The Devil She Knows (13 page)

“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.

P
ortia 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.

Surely she was satisfied at seeing only his face, hands, and feet, rather than the male beauty of a few minutes earlier.

Still, would he be comfortable there? His battered body deserved better.

“Can you sleep there? You should definitely get your rest.” She tried to tuck her toes a little farther under her knees to give him more space on the other side. A cool breeze teased her arms.

“I've been colder. I'll stay here and let you breathe easy.”

“Me?”

“Aren't you doing better now than when you first woke up this morning?” he countered.

Neither St. Arles nor her father had ever put her comfort first. Portia's chest loosened and warmed. Her fingers stretched, longing to reach out to him.

“But you're my friend and you're uncomfortable. How can I relax when you're uneasy?”

His eyes searched hers with the same intensity he'd given the room's hidden nooks.

“Please?” she added and bit her lip. He needed to believe she wanted him beside her for more than marital appearances. He needed comfort, the same way his scars should be healed. “Please come back to bed, Gareth.”

“If you're sure, Portia.”

“Yes, I am.”

He came swiftly, probably so she'd have no opportunity to view him. He was on the other side of the bed, to her surprising disappointment, before he spoke again. “When is St. Arles expected in town, Portia?”

“Today perhaps, if he pretended to be an indolent tourist and came by train.” She shivered, chilled by more than the air. “Or he could already be here, if he commandeered a fast warship.”

“Do you want to lie down again, too, honey? Do you need another coverlet?”

“I, ah…” Did she want to flee? Or did she want to dive into the comfort of his arms and try to forget St. Arles' looming presence?

Gareth truly hadn't taken advantage of her the night before. She was certain of that, since she wasn't chafed and raw between her legs the way St. Arles had always left her.

“We've only been in bed a couple of hours,” Gareth coaxed. “You must be exhausted. You still have time to sleep before we say goodbye to your maid.”

“True.” The Orient Express didn't leave until early afternoon, even though it arrived in the morning of the same day.

She stroked the inviting hollow she'd made in the pillow just above the perfect niche in the mattress. Both of them seemed to beg for her to return, to forget the coming day's cares.

Her hair swung forward onto her breast, tickling her cold shoulders. It had been only loosely tied with a hair ribbon, rather than sternly repressed in braids.

“How late were we up?” she asked, without looking at Gareth. Her fingers ached, half from the morning chill but far too much from the surprising need to touch him.

“Past three. Don't you remember?”

“Mostly as music and dancing, not hours and minutes.”

“It was a fine wedding party, all laughter and friendship.” He flipped the embroidered quilt invitingly out toward her. “Come closer, honey, and let me warm you up.”

Another brisk breeze down the nape of her neck decided her. This was Gareth, her most reliable friend who'd always told her the truth without regard to his own betterment. He'd slept with her without taking advantage of her. Surely she could trust him—and him alone.

She dived back under the covers, straight for the most reliable heat source in the room.

“Argh!” Gareth grunted then clasped her close to his chest. She wrapped her arms around him, careful to keep her cold hands on his waist, and buried her nose against his chest.

“My poor darling,” he crooned and smoothed a blanket up around her ears. “It can be a mite chilly around here in spring.”

She sniffled and held onto him.

He was safe and solid—and hairy, too, above all that muscle clothed in silky skin. His body was a miracle of curves and planes, sculpted in three dimensions like one of Michelangelo's mighty masterworks ready to dare great powers. Not an animated watercolor maintained to be a living, breathing showcase for fine clothing, like so many men she'd met.

Clothing. Where was her dress?

“Since Sidonie isn't here, who put me to bed?” she queried. Warmth was slipping back into her bones, together with the most delicious lassitude.

“I did, best as I could,” he admitted. For the first time, a little caution snuck into his voice.

“
You
did?”

“You were so sleepy, you started stumbling on the way in from the garden. You told me not to summon any of the maids.”

“You must have thought I'd had too much to drink.” She untangled her hands from under his ribs but remained tucked up against him, where her feet could get warm. Her nipples had somehow become aching little spikes, pressed deep into her breasts by his chest. But she couldn't pull away.

“Two glasses of wine?” His snicker quickly put her conscience to rest. “But your eyes were shut before I had finished undoing all those buttons.”

“I'm sorry.”

Her ankle slipped between his, as if holding onto him.

“You were charming.” He kissed the top of her head. “You wore my watch.”

She flushed at the realization he knew she still thought of him and sidestepped that issue without considering the alter-native's risks.

“How could I be charming, if you didn't have your wedding night?”

“Who says I didn't like the outcome?” he retorted, triumph rippling through his voice, as subtle and final as a Colt entering its holster.

Their gazes locked.

“But you haven't…” She stopped. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, a move which he regarded with considerable interest.

“Yes, honey?” he drawled.

“You haven't
had
me,” she whispered and blushed, wishing she could disappear under the bed.

“I've slept with you, haven't I? Maybe not in the Biblical sense but that doesn't matter, not when you spent hours wrapped in my arms.”

“I wish I remembered it.” She nibbled on her fingernail and wondered how he could be so calm, when she wanted to either run or grab him. But his body was hardly relaxed, given that his heart was drumming under her palm.

“You don't need to. Your body's happy, right? So why worry?”

“But I'd like to remember enjoying
you
, so I wouldn't have all the horrid thoughts of St. Arles when I think about sleeping with a man.”

“Of course we can make another memory for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything you want.” His eyes were very blue under their heavy lids. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Kiss?”

“Of course.”

“Or,”—she hesitated, impulses she'd never dared voice to anyone tumbling through her mind—“touch?”

“Anything.” The syllables rasped his throat like the most heart-felt promise. He delicately stroked her hair back from her face. “And everything.”

She smiled, relaxing in the surety of his promise, and traced the long muscle of his cheek, under his beard stubble. It was uncompromising, just like him, yet it seemed to have potential for more.

Surely she could safely handle Gareth. All the things she'd never wanted, never dared with St. Arles.

He turned his head and caught her fingertips in his mouth. She squeaked and shivered at the slow, steady caress. The gentle pull of his lips on her softer flesh seemed to ricochet straight through her arm and circle her breasts, tightening them as it went until she could barely breathe.

He did it again and her eyelids drooped, closing out the world so she could better savor the magic of this simple gesture. And when he kissed her other hand, and the palms of her hands, her heart lurched into a deeper, stronger beat that consumed her lungs.

She moaned softly, as much a plea for more as expressing bewilderment at her own reaction. She'd enjoyed playing with herself before but that had nothing to do with finding pleasure with a man. Didn't it?

“Ah, sweet Portia, you're so tempting with your lips parted. Will you mind if I steal a single kiss?” Gareth crooned against her cheek.

She shook her head, blindly seeking the source of the warm breath which ruffled her hair.

“That's my Portia.” Gareth's mouth met hers.

She opened willingly but a little shyly, fascinated by the contrast between his lips' supple curve and his beard's roughness. Gentleness and strength, both aspects of protection all in one.

He kissed her a little more and she snuggled closer. Somehow her hand slipped up his shoulder and into his hair, entrapped in the heavy strands like a sorcerer's web.

Time mattered little, compared to the delights of tasting and touching him so intimately, tongue to tongue, lip to lip. Even their teeth gave texture and meaning, adding emphasis and depth—while her breath sighed in and out, sending his warmth down her throat and into her veins. It pulsed through her blood and tightened her breasts, stealing her wits.