Rake Most Likely To Sin. Bronwyn Scott
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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.
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