The Devil She Knows Page 3

  Tornado growled softly in the distance.

  “If those two were in any shape to talk,” Baylor’s voice was hoarser than the dust would account for, “they’d be the first to argue against risking your safety, ma’am. Above all else, we must keep you well.”

  Kenly silently rolled away, followed an instant later by Baylor. Only Gareth and she could help those two piteous wretches.

  “I will shoot them myself.” Her stomach lurched but she ignored it, together with any maidenly qualms which seemed to be making her pulse flutter like a frantic goose. She’d worry later about how to make Gareth once again amenable to her every suggestion. “We’re far enough away that the Apaches won’t know exactly where the bullets came from.”

  She gathered her feet under her, determined to get the hideous deed over with while she still had the nerve.

  Tornado growled again, closer and a little louder.

  “Portia, dammit!” Gareth lunged for her.

  She yanked away and stood up in a patch of shadow behind them, ready to fetch her rifle from the horses.

  One step—and she was in full sunlight again.

  Second step—Something slammed into her head, simultaneously fiery hot, sharp, and unbearably solid. Stars somersaulted behind her eyes, bringing velvety blackness.

  She collapsed, unconscious before she hit the dirt.

  Chapter Four

  Tucson, the next night

  The house’s big wooden door was as solid as its walls. Carved and reinforced with metal straps, it proudly proclaimed it could withstand as many sieges as the stucco bricks beside it. Golden light spilled from high barred windows, promising rest and safety within one of Tucson’s finest neighborhoods.

  Portia cast it a sour look but said nothing, granting it no more conversation than she’d offered her escort since the previous night. Finding herself lashed to a horse had inspired no friendliness in her bosom.

  She’d been politer to Baylor and Kenly. They and Tornado had said goodbye a few minutes ago, off to become Donovan & Sons’ latest employees. Their honest concern for her health had been far different from Gareth’s high-handed superiority.

  “How’s your head?” Gareth asked, standing on the doorstep where he and Portia awaited an answer to his knock.

  “I’m feeling entirely well, thank you,” she stated firmly, in the same tones her stepmother used to discuss another woman’s clothing or anything else of no interest at all.

  As if she’d have told the brute anything different about her health, since he was the one who’d caused all the problems.

  She sniffed loudly and refused to readjust her hat, despite the headache lurking at her temples. It would have served him right if she’d needed a massive bandage to hold back her bloodstained locks. She’d have liked to see him explain that away.

  He cast a long, sweeping glance over her to measure her health as if she were a cow.

  “What are you looking for?” she challenged. “You already checked my head this morning and didn’t find a knot—after you untied me from the horse.” And ungagged me.

  “Your eyes are clear,” he remarked. He took a step closer and her hands immediately came up, balled into fists and ready to fight, in the move he’d taught her years ago. Something distant and dark flashed through his eyes, half hidden in his hat’s shadows.

  “Thank you.” She all but spat the words at him. To think she’d dreamed of one day hearing him praise her eyes’ beauty.

  She’d never wear his watch again, lest she carry another instrument for him to measure her by.

  “And you still seem to have your wits about you, judging by how you can string words together.”

  She gaped at him, totally at a loss for words. How much thinking did it take to realize the man you loved didn’t care—no, didn’t give a damn about you? Proven when he hit you on the head with his Colt!

  She started to throw a punch at that infuriating, handsome, all-too-memorable mouth.

  Unfortunately, the door swung open first.

  “Lowell? Sweet Jesus, you made good time!” Uncle William started to embrace his old friend. But Gareth sidestepped slightly and light from inside poured over Portia in a welcoming flood. Suddenly she wasn’t dusty and chafed in her leather breeches and creased bandanna on a rutted street hundreds of miles from anywhere she knew.

  She was a breath away from home.

  Uncle William froze then leaped onto the threshold and swept her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, shaking, as if she were a little girl once again, back when she was always safe with her favorite uncle.

  “Sweet Mother Mary,” he muttered. They held onto each other for what seemed like an infinity, while her body ignored the contrast between itself and fresh clothing and clean skin, before he carried her inside.

  “Viola, sweetheart,” he crooned, “look what Lowell brought you for a birthday present.”

  He set Portia down carefully on a polished tile floor, covered with brilliant rugs. Soft white plaster walls reflected the golden lamps swinging from the ceiling and the fire crackling in a curved fireplace, until the large room seemed an oasis of warmth and love. Leather chairs and overstuffed sofas offered tempting places to rest.

  But none of that mattered, next to the woman struggling to her feet.

  “Portia, my love.” Her mother’s younger sister held out her arms, soft shawls falling toward the floor like autumn leaves at winter’s first touch.

  “Aunt Viola.” Hot speech regarding Gareth’s unjust treatment, rehearsed a thousand times over during the past day, died on Portia’s lips.

  Aunt Viola had never been hale and hearty like Aunt Rosalind, someone capable of playing tennis for hours. But her elfin beauty had always glowed with an inner joy, which made most men call her a beauty. Portia had always considered her healthy, although not extremely strong after her second son Brian was born.

  But now? She could barely stand unaided and her skin was gray, more ashen than rose-petal. Dear Lord, she looked as if she was still close to death, yet the miscarriage had occurred almost a month ago.

  Uncle William lightly squeezed Portia’s shoulders.

  She shook him off. She didn’t need the warning to make sure she’d put her best beloved aunt first, in every way. She dropped her hat onto the nearest table and ran forward.

  “Dearest, dearest aunt.”

  They hugged each other, scalding tears of joy blending on their cheeks.

  Portia started to wrap herself closer, the way she’d always done but alarm rippled across her skin, edging her back. Aunt Viola was so very thin, far thinner than usual.

  Portia shifted her grip slightly and held herself a little more cautiously, careful to keep her arms in a cradle rather than crush. She would keep the little hellions called her cousins out of harm’s way, while she was here. That would give Aunt Viola time to rest and heal.

  Aunt Viola stroked Portia’s hair. Despite all her best resolutions, Portia leaned into the maternal reassurance.

  Delicate fingers smoothed the lingering sore spot on her scalp. Portia yelped and flinched away.

  “What happened to your head, dear? Did you take a fall?” Aunt Viola questioned. “Do we need to send for the doctor?”

  Portia gritted her teeth, unable to form a polite answer.

  “I’m sorry but I’m afraid I hit her, ma’am,” Gareth answered.

  “Why?” Uncle William shot the question at him like a cannonball.

  “We stopped for water at Rio Perdido.”

  “Rio Perdido?” Aunt Viola sank back into her chair. “The final watering hole?”

  “Yes. It was—” Portia started to interrupt.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gareth’s deeper voice drowned out hers. “The Apaches had arrived first, destroyed the ranch, and laid a trap.”

  “And?” Uncle William’s expression was remote and contained, rather than furious. Portia wanted to box their ears for only paying attention to the professional fighter’s story. We
ll, professional teamster and courier, which in Arizona was essentially the same thing.

  “Portia was about to draw fire down upon us,” Gareth announced.

  Draw down fire? Portia desperately looked for something, anything to throw at him and shatter his appalling calm.

  Did he have to describe her as if she was an idiotic child? How many times had they gone adventuring together over the past four years? How many times had he told her that a man couldn’t ride or shoot any better than she had?

  If doing all that wasn’t good enough to capture his, his damn attention, then it would serve him right if she went back East and became the most beautiful girl in New York. He’d know what he’d missed when he saw dozens of men begging for her attention.

  “Knocking her out with the butt of my Colt—” Gareth continued.

  “Was the fastest way to silence her.” Her beloved uncle nodded in agreement.

  “Uncle William!” Portia exploded and swung to face her kin. Couldn’t she trust even him to stand up for her? Good heavens, if she stayed here, she’d probably be lectured on how badly she’d behaved at Rio Perdido.

  Or required to be polite to Gareth, on the many occasions he frequented their house.

  Disgust twisted her belly and her mouth for an instant.

  “Does your head still hurt very badly, dear?” Aunt Viola asked softly.

  “Just a small ache,” Portia replied brusquely, more concerned with other matters. “But—”

  “I’ll have a room prepared for you here, Lowell,” Uncle William announced, riding over Portia’s voice.

  She flung back her head involuntarily. Horror washed across her face before she could guard her expression again. How long did she have to be near her old playmate?

  True, she had to remain until Aunt Viola was healthy again.

  But after that? He was not someone who visited any place very often. Yet if he saw anyone regularly, it was William and Viola Donovan, who’d always treated him as a son.

  Faugh!

  Aunt Viola speared first Portia then Gareth with a searching glance but said nothing.

  “No need, sir. I have to ride out immediately to Fort Lowell.”

  “At this hour?” protested the lady of the house, her Southern sense of hospitality obviously outraged. “Surely we can give you something to eat.”

  Portia sank into the closest chair, wishing she had a fan to shield herself. For the first time, she recognized the advantages of ladylike clothing as a prop to hide behind, rather than boys’ clothing which left every emotion on display. Such as gagging at the mention of sharing a meal with an arrogant jackass.

  “They promised an escort back to Rio Perdido, if we can leave before dawn.” One of Gareth’s shoulders lifted, then fell. “We’ll probably arrive while at least one of the settlers is still alive.”

  “Thank you, Gareth.” Aunt Viola limped over to him and kissed his forehead. He patted her back but said nothing more, his countenance offering little hope or gentleness.

  “I’ll have the cook pack a decent meal for you,” Uncle William promised.

  Gareth’s eyes met Portia’s. For a moment, something flickered in their depths. It was surely not an apology since he held himself too straight.

  She inclined her head. If nothing else, she was grateful he’d bury those poor charred beasts once called men.

  But she couldn’t forgive him for proving exactly what category he placed her in. No man christened his beloved with the butt of his Colt.

  No, she’d look elsewhere for her true love.

  Chapter Five

  New York, New York, October 1880

  Portia paced in front of the upstairs drawing room’s marble columns and closely watched herself in the mirror above the black marble mantel. The sun’s dying rays plummeted through the stained glass transoms and slowly spilled crimson over the bronze maiden standing there.

  A thousand lizards rioted in the void known as her stomach. She didn’t want to think about them, the four hundred guests waiting at the church to see her married, or the clock ticking off the minutes till she, her father, and stepmother left for the ceremony. For one thing, they should have departed—she cast yet another glance at the curlicued bit of machinery facing the mantel—almost ten minutes ago.

  But everything in this Manhattan town house moved at her father or stepmother’s command. A year of expensive finishing school and another year touring Europe had shown her a broader palette of delights than the rigorous schools she’d attended earlier had taught her. She’d danced until she fell into bed exhausted at dawn, practiced notes backstage with opera stars, compared French poets to their Greek models in London drawing rooms, and more—always attired in the latest gowns from Paris.

  And completely lacking Gareth Lowell’s presence. She’d considered wearing his watch again, since the tiny enameled pendant could be hidden inside ballgowns and punctuality was an asset. But she needed no reminders of his autocratic ways, even if he was an honest man unlike most in her father’s circle.

  All those days and nights had also confirmed the advantages a matron enjoyed over a schoolgirl, such as not having to answer to anyone whenever she wished to say what she wanted or go where she pleased.

  Only a few more minutes left until she headed her own establishment and set her own rules. Having her own house—no, houses—would be much better than living at her parents’ beck and call. An enormous country estate, the proud horse farm which had been neglected for far too long, the town house which had been rented and abused. She could have all the books she wanted, sing for as long as she wanted….

  None of which mattered, since it wouldn’t bring her Gareth.

  She went back to what she could do for now: practice wearing her wedding dress.

  Good, she wasn’t tripping on the double lace flounce any longer. She was also moving so smoothly that the pearls holding down the rows of chenille fringe covering the skirt fluttered gracefully, rather than wrapping around each other.

  Managing the yards of cloth was far trickier because she couldn’t pick up her skirts. Instead she had to carry her mother’s Bible, with its precious letter to her. The trustee of Mother’s estate had delivered it that morning, too late for Portia to read it before the ceremony.

  Glass shattered next door. “You clumsy idiot, how dare you curl my hair that way!” a woman screeched.

  Portia grimaced, all too familiar bile rising in her throat. The new French maid, the third this year, had probably tried to make her mistress look attractive rather than fashionable.

  “But, madame…”

  Thud!

  Babette yelped.

  Portia wheeled for the door and rattled its knob. It was locked as usual, unlike those at Aunt Viola’s home. “Ma’am? Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, of course,” her stepmother answered. “But I’ll need a few minutes longer than I expected.” She ended the last syllables with a vicious snap.

  “And Babette?” Portia queried. Usually there was more noise to her stepmother’s rage than actual hitting. “Can she help me finish?”

  “Don’t be absurd; you’re already dressed. Your father and I will come for you when I’m ready.”

  Portia mimed hurling a kick at the unresponsive door. But perhaps the mansion’s mistress would behave better now, since she’d been reminded of the need for haste.

  She went back to tramping through the drawing room. Once she had her own house, she’d be able to dictate little things, such as granting the Catholics the nearly unheard of benefit of hearing Mass every weekday. Of course, she’d have to give the Protestants something equivalent, like going to church as often or a few minutes of leave to walk in the garden.

  She’d be a countess, with responsibilities and people dependent on her. She wouldn’t be bored by endless conversations about the shape of a bustle or the latest color to be touted by Paris. She’d be part of a family which dated back centuries and spoke casually about matters of war and peace, while m
oving in the highest circles.

  Focus on the dress, Portia. You gave your word to marry the man and Gareth Lowell would expect you to always keep your oath, no matter what.

  She’d mastered the long train in order to be presented at the English court. It was a pity that her wedding day wouldn’t feature any helpful footmen with rods to keep yards of ruffled brocade and tulle veils from tripping her.

  She could barely breathe, of course, since Babette had laced her corset under the senior Townsend female’s ambitious stare. But that had been happening for months now.

  Portia reached the corner, pivoted, and kicked her train back into place behind her. Yards of brocade rustled smoothly over the oriental carpet.

  She gave herself a jubilant thumbs up in the mirror. Something was going right, at least. Maybe she could succeed, instead of nervously looking over her shoulder for prying eyes calculating where her next flaw would appear.

  “Portia.”

  The voice was deep, slow, and very western. Familiar—far too familiar, it resonated in her very bones.

  “Gareth?”

  She swung around and stared at more than six feet of abominably attractive masculinity. Her treacherous heart tumbled through in her chest.

  “How did you get in here?” she demanded. Miraculously, her train piled up neatly at her heels like a cavalcade called to a sudden halt.

  “Through the rear garden and over the balcony, of course.” He raised a very black, superior eyebrow at her. “Why? Did you ask your father to post extra guards on the roof, the way Donovan would in Tucson?”

  “No, of course not. He didn’t consider it necessary.” The presence of two presidents, plus two presidential candidates, on the guest list had galvanized New York’s police chief into covering the streets with his finest men.

  Gareth shook his head slowly, never taking his silver eyes off her. “In his shoes, I’d personally take some responsibility for the contents of the house, both material and human.”

  He wore a cutaway coat and striped trousers, the same extremely formal attire that every guest attending the ceremony would wear. He could have walked into the Court of St. James and been granted an audience with Queen Victoria.