The Devil She Knows Page 12

  Portia stepped confidently up to him, the way she always had as a teenager in California.

  Like a fool, his blood warmed and swept faster through his veins, until all he knew was how infinitely perfect it felt to stand here, in this holy place, in this circle of light, with Portia smiling up at him like her blue eyes opened every door to homecoming.

  And when she fanned her hands over his sleeves like he was a rock to hold onto and tilted her head back for his kiss until her golden curls rippled and flowed over his mother’s ring—well, his heart thumped like a circus band was beating time.

  Portia Lowell. His wife, at least for the moment.

  He kissed her lightly, warmly. Her lips hesitated, then opened cautiously under his like a young girl’s who’d never been tasted before.

  What the hell? Didn’t she know this much at least of men, and joy?

  He lingered on her mouth, taking his time to tease her into relaxing. Stroking her lips with his tongue, shaping his mouth to match hers, gently sharing his breath—anything to catch her interest.

  Portia moaned softly, deep within her throat.

  The preacher’s wife coughed louder than any doorbell.

  Gareth lifted his head with considerable reluctance but was delighted to leave a dazed look on Portia’s face. For once in their relationship, he had the advantage of the better social mask.

  There was no point in considering how much his hands were still shaking—or how hard his cock was. He’d survive his wedding night somehow, no matter what happened.

  The caique, a fancy cousin to the gondola, plowed its way across the Bosporus toward the distant Asian shore, its small steam engine humming briskly amidships. Daylight’s balmy skies had given way to a crisp evening breeze and the waves constantly jostled the hull. Sparkling lights to the rear outlined Constantinople’s ancient bulk, while fizzing sparks trailed like fireflies from the boat’s smokestack.

  The shore ahead was filled with rolling hills, marked by only a few lights against the moonlit sky. Except for the engine chugging below decks, this could have been an ancient Greek boat sailing these seas for the first time.

  Portia linked her fingers more tightly with Gareth’s and leaned her head against his shoulder, grateful for the loan of his jacket. Sitting on a bench in the stern might be the place of honor but it also attracted every chilly wind.

  “Only a few minutes more, honey. We’re almost there.” He gave her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.

  Hope for something more than their old friendship stirred inside her heart, dispelling second thoughts.

  “Are you certain Kerem Ali Pasha will welcome me?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask how long Gareth would accept their marriage.

  Her trunks seemed to weigh down the boat like a guilty conscience from below decks. Like any good Donovan & Sons freighter, Gareth had produced a handful of sturdy men to transfer her luggage from the hotel and stand guard over it during their wedding.

  “His note said so, didn’t it?” Gareth kissed her fingers then rubbed her hand lightly to bring warmth back into it.

  Her free hand lifted instinctively toward him but he spoke again, dispelling the magic.

  “See those lights dead ahead? Where the dock cuts into the water?”

  Her arm dropped back to her side and she answered him as practically as possible. What did it matter if she was clumsy at showing affection? He’d always liked conversing with her.

  “But those are long windows with the rooms fully lit inside.” She leaned forward. “The house looks like a lantern swinging over the water.”

  “It’s Kerem Ali Pasha’s yali, a seaside mansion with a boathouse built into it underneath.”

  “So many windows must allow inhabitants to enjoy the view—or catch the sea breeze.”

  “Exactly. It’s been so hot he brought his family out here very early in the season.” Gareth lowered his voice. “It’s isolated enough you’ll be safe.”

  The hair lifted on her neck and she nodded quickly.

  “It’s almost a fairy castle,” she said wistfully, disliking the need to sully its delicate beauty with St. Arles’s abomination.

  “It is also pink,” Gareth commented.

  She gaped at him, searching that stalwart profile for any sign of mockery.

  “And ornately carved,” he added.

  “You’re joking,” she pronounced with complete conviction.

  “Not at all.”

  She made a burbling sound of disbelief but couldn’t bring herself to express it more explicitly.

  “Kerem Ali Pasha also has a scarlet silk tent, which he erects in his garden for parties.”

  Now that statement rang with the same simplicity which he’d use to discuss how to pack a mule for high-country freighting, or her stepmother Albinia would describe the menu at a successful dinner party.

  Hope began to sift into her bones. “Does he decorate it with lanterns?” she asked.

  “And flowers. The entire family is famous for their gardens—and love of literature.”

  She sighed happily.

  “One door opens to the sea, the other to the gardens. One side of the house opens to the harem, the other to the selamlik.”

  “Rooms for the single young men?” Portia remembered what she’d heard of other Moslem customs.

  “Yes.”

  Were there people standing out on the dock?

  “Your trunks will probably be stored in the other half of the boathouse, under the house. If we’re given the guest suite in the harem, we may be able to put them in the dressing room.” His voice was low and rather rough.

  She glanced up at him then nodded tightly. This wasn’t the time or the place to argue, no matter how much she wanted to jump to her feet and look for herself.

  Or did she want to stand up so she could hurl herself at the ever-polite Gareth?

  She bit her lip, her heart’s answer making her even more intensely nervous.

  The helmsman cut the engine and the boat glided smoothly against the dock. Torches blazed at the ends, allowing glimpses of a fine garden with a massive tent erected inside.

  Even the desperate tightening of her stomach couldn’t stop Portia from craning her neck to see more.

  Two liveried servants quickly secured the tidy craft.

  “Lowell, my friend!” A slender man, clad in a long, elegant black coat and red fez, almost quivered atop the wharf like a gray wolf eager to greet his family. Two younger men flanked him, clearly his sons judging by their joint likeness to finely honed swords.

  “You should have told me sooner what you planned. We would have made you the most splendid abduction of a bride ever seen in Constantinople!” He reached out a startlingly tanned hand and lifted Gareth onto the dock in a single easy leap. Clearly, these two had long since discarded civilized tricks such as steps. The Turk embraced the much taller American enthusiastically and kissed him on both cheeks, a salute that Gareth returned with a smile.

  Portia pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to truly relax despite the welcome. Would they freely offer sanctuary if they knew the threat she brought?

  “If you had the chance to seize the perfect woman, Kerem Ali Pasha, would you hesitate?” Gareth inquired.

  “No, never! I too would have carried off such a pearl, especially after she was threatened by barbarians. She is the one who was tied up and whose luggage was searched, yes?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Appalling.” The patriarch’s two sons muttered something unprintable in Turkish which earned a stern glare from their sire.

  Gareth’s grin grew wider and he gallantly brought Portia out of the caïque to join him on the dock. He brought her hand formally onto his arm so that they stood facing his friend.

  “May I introduce my lady wife to you? Kerem Ali Pasha, this is Portia Townsend Lowell, my patron’s niece and adopted daughter.”

  The great man studied her as if uncertain how to greet her.

  She started to don
a polite diplomatic smile then shook it off. No, she needed to be warm. This wasn’t St. Arles’s circle where knives were only inches from the surface, whether forged in steel or carved in poisonous tongues. These were Gareth’s friends and she wanted him to stay close to them.

  She smiled a little shyly, uncertain what expression to wear, and moved closer to Gareth.

  The patriarch’s expression softened and approval flashed through his eyes under the torchlight.

  “Ah, you did not mention her lineage before, my friend. Indeed, you are fortunate among men to ally yourself with such a noble family.” He bowed to Portia with a distinctly Gallic flourish. “Peace be upon you, dear lady. I beg that you will forgive my city for the attack you suffered and not allow those ruffians to poison your opinion of us. Pray consider my home to be yours. I swear you will be safe here.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She gave him a curtsy, his exuberant welcome smoothing some of her worries.

  “Lowell, I know your family is far from here.” Their host returned his attention to Gareth, with an air of polite finality as if she needed time to recover from the journey. “Will you allow me to give you at least a little of the celebration your father would, on this happy occasion?”

  Gareth frowned.

  “It might also distract your lady from this afternoon’s alarms. A simple affair, rather than the forty days we gave my son or the three days even the simplest villager enjoys.”

  “Three days?” Portia queried. That would be a very long party, far more than anything her stepmother had ever dominated.

  “Yes, indeed, there are many traditions to ensure both bride and groom are welcomed into each other’s family. But since you are Americans and therefore probably already know each other’s clans, my mother believes you will be content with the banquet traditionally held on the third day.”

  Portia slipped her arm through Gareth’s, too curious to remain still. Perhaps someday she’d learn about Gareth’s family, of course. But she wouldn’t ask here and now. She would have to be satisfied by discovering more about these unusual traditions.

  Gareth glanced down at her. “Would you mind?” he asked in English.

  “Will it be embarrassing?” Heaven forbid it include anything humiliating.

  “No, certainly not, especially from Kerem Ali Pasha’s family. But it won’t resemble your previous wedding.”

  “Then—yes, please,” she said emphatically. Anything to erase the memory of that awful banquet would be a blessing—the endless toasts while her face stiffened into a smile born of dread and Uncle William looked more and more as if he couldn’t decide whether to murder her husband or her father first. And the horrific night afterward with St. Arles…

  “You honor us by your gift,” Gareth told Kerem Ali Pasha and bowed slightly, an acceptance which Portia matched.

  “Splendid!” The older man clapped his hands twice.

  More servants promptly appeared, led by three carrying drums.

  “Oh, Lord,” Gareth muttered.

  Drums?

  She flicked Gareth an inquiring glance but before he could answer, she had to be polite once again.

  “My sons Adem and Kahil,” Kerem Ali Pasha said proudly. “All of us will help escort you to the wedding celebration. That is, if you don’t mind?” he added a clearly perfunctory question.

  Portia nodded agreement, unable to even form a question as to why only men would escort her. Their drums would surely cause an incredible ruckus, too.

  She started to grin.

  “What is it?” Gareth whispered.

  “I must do this; my stepmother would be appalled.”

  He whooped—and the drummers promptly echoed his joy with a brilliant cascade of sound.

  “This is my family’s bindalli cloak, which we have wrapped around our brides for generations.” Kerem Ali Pasha held up a crimson velvet cape, whose sweeping folds were magnificently embroidered in dozens of golden branches sparkling with crystals. A princess would have counted herself lucky to wear it only once.

  “Lowell?” He coughed significantly and his eldest son nudged the American forward.

  Gareth accepted the priceless mantle and wrapped it reverently around Portia. Their eyes met and for a moment, it seemed as if being enfolded by his protection in this ancient tradition, was just as much of a wedding as any fancy ceremony in a stone church.

  “For better or for worse,” he whispered.

  “I thee wed,” she answered, equally soft and completely heartfelt.

  The drummers launched into an ecstatic din of celebration. Adem, the eldest son, tied a crimson sash around Gareth’s waist which matched her cape.

  Portia accepted her husband’s arm and turned her back on the bobbing boat, with the skulking trunk. Head high and heart barely daring to hope for more than survival, she strolled toward her wedding dinner, surrounded by singing and shouting friends.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Portia was utterly comfortable, snuggled in a nest soft enough to make eider ducks envious. Darkness ruled there, full of coziness too complete to seek change. Even her ribs, normally encased in a corset tightened just beyond necessity into fashion’s tortuous realm, rose and fell freely.

  Her bed was firm enough to offer support yet soft enough to caress her skin, which had been slightly chapped during her voyage to Constantinople.

  Yet she was uncommonly warm for someone covered only by a fine linen sheet and silky soft blankets, given the morning chill crisping her cheeks. In fact, she could have hurled the covers away and burrowed back into her blissful dreams.

  She rolled over and groped for the cloth’s edge.

  Instead her fingers glided over the warm satin of a man’s bare shoulder.

  “Eek!” Shock ripped every nerve apart and hurled her to the other side of the bed.

  “Good morning, wife.” Her very naked husband nodded respectfully to her from where he now stood beside the bed.

  She’d never seen him without clothes before.

  Dawn’s first light filtered dimly into the bedroom through the slatted windows. Seagulls called to each other like magicians, while the waves renewed their acquaintance with the shore. Two men quietly chatted in the distance, using the desultory phrases of a conversation’s end.

  The bedroom glowed like an exotic jewel in the dim light. Everything was scarlet and pale gold, from the delicate silk rug underfoot to the embossed ceiling overhead. The bed was so intricately carved it looked like lace, yet it sent four gilded poles soaring toward the ceiling. Delicate frescoes of local landscapes and seascapes graced creamy walls between shuttered windows. A single low divan provided the only seating.

  All of that was an insignificant background to Gareth’s stalwart body. His face and chest had been tanned by the sun to a burnished gold, which faded to a soft cream over his hips and below. His raven black hair moved like a living shadow around his head and blue veins laced his skin to his heavy muscles and straight limbs.

  Evidently satisfied she was well—despite her speechlessness—he turned to scan the room, a heavy, broad-bladed knife at the ready. His eyes searched every shutter and nook, on the alert to protect her without thought to his own safety. Scars slashed and pried at his muscles in shades ranging from deep crimson to shadowed mauve, as if old battle wounds’ poison still haunted him.

  Her fingers curved to touch and hold, comfort and heal.

  “Good morning, Gareth.” Blood heated her cheeks brighter than the curtains and she tugged the sheet higher up on her shoulders. Oddly enough, she was only wearing a day chemise with its deep neckline and short sleeves, rather than her more enveloping nightgown. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “That’s quite alright. I usually rise at this hour.” He glanced at her from beside the shutters. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I only slept with you to be sure you were warm.”

  “I understand. We need to sleep together since we’re married, after all.” Her eyes slipped sideways toward his naked hip but
she dragged them back. “It would look very odd if you slept on the floor.”

  But he too had been fast asleep until her fright woke him up. Portia’s heart sunk a little further and she curled herself further into the covers.

  How could he be willing to fight for her, even when roused from a sound sleep? Tears touched her eyes at the sight of the highly distinctive bowie knife she’d given him almost fifteen years earlier.

  She’d bought it when she was fourteen at San Francisco’s annual mechanics’ fair from Michael Price himself, where she’d had to beg the great man to part with one of his finest knives. Unlike his more recent work which was made for surgeons and indolent Easterners, this one had a modern blade’s fine steel but the inconspicuous hilt of Gold Rush Era pieces. It hummed with quiet readiness to be carried into dangerous places by equally deadly men, instead of worn strictly for show.

  Had it saved Gareth’s life as many times as she’d hoped?

  Moving very, very slowly and keeping his hand behind his back at all times, Gareth carefully hid his bowie knife under a book on the nightstand. He stood so close she could only see him from the waist up.

  Her heart twisted. Now he treated her like a hothouse flower, unable to withstand even the slightest reminder of danger, such as the sight of armed protection.

  “Would you like me to send for a cup of tea or coffee?” He lowered his voice to the same deep croon he’d offer a skittish horse.

  “Oh no, certainly not.” And let strange servants know what had transpired between her and her husband on their wedding night? Never!

  “You must be chilled,” she ventured, softened enough by his concern to offer an equal token. “Would you like a blanket? Or come back to bed?” What a dangerous thought that was.

  He shook his head, a faint smile teasing his lips.

  “Thank you.” He caught up an embroidered quilt and settled onto the divan like an Indian wrapped in a blanket.