Rake Most Likely To Sin. Bronwyn Scott
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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