Rake Most Likely To Sin. Bronwyn Scott
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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.
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