself, too—a reminder that he was not for her...that she was merely looking for an escape from her friends’ well-meaning efforts. ‘There may be conditions placed on your ability to stay.’ Like taking a wife.

He merely gave one his shrugs, unconcerned about future consequences. ‘You’ve managed to remain unattached. I am sure I will, too. Maybe that’s something we could work on together.’ His hand drifted to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, cradling it as he had done her cheek. His eyes dropped to her lips, his head angled slowly in fair warning, giving her time to choose her response and then he made his move, closing the gap between them with swift confidence, his mouth moving fast and sure over hers.

Chapter Four

She let him. She wasn’t technically breaking her promise. He was kissing her, after all, and she couldn’t very well control his actions. It was a hastily done rationalisation, one she was probably going to regret...later. Right now, her lips, her body were too busy sinking into his to regret much of anything.

Good lord, he could kiss. His mouth was patient, savouring hers, seducing hers with its slow confidence. He was not in doubt about the conclusion of the interlude and in no hurry to get there. His tongue made a languorous perusal of her mouth, his hands running up her back, drawing her close to him on the blanket. Oh, how she wanted to be close, to feel the heat of him, the muscled press of his body. She had not realised how hungry she was for such contact and it had to stop. This could not happen, no matter how enjoyable. If he wasn’t able to see the ramifications of this, she would, for both of them. The village wouldn’t tolerate it, not when he’d been flirting with the eligible girls and doing heaven knew what else with them. Her pride would not stand it either. He couldn’t use her like this and then leave her. There were other reasons, too, but these were the most immediate.

Brennan’s hand was warm at her leg, sliding beneath her skirt, resting on her knee. She pushed gently at his chest and pulled away with a shake of her head. His blue eyes reflected his puzzlement, his disappointment. She tried to soften her words with a smile, but her voice was stern, leaving no quarter for argument. ‘I think it’s time to go home.’

‘Really?’ He wasn’t going to give up easily. His auburn hair, tousled from her fingers, and the smoulder of those blue eyes were nearly irresistible as he formed his one-word rebuttal, challenging her suggestion.

Distance. She needed distance. Patra stumbled to her feet. If she stayed on the blanket a moment longer, he would win. He had too many advantages on his side and she could not allow that. His victory would be expensive for them both. Patra smoothed her skirts and began to re-pin her hair. ‘Yes, really. It’s late and we don’t want to do this, not truly. In the morning, we’ll regret it.’ Her argument sounded clichéd and her hands shook as she re-pinned her hair.

He stood and moved into her, covering her hands with his. ‘Let me.’ He took the pins and deftly shoved them into her hair until it somewhat resembled its original self. He stared at her for a long moment, so close she could see the black flecks of his eyes amid the blue. A slow smile spread across his face. ‘You’ll do.’ He leaned close, his voice conspiratorially low. ‘I don’t think anyone will guess you’ve been kissing that rake of an Englishman.’

He turned away and began to roll up the blanket, leaving no evidence of their presence. There had been self-derision mixed with the teasing lilt of his voice. It was hard to know how to take that remark. She’d accidentally hurt his feelings. ‘I didn’t do it only for me.’ She felt compelled to defend herself. ‘I did it for you, too. A scandal is the quickest way out of town or to the altar for you and it seemed to me that you weren’t ready for either just yet.’

Brennan faced her, hands on hips, having put the blanket away under its bush. ‘I don’t need you to decide for me. I seldom regret anything in the mornings.’

The innuendo that she would not regret anything either had they carried their evening to a particular conclusion brought heat to her cheeks. In terms of personal satisfaction, he was most likely right. His dancing, his kissing, had served as very compelling references for his skills elsewhere. But it was the social aspect she was thinking of. Still, he was a young man and his pride in a sensitive area had been hurt.

Patra stepped forward, wanting to put a consoling hand on his arm, wanting to explain. ‘Brennan, it’s not that.’ What did she say next? It’s not that I don’t think you’d be fabulous in bed. From a purely technical standpoint, you would be phenomenal, I’m sure... She could definitely not say that. She opted for something more platonic. ‘There are many young women in the village who would welcome your attentions, but I am not one of them.’

Brennan crossed his arms and arched an auburn brow. ‘Is that because you prefer the attentions of the grey-bearded men that buzz around you like so many bees to honey?’ His tone was blunt and rough, at odds with his earlier smoothness. He was still smarting.

‘What I prefer is my business.’ She moved to head down the hill. It was past time to go. She had secrets to protect. By protecting them, she was protecting him even if he couldn’t know or appreciate her efforts. She’d walk home alone if she had to. But Brennan was beside her, a hand at her elbow to help her navigate in the star-spiked darkness despite the tension rising between them. It proved again her earlier intuition that he was kind. Even in the midst of conflict, he remembered his word. Kind he might be, but he wasn’t ready to leave the unpleasantness behind them on the hill.

‘It’s why you needed me tonight.’ Brennan helped her over a rocky gap in the trail. ‘You were looking to escape them.’ He was far too perceptive. It would have been easier if he’d simply been a smooth-talking rake, but it appeared he was a bit more than that and it made him trickier to manage.

‘My friends believe it’s time for me to marry again, that I’ve mourned my husband long enough. I tell them I don’t plan to wed, but they do not listen.’ They didn’t listen because they didn’t understand the real reasons behind her resistance and she could not tell them.

‘Instead, they have pooled their resources and brought to town any eligible relative they can lay their hands on.’ Brennan chuckled as he summed up her predicament, the tension easing between them. Some of the teasing spark returned to the conversation. ‘Is it that you’re opposed to marrying again, or just opposed to marrying a greybeard?’

‘Both.’ They had to go slowly down the hill to avoid slipping on loose pebbles and she was too grateful for the support of his hand, steady and firm as he guided her down, to pull away. She envied him his confidence. He was in his prime and full of himself in all the best ways. How long would this strapping young man remain unchallenged, unmarked by the world? There was something appealing in the knowledge he’d never met a trial to which he was not equal.

‘Why?’ He persisted with a flirty wink. ‘What if the right man came along, a younger man skilled with women?’ He placed his hands at her waist and swung her over a small hole in the path. They were nearly at the bottom. Perhaps there would be less reason to touch her then, fewer reminders of what she’d given up on the hill, fewer reminders that he was a younger man with some skill with women.

‘Marriage takes a lot out of a person, it requires an investment that exceeds anything you’ve ever known and then when you lose it, well, that takes even more from you. I simply don’t think I’m up to it one more time.’ She meant the words to be harsh, sobering, but they didn’t have the desired effect.

He cocked his brow, again, and stopped long enough to study her, again. She was getting used to that look. ‘Really?’ She was getting used to that rebuttal, too. ‘I didn’t figure you for a quitter.’

Quitter? He thought she was a quitter? If there was one word to raise her ire, that was it. To hear it from someone who didn’t know her, from an Englishman who hadn’t even been here the last twelve years, bordered on insulting. ‘You are out of line, Mr Carr. You have no idea what I’ve endured. Just because there is a cliff doesn’t mean I have to jump off it.’ She pushed past him—this was as good of an excuse as any to part ways before they reached her home. ‘I can take it from here, Mr Carr. Thank you for the escort.’

Brennan’s hand closed about her arm as she passed. ‘The thing about cliffs, Patra, is that if you don’t jump, you miss the chance to fly.’ He did not let go. ‘I promised to see you home and I will.’ She could tell from the firmness of his grip there would be no shaking his resolve now.

They followed a bend in the road, the standard stucco-box shape of a Greek home coming into view beneath the moon and Patra braced herself for the embarrassment. It had never been a large home, but it had once been more neatly kept. Now, there was simply too much work to keep up on by herself and she dared not ask for help.

‘Here we are.’ She could hear the veiled disappointment in his tone. He’d expected something better from her than this ramshackle holding.

She nodded, seeing the place through Brennan’s eyes. Even the moonlight couldn’t soften the ragged edges of her once-proud house. The stucco needed a coat of whitewash, the shutters needed paint, the patio needed weeding, the grounds needed tending. The list was exhausting. All of her time was spent doing the most essential tasks, the ones that kept her fed and clothed. He would see the house and he would be glad she’d stopped things on the hill. He’d know the truth of her. She was the most pathetic of individuals; not just a widow, but a poor one with no family, a woman entirely alone in ways he couldn’t begin to imagine.

His eyes moved over the house, but to his credit his gaze gave nothing away, and neither did his words. Patra felt a rush of gratitude for his discretion. ‘Thank you,’ she offered, leaving it open as to what she was thanking him for; he could choose to read it as he liked: the dance, the wine, the walk, the escort, for not commenting on her home. She’d not realised there was so much to thank him for.

Brennan put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Perhaps I should go in and make sure all is well.’ He stepped forward, putting her behind him and drawing a short dagger from his belt. It was his way of registering there were no servants, no hired help minding the house while she was out.

‘That’s not necessary, I’ve never had any trouble,’ Patra put in swiftly. The last thing she wanted was the charismatic personality and the hard, potent body of Brennan Carr filling up the tiny space of her home. She didn’t trust herself to not change her mind about what she’d already rejected this evening.

He seemed to debate the wisdom of this decision with himself before relenting and sliding his dagger back into its sheath. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘I am sure.’ She smiled to persuade him. ‘I have a pistol and a dagger and I’m more than capable of using them.’

He gave her one of his disarming grins. ‘I’m sure you can. The point is that you shouldn’t have to. I’ll wait until I see you light a lantern.’ He let her walk away before his words brought her to a halt. ‘Patra, I lied earlier. I’m regretting leaving you already.’

It was a sweet thing to say, just the right note to end the evening on, a note that recalled the intoxicating energy of the dancing and the rather heated energy of their kiss. A woman of less fortitude would have turned back. But Patra kept walking. She could not afford to give him an inch. She let her words float back to him as she stepped inside. ‘Goodnight, Brennan.’

Brennan waited until he saw the light flare in the window, another idea flaring as he walked away. He’d deduced correctly she would not want his pity. She had her pride as much as any man. She might not want help, but she needed it. He understood now why she’d been so insistent on seeing herself home after a point. She’d requested twice that she go on alone. Did she think he would judge her? Did she think he hadn’t been here on the peninsula long enough to appreciate the rugged nature of life beneath the hot sun and the toll it took? She would be wrong on both of those accounts. His own home wasn’t much better, only larger.

She needed him whether she wanted to admit it or not and he needed her. He’d not been entirely joking up on the hill. Why not form an alliance? After seeing her home, there was even more reason for it. He was handy with tools and repairs. He’d done enough of them on his family’s home, his father too distracted to see to the hiring of that work himself. Brennan would gladly trade his services for hers. If they could convince the village he was genuinely interested in her, even sincerely courting her, it would save them both the hassle of fending off unwanted suitors. Then, at the last moment, whenever that was, six more months from now, a year from now, a few weeks from now, he’d cry off, claiming an emergency that required his attentions in England.

The village could rage at him, could support her in her sorrow over being deserted. They’d vilify him for using one of their own so poorly, but he’d be too many miles away to care. It seemed like an ideal solution. Tonight, with Katerina Stefano’s hand on his arm, he’d felt pressured to leave Kardamyli, but he wasn’t ready to go, not just yet.

Brennan began to whistle in the night. Things were definitely starting to look up. Now, he just had to convince Patra of that. If it was true the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, it was also true that the way to a woman’s heart was through a hammer. He had yet to meet a woman who could resist a man who provided for her needs in bed and out. Patra might have resisted him tonight, but that was just the beginning. She had yet to see Brennan Carr unleashed. This was turning out to be a challenge he was going to enjoy. After all, he didn’t want to win her heart, just her compliance and he knew just how to do it.

Chapter Five

Ow! Bright light. Loud noise. Double ow! What was that pounding? Patra groaned and pulled a pillow over her head, jamming it down hard over both ears. Her tongue felt thick, her mouth tasted stale. Her head didn’t exactly hurt, but it was definitely fuzzy, consequences of too much wine right before bed. Patra groaned again, this time in remembrance. The latter part of the evening started to replay itself in her mind: the dancing, the hill, the stars, the kisses. Too much wine and too much Brennan Carr.

What had she been thinking to have let things get so far out of hand? Oh, never mind. It was a poor rhetorical question. She knew very well what sort of deals she’d made with herself to get what she wanted in the moment last night. Now, she would repent at leisure.

Only there wasn’t much leisure about it. The pounding persisted and she let out a loud, frustrated sigh. Good lord, where was that sound coming from? It seemed to be coming straight through the wall. As long as the noise kept up, there would be no leisurely anything. She had to go and see the cause of the commotion. Patra rolled over and gingerly got up, testing the quality of her legs. Unfortunately, they held. The last excuse to remain in bed was gone.

She drew back the white-lace panel covering the bedroom window and let out a startled yelp. Sweet heavens, there was a shirtless man outside her bedroom!

He leaped back, cursing and spitting out nails at her undignified scream. ‘Lucifer’s balls, woman, do you want me to swallow the nails?’

She had a full view of him now. This wasn’t just any man standing outside her window. It was Brennan Carr, half-naked, and gorgeously carved; the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and arms, hewn from months of hard work on the boats, the defined planes of his torso narrowing like well-manicured steppes to the waist of his foustanella, the journey highlighted by a thin trail of copper hair arrowing to parts lower. It was quite a sight to wake up to. ‘What are you doing?’ Patra managed to ask once her thoughts reconciled themselves. Gorgeous he might be, but he was also uninvited. Last night wasn’t supposed to have led to this. Having him here was the last thing she wanted.

Brennan held up his hammer and offered her a cocky grin. ‘I noticed your shutters were loose. I thought I might come by and fix them up.’ Part of her wanted to take his arrogance down a notch. It probably hadn’t even occurred to him she might throw him off her property. But the other part of her recognised this was an act of neighbourly kindness on his part if she would allow it. Could she?

She looked past him into the scraggly yard where panels of bright blue wood lay on the ground. ‘You’ve done more than nail up some loose shutters.’ He’d taken them down and painted them. They looked pretty and bright. Noticeable.

Brennan shrugged as if it were nothing. ‘Konstantine had some paint he wasn’t using. I thought they could use a little freshening. There was no sense in nailing them back up just to take them down and paint them later. Better to do them now.’ He nodded to a wagon parked on the edge of her yard, and the donkey grazing nearby with her goats. ‘I brought whitewash, too. I thought I might start on the house once you were up.’ He flashed her a smile.

She ought to refuse. She ought to say thank you for the shutters and send him on his way for multiple reasons. The more immediate one being, men who did favours never did them for free. The Englishman would want something in return. After last night, she thought she had a pretty good idea of what that was. If so, he’d be disappointed. She couldn’t possibly reciprocate no matter how many shutters he painted. ‘Mr Carr, I thank you for your efforts. They are much appreciated. However, I don’t want to take you away from your obligations.’ Whatever those might be. She had no idea how he spent his days beyond fishing with Konstantine and working Konstantine’s booth in the market.

He made an exaggerated show of looking around over his shoulder as if searching for someone. He braced his hand on the house wall and leaned in close to the window. His eyes sparked with mischief. ‘Mr Carr? Really, Patra, who is that? You had me thinking my father was here. Last night, you were perfectly content to call me Brennan.’

Patra felt herself smile in spite of the reserve she wanted to maintain. He was positively infectious, irresistible. She tried again, this time more bluntly. ‘I don’t know exactly what you want, but I have no intentions of sleeping with you in exchange for your services. Some widows might be free with their favours, but I am not one of them.’

He leaned close again, the nearness of him sending a tremor of excitement through her as his words brushed her ear. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Patra. I don’t have to trade services to have a woman in bed. As for what I want? I’d like a little breakfast if it’s not too much trouble.’ He glanced out towards the road and shielded his eyes against the sun. ‘There’s been some traffic on the road this morning.’ He gave her one of his considering glances. ‘You might want to get dressed. No sense advertising wares that aren’t for sale.’ He smartly stepped out of reach before she could smack him and went back to work, calling over his shoulder, ‘Nothing fancy for breakfast, mind. I like my eggs scrambled.’

He was worried about her modesty when he was the one strutting about her yard half-naked? Oh, she’d scramble those eggs, all right, right after she added incorrigible to the list of Brennan Carr’s descriptors. It was a good thing he was irresistible because that was the only thing saving him from a hand across his face. That and the truth: it had been exciting to find him outside her window.

Patra crossed her arms over her chest in a belated bid for modesty. In the commotion of finding a man outside her window and the visual feeding frenzy of feasting on that man’s rather extraordinary physique, she’d forgotten her own; forgotten that she slept in a cotton night-rail that had been quite fine when she’d sewn it seventeen years ago for her trousseau. It had only got thinner over time. It hardly mattered, there was no one to see, but today there had been. She was suddenly conscious of the frayed hemming around the neck, the worn fabric. She was conscious, too, of what that thin material might have accidentally revealed, of how she must look with her tatty night-rail and sleep-tousled hair, hardly a paragon of beauty, much like her house. It had been a long time since it had been important to care about either. It had, in fact, been important to give the outward appearance of not caring.

Patra retreated into her bedroom, careful to take her clothes behind the screen to dress. She pulled on a loose blouse and a dark skirt and tied on an apron over them. It wasn’t that she didn’t pay attention to her appearance. She did. Just like the inside of her home was neat and well kept, her appearance was tidy and clean, too. She had not let herself go after Dimitri’s death, but she’d had different priorities. She wanted no one’s attentions and there were consequences for that. When there was no one to please, no one to appreciate efforts, those efforts simply stopped being made. She missed making those efforts. She’d liked being a wife. But it was one of many things she’d given up to make sure everyone around her was safe, a small price to pay for saving lives.

Patra picked her hairbrush up from the small table that served as her vanity and ran it through her hair. She reached for her hairpins and stopped. Usually, she pinned it up in a tight bun. It was severe but practical for working around the house. Maybe, just for today since she wasn’t going anywhere... Patra reached for a ribbon instead. It was dark blue and would hardly be noticeable in her brown hair. Should anyone happen by, no one could criticise her for being too girlish, for standing out and drawing attention.

In the kitchen, she took stock of her supplies. She’d clearly overslept and her morning chores had gone undone. The goats hadn’t been milked yet or the chickens seen to, but she had a few eggs left over from yesterday, some bread and half a pitcher of goat’s milk. It would be enough and the animals could wait a short while more.

Patra set about making breakfast, cracking eggs and putting a few pieces of bread on the grill over the fire for toasting, her chagrin over Brennan’s comments disappearing as she cooked. She liked to cook, it relaxed her, it centred her. To be honest, she had entertained thoughts of making Brennan’s eggs runny and burning the toast just to make a point about his ‘wants’, but food was hard to come by and while she enjoyed preparing food, it was time consuming—too time consuming not to do it right the first time. Besides, she had her pride. She could hardly have Brennan believing Katerina Stefanos was a better cook.

Not, of course, that it mattered what Brennan thought, she reminded herself as she laid the breakfast tray. She was not competing for him. Just because she decided to use a cloth napkin and had picked a blue ceramic plate to serve the eggs on because it brought out their rich yellow colouring, it didn’t mean anything. A Greek woman always took pride in her hospitality. It had nothing to do with a half-naked Englishman working in her yard. Perhaps it was simply time she started taking pride in the little things again. There was no harm in it. It had been four years, after all. Perhaps it had been enough time.

Those were perilous thoughts and it wasn’t the first time she’d entertained them since the moment Brennan had drawn her out on the dance floor. Each grin, each wink, each audacious touch of his, had her thinking she could risk a little more each time, that perhaps she was being overcautious without reason. It was hard to remember the darkness and the danger Castor Apollonius posed when Brennan smiled. Maybe just this once...

* * *

Brennan approached the little citrus grove on the edge of the property with its rough-hewn table and chairs, cautiously eyeing the tray Patra set down. Breakfast smelled good, damn good to a man who’d had little sleep and had worked most of the morning through on an empty stomach. He breathed in the morning aroma of toast and eggs. He loved breakfast. It was his favourite meal of the day, his favourite time of day. But he half-expected it to be a trick. He’d made her angry or embarrassed with his comments about her attire, or perhaps she’d been angry before that when she’d assumed he would want something in exchange for his efforts. She’d clearly seen his offer as a bid for what could be delicately termed ‘compensated companionship’.

She wasn’t entirely wrong. He did want something from her, but not that, at least not in that way. If sex followed, so be it. He wouldn’t say no, but the deal he wanted to offer her didn’t require it. It would be a long time coming before he had to negotiate for sex. Brennan pulled his shirt over his head before settling at the little table, aware that she watched him. He winked and sat down. ‘Disappointed? Do you prefer I keep it off?’

Patra laughed, which was what he’d hoped. ‘Hardly.’

He grinned over a forkful of eggs. ‘Well, don’t worry, it’s only temporary. I’ll take it off again later.’

‘Are you always like this?’ Patra spread butter on her own toast, a small smile tempting her mouth. She was enjoying this even if she wouldn’t admit it.

‘Mostly, but I like getting a rise out of you,’ Brennan answered boldly. ‘It makes you come alive, it makes your eyes light up.’ He watched her take in the words. They might be too personal for the brevity of their association, but they were no less true. He’d felt it last night when they’d danced, when they’d kissed, when they’d briefly quarrelled. He wondered when was the last time anyone had prompted such a response from her. ‘How long have you been out here alone?’ It was a delicate way of asking how long she’d been widowed without being too direct.

‘Twelve years this summer.’

Brennan did the maths. She’d been young, twenty-three at most when her husband had passed. They would have had no more than five years together if she’d married at eighteen or seventeen. It wasn’t likely she’d married any younger. That meant twelve years of trying to care for this place on her own. No wonder it looked a bit rough. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask. What kind of man had her husband been? Young like herself? Older? Had he died of illness or natural causes? Disease? How devoted was she to his memory? Did she mean to spend the rest of her life devoted to it? But he knew before asking that those questions were entirely too personal. Instead, he said, ‘There’s a shed on the corner of the property. It looks like it was once used as a barn of sorts.’ Perhaps it would be easier for her to talk about the land.

‘Yes, the roof finally caved in last year and I haven’t repaired it. The goats have been living outside.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Brennan put in quickly. ‘It will only take a couple of days and that way the goats can get out of the olive grove. They’ll chew it to sticks if they don’t and that won’t do your harvest any good come October.’ He’d noticed that situation when he’d arrived this morning.

‘The grove probably isn’t worth saving,’ Patra warned him. ‘I haven’t been able to harvest it in three years beyond what I need for my personal use.’

Brennan leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Isn’t there anyone in the town to help you?’ He was hard pressed to imagine the people of Kardamyli not joining forces to assist someone in need.

Patra stood up and began gathering the plates, apparently done with the conversation and done tolerating his personal questions. He realised his mistake too late. She didn’t want help and, in her stubbornness, she’d driven off their offers. Now, she was too stubborn to ask for that help back when she needed it.

Brennan rose, too, helping with the dishes. ‘Thank you for breakfast, it was most enlightening.’

When she’d gone back inside, Brennan stripped off his shirt, picked up his hammer and went back to work. She would not succeed in driving him off. He needed her compliance too much. But more than that, he had her measure and he knew when someone needed help.

She might chide him for his shirtless attire, but he noticed she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. She was spending a lot of time outdoors. She came out to gather eggs. She came out to milk the goats. She came out to check on his progress and to make a few idle suggestions.

* * *

In the early afternoon, she came back out with a tray bearing lunch and a slim bottle with a spout on it. They ate pita, filling the bread with goat’s cheese and meat.

At the end of the meal, she held up the glass bottle. ‘If you insist on not wearing a shirt, you’re going to need this.’

‘Olive oil?’ Brennan looked sceptical, not following her line of reasoning.

‘Not just olive oil. You haven’t been here yet through a Greek summer or even a spring. You’ll have noticed our sun is hot, probably hotter than your English sun. Turn around. Let’s get this on your back or you’re going to burn.’

Brennan grinned as he gave her his back. He couldn’t resist teasing her. ‘You can rub my back any time you want, Patra. You don’t even need oil.’

Her tone was brisk on purpose and perhaps more severe than required to take away the implication that this was anything more than a necessary task to perform. ‘You’ll burn without it. Your legs tanned, but you haven’t been without a shirt in this sun. I imagine redheads don’t tan easily.’

Brennan laughed. ‘As a species, that’s generally true.’ He swiped a finger through the oil on his shoulder, sniffing it. ‘Does it work?’ Her hands felt cool and capable against his skin.

‘It works.’ She kneaded his shoulders and he rolled his neck, encouraging her to do it again. ‘It protects against damage at least.’ He could feel her step back from him. He didn’t want her to stop. She passed him the bottle. ‘You can do the rest. Cover your chest and your face.’

‘I don’t know if I have your expertise,’ Brennan drawled, knowing full well she’d scold him. Her hands on his chest would be very nice. Still, he had to try.

‘You can do it, I have great faith in your oil-applying abilities.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘But don’t work too much longer. I don’t want you fainting from fatigue or heat.’

‘Oh, you do care.’ Brennan grinned, pouring olive oil into the palm of his hand and smearing it on his chest in broad strokes. He watched the pulse at the base of her neck leap. She was definitely not indifferent.

‘Only because you’re too big, I don’t think I could drag you inside.’ Patra shook her head. ‘I’ll be in the shade with the mending if you need anything.’ Oh, he would. Brennan grinned. He’d make sure of it.

Brennan finished whitewashing the front of the house and began the process of cleaning brushes and putting away the tools, all borrowed from Kon. He wrapped them in an old cloth and stored them in the wagon. He stepped back from the wagon and surveyed his work. The house looked better already. The whitewash made the house gleam under the sun and the blue shutters on the two windows added a crisp finish. He’d get the rest of the house done tomorrow. Right now, there was something else he wanted to do, another project to work on.

He spied Patra under the tree, the mending in her lap. She’d left her hair down today. He’d noticed at breakfast, but he didn’t dare comment on it, after the bit with the nightgown. It made her look younger, freer. She wasn’t old, she shouldn’t dress as if she was. Certainly any mourning obligations to her husband had been satisfied years ago.

Her long chestnut hair hung in a thick skein over one shoulder as she sewed, humming a Greek tune. The domesticity of the scene caught him unawares like a sucker punch to the gut: Patra sewing, the freshly washed house behind her, the olive groves beyond that. They were a tangled mess right now, but they wouldn’t be when he’d finished. Come October, they would be healthy again.

He had to stop himself. Would he even be here in October? That was six months away. If he wanted the fantasy he painted in his mind, all he had to do was reach out and claim it with Katerina. It was there for the taking, but he didn’t want it with Katerina. That particular fantasy was lacking something.

Did he even want a wife? Last night he had been doing everything he could to avoid such a fate. He wasn’t the marrying kind. Marriage was for ever and he could barely manage to do anything for a month. At Oxford, he’d jumped from subject to subject. He’d been fascinated by Aramaic for five weeks and then he’d been fascinated by a merchant’s pretty daughter and that had been the end of Aramaic studies. If he’d managed to stay with a subject long enough, he would have been an expert at something instead of a jack of all trades, master of the only one that mattered—sex. Brennan knew how he operated. He had no staying power. Kardamyli was something of an anomaly in that regard. He’d never stayed anywhere this long. He was just infatuated with the moment, with the challenge Patra presented.

Patra looked up, biting off a length of thread. ‘Do you need something?’

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.’

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