Bronwyn Scott - Rake Most Likely To Sin

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.