Rake Most Likely To Sin. Bronwyn Scott
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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