The Devil She Knows (11 page)

“In the jail—” The hapless customs official abruptly realized what he'd admitted and slammed shut his ledger book. His eyes darted like a rat trapped between two gigantic cats, between Gareth's implacable countenance and the damnable paperwork, which officially admitted ‘Abd al-Hamid into Constantinople.

A desperate sweep of the room proved that none of his fellows would so much as glance at him. Even his superior had turned away, ostensibly to straighten some record books.

Why were all of these bureaucrats so terrified of Gareth?

Even so, the customs officer still tried to recover some of his lost dignity.

“The fellow is a dangerous brute,” he announced and shuffled his gear together as if done with the subject.

“Would you care to defend that description within the Almabayn's walls?” Gareth cocked an eyebrow, as brazenly as he'd draw and aim his Colt.

“Oh no, sir, not at all.” The official choked and ran a finger under his collar, his eyes very wide. “That will not be necessary, since he's vouched for by someone of your sterling qualities.”

“Indeed.” Gareth's tone was so brusque that Portia was hardly surprised to see the supervisor stop eavesdropping and head over toward them, wearing a very anxious expression.

“He shall be delivered into your custody immediately, sir,” the former obstructionist declared, deliberately not looking at his boss.

“Into the bosom of his family,” Gareth corrected him.

“Ah yes, yes, of course. May Allah bless all of us with such loved ones!”

“Exactly.” The harsh lines deepened beside Gareth's mouth but Portia had little attention to pay them. She was too busy joining in the general praise to the Almighty and hoping her party could leave quickly, before anybody changed their mind and made all of them stay.

Moments later, Constantinople's salt-laden air teased Portia's nostrils with its reminder of the sea's freedom and the tears she'd shed so many times in England, regretting what she'd angrily, foolishly discarded.

She stood beside Gareth to see ‘Abd al-Hamid being gently lifted into his family's cozy equipage. Sidonie had recovered herself to supervise their luggage being loaded into Gareth's vehicle, although her orders lacked their usual crispness. Gareth's men were local, neatly dressed, and more than brusque enough to discourage passersby from stopping to watch.

How could so much harm have occurred to Abdul in so few minutes? He could only hope to see out of one eye, given his poor battered face, and days would probably pass before he could eat anything but soup. His left arm hung useless at his side, while he curled his right hand protectively against his chest. His legs were little better than his arms.

“Ah, gracious lady, thank you,” he slurred.

“For what?” Portia blinked back tears and tried to keep her voice level. “I brought you here.”

“I would have come home to Constantinople, no matter what the risks. You and the gentleman rescued me quickly”—he paused to swallow with great difficulty—“from my folly of the ill-omened hotel, while I waited to be reunited with my family.”

“We are in your debt,” his uncle added. “You need only ask. He says you know how to find us.” He tweaked the blankets tucked around the invalid one last time before fully facing Portia.

“Well yes, but—there is no obligation between us.”

He grunted, relegating her statement to the realm of polite fiction, before looking at Gareth.

“This is no place for a lady,” he observed, ancient eyes studying the larger man without fear.

“She has a suite booked at the best European hotel—and I will continue to keep her safe.”

“Most excellent.” He bowed. “Peace be upon you.”

“And upon you be peace,” Gareth returned in equally excellent Arabic.

Portia could read nothing in Gareth's face after they'd left, unlike her wedding day, the last time they'd met. She sighed, wishing for so many things.

“Hmm?” Gareth asked noncommittally, just as he would have when she was an adolescent. Back then, he'd been surprised at her presence on his expeditions out of Uncle William's house. But he'd never refused to take her along and he'd always answered her questions, even if he didn't start any conversations. At least in the beginning, he hadn't.

“He looks so helpless, unlike the charming—”

“Charming?” Gareth's tone sharpened fractionally. He turned toward the large, comfortable barouche that Sidonie had just climbed aboard.

“Parrot? Or maybe a mynah bird?” Portia spread her hands a little helplessly, before following his lead. A seagull soared overhead, effortlessly free unlike herself. “Abdul Hamid always reminded me of a tropical creature, with his vivid waistcoats and eternal, colorful chatter. Seeing him crumpled up like this makes him look like a broken bird.”

“I doubt there's any serious damage.” Warmth softened Gareth's eyes for the first time until they gleamed blue as the water behind him. He offered her his hand and she took the first step up into the carriage.

“Are you sure?” Standing on the metal step, she was almost at eye level with him.

“They didn't have enough time to tie him up and truly start working him over. The police here have a pattern they like to follow.” His expression hardened for a moment then he kissed the tips of her fingers. “But that didn't happen. Once he sees a good doctor, is bandaged up, and has a long rest, he should be fine.”

“Are you truly certain?” She searched his face. They had never, ever lied to each other.

“As much as I can be.”

“Very well then.” She tightened her fingers around his, feeling his strength flood into hers once again. “Thank you for rescuing us.”

“It was my pleasure, Portia.” He kissed her hand again, brushing his lips across her knuckles. It was still no contact at all, nothing like all the men who'd tried to seduce her into an affair while she was married, saying she needed to distract herself from St. Arles. She'd always refused them, telling herself and them it was because St. Arles would never tolerate a cuckoo in the nest. He'd have known in a minute if another man had sired his heir and heaven knows, the son of a bitch kept hauling himself back to her bed to breed one.

She hadn't realized until now it was because no other man made her bones shiver, even when her skin hadn't been touched.

“We need to talk,” she said more than a little desperately.

“Of course. But not here—and not in the carriage.”

Oh dear Lord, she'd have to be truly private with him.

Jumping off the pier would have been easier than boarding the carriage but she did it nonetheless.

T
he carriage lurched and jolted forward again up the steep hill overlooking the great city.

Portia swayed beside Gareth and gracefully adjusted to its ungainly gait yet again. Her maid sat in the opposite seat with her eyes shut, her fingers busy with her rosary.

Unfortunately for him, Portia was even lovelier now than the day she'd married that English prig or in any of the newsprint photos since. Wisps of golden hair teased her face from under her high-brimmed hat with its mass of blue feathers, until she seemed a lightly ensnared bird.

She deserved a better introduction to Constantinople than she'd received. With any luck, she'd be on tomorrow's train for Paris—and away from the idiotic lump in his throat when he looked at her.

Her hand crept across the carriage seat toward him. Tentatively, as if the slightest rebuff would send her running, she linked her fingers with his, the same way they had during their escapades.

His chest tightened.

He held hands with her and told himself it was only to comfort her for the nastiness she'd endured. He didn't need any such warmth.

 

Gareth's eyes swept the hotel lobby once again, suspicious as if he stood in a crowded saloon full of cowboys using their Colts for wagers.

Yet nothing could have been more civilized than his surroundings: the tall black marble columns which divided the great space, the gold-paneled walls bordered in black fretwork and which offered pastel hymns to Constantinople's glories, the high ceilings etched in more gold to reflect the enormous French chandeliers, and the white and gray marble floors floating like a winter sea from the front door up the stairs to main lobby and hence to the rippling main staircase, which led to the suites.

Liveried attendants lined the walls or glided across the floor, eager to fulfill a guest's slightest wish—whether a speedy check-in, directions, or a cup of English tea. Anything and everything was available here for its very well-heeled European patrons. Discreetly, of course, especially the heavy security.

So why the hell were his fingers twitching for the gun he never carried in Constantinople?

Maybe it was because this was the first place men openly looked at Portia.

Yes, that had to be it. They'd journeyed through the Old City, primarily among Moslem men who'd never let their glances linger on a woman, especially if she was accompanied by a man. But here the fellows were European and they felt free to show their appreciation of her beauty.

No matter how politely they did so—however glinting the smile, quirky the lift of an eyebrow, or jaunty the tip of the hat—their reaction was unmistakable.

Just like Gareth's automatic response to them: tuck her hand more closely into the crook of his arm and glare. He might look a fool but she didn't need to be bothered with them, not when she'd just gone through that bitter divorce.

And so what if any whiff of her scent made his breath catch in his throat? He wasn't accustomed to smelling a polite European lady's perfume. And if that made his chest tighten and his loins ache—well, some reactions were simply instinct that a fellow had no control over, especially when he hadn't had a woman for a few weeks.

He'd have to take care of that tonight, though, or put Portia on the first train out of town. Otherwise, he might look a fool in front of her if he spent a full day with her tomorrow.

“You'll take me to evening prayers at the Hagia Sophia then?” Portia asked. She turned to face him on the main staircase, placing the gilded wrought iron between them like a harem's screen.

A driving need inside Gareth roared an objection to any distance from her, startling him by the presence of something whose birth he hadn't quite noticed. It had to be because he wasn't close enough to guarantee her protection.

“Yes, of course.” He patted her hand—and checked out the distance to the closest guard.

Damn, nobody on the stairs, which left only the men in the lobby. But there were many at the doors, plus others moving through the crowd.

He stretched his shoulders and told himself not to be a fool. Maybe he should find a woman immediately. Or maybe not; he didn't want to reek of cheap perfume when he saw Portia again.

Two men headed past them up the stairs, dressed in cheaply made French suits which didn't fit well. Both were probably Turkish, given their heavy mustaches and clean-shaven jaws, and neither was young.

They were polite enough not to display any reaction to Portia's presence, except to veer well past her skirts. Yet when they reached the landing, the elder one looked back at Gareth, not her, with a fighter's measuring stare.

Gareth countered it with a matching glance and waited, equally calm. Were they making sure he could defend the most attractive woman here?

The younger man tugged at the other's sleeve. He nodded to the American and moved on, having never broken stride.

Gareth slid his knife back into its wrist sheath, faintly surprised instinct had readied it for no overt threat to him.

“You have time to rest and change first,” he reminded Portia and his drumming pulse. “We'll dine together afterward.”

“If you won't mention tomorrow's Orient Express to Paris,” she said demurely.

“Portia!” he protested, barely managing to keep his voice down.

“I came to see all the sights.” She shrugged, as charmingly obstinate as she'd ever been. “Besides, Sidonie has friends here she'd like to visit.”

“We'll talk more at a later time.” Gareth flicked an eyebrow at her, warning her that she'd won the argument but only for the moment.

She winked at him but there was a shadow hidden in the depths.

“You've already had a very long day.” He kissed her fingertips, careful not to allow himself any closer proximity. “Now go upstairs and pamper yourself.”

“Yes, Gareth.” She thinned her lips into a schoolgirl's placidity then suddenly blew him a kiss.

“Portia!” He jolted backward, his heart pounding against his ribs as if a horse had kicked him.

“Not here,” he got out, hoping he sounded more like a heavy-handed chaperone than a skittish colt.

She laughed, the sound as musical as when they'd first scandalized San Francisco. She waggled her fingers at him and trotted up the stairs, whistling softly.

Gareth grumbled under his breath, furious that he undoubtedly sounded like her father after one of her more memorable escapades.

He raised an eyebrow at a hotel guest, silently daring the fellow to say anything or even cast a look askance.

The glossily clad man promptly reduced himself to a state of milk toast, assuming an expression of vacuous amiability created by no apparent thought.

Gareth nodded curtly and moved on, cutting through knots of men and past servants better-dressed than the patrons.

He paused to consider the doormen.

Everyone here wore wealth and power like a uniform. Even the flunkeys donned it as their passkey for admittance.

Where the hell had those two men come from, in their cheap, ill-fitting French suits?

Frenchmen would never allow the glory of France to be besmirched in such appalling fashion. He'd learned in Algeria that fabric might lack quality but the fit would be precise, or at least tolerable.

If they were Turks, what were they doing at Constantinople's most expensive hotel for Europeans?

Gareth slowly turned around and damned himself for acting like a lion with a thorn in its paw.

A woman's scream ripped through the lobby's pretentious bustle.

Gareth had leaped over the balustrade and was running up the stairs before a porter could pick up the first shattered teacup.

 

Portia tried to ignore the forearm gripping her like an iron bar across her throat. Her wrists had been bound tightly behind her with a sash cord and her skirts' fashionable folds muffled her kicks. Thanks to St. Arles' bedroom manners, she had far too much experience with this sort of behavior.

But in case somebody hadn't heard her first scream, uttered when she'd unlocked the door and beheld poor Sidonie's hooded form heaving against a chair, she had to keep on fighting.

Her pulse was ricocheting inside her skull hotter and faster than from anything St. Arles had ever done to her, black was bleeding into her vision, and bells clanged an alarm somewhere.

The thug's foul hand was clamped over her mouth while his forearm squeezed her throat into her spine. His mate searched her luggage, scattering clothing, shoes, and parasols like cheap bric-a-brac. Even her jewelry garnered no more than a cursory glance.

She caught the ruffian's callused thumb's edge and bit down hard, giving it all the anger she'd ever longed to deal St. Arles.

The brute jerked and cursed in Turkish, not French.

Emboldened, she clamped down again twice as forcefully, despite the foul taste and the dizziness scattering her brains, and bit into his entire finger.

Guttural curses spilled over her head and he yanked his hand free.

She screamed again, more hoarsely this time. She gulped for breath, thankful her high collar had blunted the brute's attack, and tried once more.

The suite's main door slammed open and Gareth roared wordlessly.

The searcher slammed shut the lid to her evening gowns' trunk and raced for the bathroom. Her captor freed her so suddenly she staggered, before he too dashed for the more distant room.

A window screeched in its frame, accompanied by guttural expletives.

Gareth stormed into the bedroom, knife in his hand. A single glance, brilliant as sunlight on a drawn sword, reassured him that she was alive. He jigged, his steps heading in two directions at once, like the anger and concern warring in his eyes.

The window complained vehemently again. Sidonie wailed from underneath the enormous black hood like an abandoned kitten.

Portia waved him toward their foes, her heart burning a hole in her chest for him. Was she sending him into an ambush?

He snarled soundlessly but nodded curtly and ran past her, silent as an eagle on the hunt.

Her lungs didn't remember how to breathe until he emerged again, moments later. Unscathed, thank God.

“They escaped out the window and over the roof, the slimy thieves.” He tossed his knife into the air and cut it, as if readying it for throwing.

“Not thieves,” Portia husked and sank down sideways onto a chair. Logic said her pulse wouldn't tumble through her feet onto the carpet, no matter what sensation and instinct insisted.

“
Not
thieves?” Gareth echoed and glanced at the room's wild disorder.

“Mrs. Vanneck?” the hotel manager called from the door. “Are you well? May I enter?”

Portia sighed and tilted her head back. She could answer for herself but what about Sidonie, who'd never wanted to leave Europe's friendly havens behind? “Certainly, monsieur.”

“Definitely not burglars,” Gareth confirmed her estimate very softly and stooped down beside her. “Hold still, honey.”

Honey?
He'd never called her that before, although he'd used it with others like Uncle Hal and Aunt Rosalind's daughters.

Even so, she held very still indeed.

His knife sliced quickly and surely through the cord imprisoning her. Her arms separated and she was free again, just as he'd always helped her to be.

The hotel manager filled the room with a covey of his minions and a storm of apologies before she could catch a glimpse of Gareth's face.

Had he realized he called her honey or had the endearment slipped out?

Gritting her teeth against a thousand questions which could only lead to more heartache, she untied Sidonie.