The Devil She Knows (20 page)

“W
e simply have to tell the authorities the truth.” Portiaset her shoulder against the door from the bedroom to the salon. “Somebody around here must be reliable enough to trust.”

“I doubt it.” Gareth tweaked his bowtie until it lay perfectly straight across his collar. When he raised his chin like that, she could see his strong jaw and chin muscles, but not the purplish bruise her teeth had left on his neck. That mark—and its brethren!—were hidden by his starched white shirt and collar.

Need sparkled through her, fierce and bright with the urge to touch him again, despite how often she'd held him last night. He'd woken her up more than once, raging with hunger for her, then slept equally fiercely with her.

She desperately folded her hands behind her back and fumbled for the latch. “We can ask Kerem Ali Pasha,” she proposed. “Or I can sound out his wife or daughter. Women often notice items that men do not.”

“You can try.” He dropped his vest down his arms to where it molded itself onto his broad shoulders.

Why did she keep imagining him without any clothing when she'd enjoyed him so well a few hours ago? Or with his vest but no shirt, to tease her all the better by glimpses of his powerful chest? None of her teenage dreams had burned quite like this. And the Church strongly encouraged a wife to seek the company of her spouse.

Her husband who would leave in a few days or weeks.

“Thank you.” She threw her weight against the portal's iron restraint and burst through into the salon.

“But not now, Portia,” he ordered in the same instant.

Her few stumbling steps took her into the center of the great gathering place, lit by morning sunlight filtered through the garden's graceful trees and slatted windows. It shimmered on the rose-pink silk pleated over the ceiling and the graceful silk rug in matching shades of cream, gold, and pink. The walls were painted with soft murals of village life along the Bosporus, turning them into a radiant reflection of the world outside. Velvet and silk upholstered the divans, while the low tables had been polished until their brass and carved woodwork gleamed more than the textiles. A circular candelabra hung overhead, like a wrought iron spider web hung with glass bowls at regular intervals to offer flames.

She'd seen its loveliness before whenever she'd gone in and out of the harem. But she'd never thought much about it, except to wonder a little why so much money had been spent on a room used only to connect the men's and women's quarters with the outdoors.

She jerked herself to a stop in the middle of Kerem Ali Pasha's family gathering place. Three generations—or four, if she counted Adem's baby son—looked back at her with varying degrees of surprise. It was the first time she'd seen the beating heart of his family.

Small secretary desks and sheets of paper were scattered at every seat, accompanied by fountain pens and ink.

Horror ran livid across Adem's wife's face but Kerem Ali Pasha's mother looked as if she was studying a new chess piece.

“I'm sorry,” Portia stammered and dropped a curtsy. She hadn't done anything this clumsy since finishing school.

“My wife has seen nothing.” Gareth caught her by the arm. “I swear she cannot read your writing to understand what you have said.”

Dear heavens, he sounded almost terrified and yet these people were his old friends. The women had freely showed their unveiled faces to him before, marking him as an intimate connection to their household.

Kerem Ali Pasha climbed slowly onto his feet, flanked by his two sons. Their faces were as stern as if they stood in an armory, surrounded by soldiers with naked blades, rather than at their home beside their wives and children.

“I apologize for any disturbance we may have caused.” Gareth bowed formally, lowering his head almost in submission. “We will leave now and never speak of this incident.”

What incident? Portia started to glance up at him but his fingers dug into her like talons. She dropped another, deeper curtsy to underline her complete agreement with her husband, even if she didn't understand why they were making the bargain.

Saril, Kerem Ali Pasha's mother, spoke briefly and arrogantly in Turkish, without taking her eyes away from Portia.

Kerem Ali Pasha argued vehemently but a brief spurt of words, sharp as a butcher's knife, silenced him.

He turned back to the two Americans, his expression an intriguing mix of anticipation and nervousness. “You are our guests. More importantly, you saved my son's life yesterday.”

Adem inclined his head. His countenance had settled into a soldier's unreadable mask.

“That makes you family—and welcome to stay as you please,” Kerem Ali Pasha finished on an emphatic note. “But as family, we ask that you keep family matters within the bosoms of your own robes.”

“Certainly we will,” Portia agreed, her words mingling with Gareth's assurance.

“Please sit down if you wish,” Saril offered, indicating a corner of one divan. “I'd thought we might see you this morning, since you enjoy the gardens so much.”

“Thank you.” Portia folded her skirts around her legs as tidily as possible, grateful her bustle was far smaller than most. Gareth sat down beside her, wary as a cougar in a rattlesnake den. “Everything I've seen of Constantinople's gardens has been delightful.”

“I hope you won't let yesterday's alarm scare you off.” Kerem Ali Pasha resumed his former seat.

“No, of course not.” She wouldn't leave until she was sure her former servants were safe from St. Arles' malice or his capacity for mischief here was blunted.

“I was shocked members of a secret society could enter Yildiz Palace.” Adem's wife Meryem leaned forward, her sleeping babe's innocence a fascinating contrast to her avid interest in dangerous mayhem.

“An isolated corner, never used by the Sultan, at a former hunting lodge?” Saril harrumphed and drove her pen through the last line like a dagger through the heart. “Not impossible to achieve, although I'm sure you'd never have seen the like at Topkapi Palace in my grandfather's day.”

“Grandfather?” Portia whispered.

The matriarch overheard, of course.

“My mother was an Ottoman princess and my grandfather was a great sultan. The empire was twice as large in his day and dreaded to the northern seas.” She sighed, the brilliance in her eyes fading slightly, and exchanged her letter for the sleeping infant.

Royalty? Yet she'd always treated Portia with great kindness, unlike the more snobbish British aristocrats.

“Could you manage a similar attack at Chiragan Palace?” Gareth asked and poured a cup of Turkish coffee for Saril.

“Never. A fish couldn't land unnoticed on that marble slab.” Kerem Ali Pasha handed his writing to Meryem as well.

“It's why the attack on Yildiz Palace was so easy to accomplish,” Adem supplied. “So many soldiers guard Chiragan and the Sultan personally that there's little to spare for other places.”

“Plus, many of the barracks are outside Constantinople. It would take time for troops to respond to an attack.” Kahil finished the longest speech Portia had ever heard from him. Then he handed his and his mother's letters to his sister-in-law.

“It's fantasy to believe those men would be of much use, exactly like the fiction we just wrote.” The soldier slammed his cup down onto the saucer.

“Adem!” Meryem hissed and flung out her hand to her husband. Papers spun like accusing fingers across the floor.

“Fiction?” Portia questioned, fascinated. “Are you writing a novel together?”

Silence fell, like an executioner's axe.

“We should leave, honey,” Gareth announced and came to his feet.

“No, although we've created enough words to supply a book.” Saril looked around the room at her descendants. “I, for one, am tired of this sickening nonsense. Let us be honest with people who have known only truth and justice.”

Gareth's hand tightened hard on Portia's shoulder but she knew better than to speak.

“They would know
everything
,” Meryem whispered.

“Who would believe them? Does anyone care what is fact or fiction, so long as it does not affect the Sultan?” Saril retorted. “You are the novelist; you know how to spin tales so nobody trusts them.”

“It would feel like opening a window and letting the sea breeze blow through our lives, before we are caught again in our unhappiness.” Kerem Ali Pasha seemed to have aged five years in as many seconds. “Gareth Lowell has always proven himself above reproach. We have treated him as a son of this house for years. Let us openly tell him what he has undoubtedly already guessed.”

He flapped his hands brusquely at Gareth, urging him to sit down.

Gareth obeyed slowly, reluctance written in every line.

“My family and I are writing our regular spy reports,” Saril announced and rubbed the baby's back.

“Spy reports?” Portia's mouth fell open. She looked from one person to another, totally baffled.

“Who could you be spying on? You don't seem to know any criminals.”
Or potential traitors like myself.

“We spy on each other.” Kerem Ali Pasha's lips folded into a thin line. “I on my wife and her in return, my sons on each other—as well as on me. Plus, my daughter spies on me, my wife, her husband.”

“And her brother-in-law,” Saril added, then cooed at the baby again.

“You sound as if such behavior is entirely to be expected!” Portia stared at the old woman.

“Such is the pass to which we have been brought by our current Sultan.” Loathing ran deep in her voice, like butcher knives lurking in a kitchen drawer.

“That's rather unfriendly,” Gareth remarked, his voice shifting into that warning Kentucky drawl. “Some families could turn it into treachery.”

“More than one has,” snapped Adem, “may Allah have mercy on them.”

Would idiots with the customs official's hair trigger temper recognize truth? “Can you afford to be honest?”

“Truth is like a valuable elixir to be doled out in small quantities, lest it be trampled underfoot by swine.”

“We write the reports together.” Elma, Kerem Ali Pasha's wife, spoke up for the first time. “Meryem ensures that the pieces fit together.”

“You have been questioned about our affairs,” Gareth commented.

“What of it? We have told them nothing you need concern yourself about.” Kerem Ali Pasha shrugged. “There is no punishment for errors since any spy may tell the truth someday in the future.”

That logic was insane enough to make sense.

Tension eased out of Gareth's long fingers.

“And so the very officials charged with stamping out spies”—such as those working with St. Arles—“actually encourage its growth,” Portia said furiously.

“Exactly. Everyone in this city is spying on everybody else.”

“That's detestable.” It sounded like living in a sewer. Facing Apaches on the desert sands would be cleaner, even if just as bloody.

I
n their room Portia cast an uneasy glance sideways through the mirror at Gareth. He'd sworn to guard her but staring through the shutters at the Bosporus for ten minutes straight seemed more abstraction than duty. His white shirt gleamed against the wood like a ghost, bereft of his coat and vest's stolidity.

She held her hand up, silently telling the very efficient Turkish maid to stop brushing her hair.

A conspiratorial gleam entered the girl's eyes, making Portia's conscience squirm uncomfortably. Even so, she winked back in agreement and waggled her fingers to say goodbye. Some things weren't worth arguing about, especially with somebody who didn't speak English.

The girl bobbed a curtsy and slipped silently outside. She eased the door into place behind her like a feather falling onto sand.

“Adem's family is very brave,” Portia commented. A moment's thought convinced her to step out of her drawers—oh, scandalous sensations—and leave her dressing gown unbuttoned. She advanced cautiously toward Gareth, wondering what troubled him.

“Being forced to spy on each other, simply because they're important and well-known, must be horrifying. Yet they still use it to bring themselves together.”

“By plotting their tales at the same time.” Gareth finally turned to her, his expression shadowed against the setting sun.

“If anyone catches them doing that.” Portia held out her hands to him, unconsciously begging for reassurance.

He caught them but didn't pull her close this time. “That's very unlikely, especially since the old pasha has tentacles placed in every major bureaucratic office. His mother's connections are even better.”

“All of them used to protect the family.” Portia sniffled, feeling slightly chilled. “I almost wish I'd headed west when I left London after the divorce, instead of east.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I couldn't tolerate facing any more journalists, or bringing them down upon my family.” She pulled a face, amazed she could discuss those days. “I spent months, unable to leave the house without artists running after me to sketch another picture, or reporters desperate to discover my new lover. Nobody would speak to me or even receive a letter.”

“Greedy bastards!” Gareth's arms finally wrapped her close to his warmth. “They should have hunted St. Arles and his whore.”

She snickered at the image, well aware of its impossibility. “Oh no, all his infidelity was forgiven as an expression of his manliness.”

“Hypocritical fools. Did your family help with the American press?”

“No, the American newspapers were as bad as the British. They printed story after story, until my father also had to dodge reporters.”

Gareth's expression shuttered, making it impossible to read. She frowned and finished her explanation in a rush.

“I thought if I sailed around the world, those yellow journalists would surely find another story to pursue by the time I reached San Francisco.”

“I'm sure they will, and that all of your family will be very comfortable to have you home again.”

Did Gareth place the slightest over-emphasis on
all
of her family? If he meant her father, it didn't matter. They'd never be truly close but at least now they could be relaxed together around her brothers.

Was this her chance to bring up Gareth's family? He'd brought up hers within a difficult context.

Wary as a quail creeping onto the desert from under a cactus, she offered him a question.

“Would you be glad to see your own family again? If you could?”

“For the love of God, Portia!” His gaze could have cut her heart out. “My mother and sisters were trapped in our cabin with a half dozen men during a shootout. The sheriff had arranged a truce but instead showed our enemies how to place an ambush.”

“The sheriff was involved?”

“We always called him Robin Redbreast for his fancy waistcoats. I had no doubt who led the butchers, not that I didn't know who our enemies were.”

“You could see him.” Ice flowed through her veins, dragging her back to the moment when his heart had stopped beating.

“We needed food but didn't have many cartridges so I'd been sent fishing. I could see our cabin but couldn't successfully intervene, since I was too far away.”

“You must have been frantic.”
My poor darling.

“I ran until my legs knotted and my stomach heaved. But I couldn't reach them in time to stop the sheriff from shooting my father and brother down when they went to tend the fields. That's when everyone else barricaded themselves inside the cabin.”

“And the lead started flying.”

“Yup. But our old enemy Gunnison was never the patient type so he threw some lighted brands onto the roof. It had been a hot, dry year—”

“The cabin caught fire quickly.”

“Too damn fast. The bastards refused to shoot our hogs, saying they were valuable. But they were lying in wait to gun down everyone who tried to make a break out of the door or windows.”

She bowed her head, wishing she were an angel to heal his heart. “What happened next?”

“The womenfolk came out first and were butchered before they could make it onto the porch.”

Grief, for Gareth and his family, tore through her throat.

“The remaining men used their last shots for themselves. The only reason I could tell the women apart was their heavy calico skirts—because I had to dig their graves.”

“Oh, my poor darling.” She caught his face and rained little kisses on his jaw, cheek, everywhere she could reach.

“Did you hear everything I said yesterday?” He shackled her wrists with his hands, his grip like hot iron. “I killed Gunnison and all the other men involved. I ended the blood feud
before I turned fourteen.
”

“Good.” She stopped struggling to free herself in order to give another consoling salute to that twitching muscle in his cheek. “I hope you shot them down like dogs, the murdering heathens. They shouldn't have burned your family.”

She glared at him, almost vibrating with rage and sympathy. To lay such a burden on a young boy was monstrous.

“Portia, I was nothing more than a savage animal myself. I forgot how to plow and tend cattle. All I thought of was death and killing.”

“Those men would have slain you, too, if they'd known you were alive.”

“I could have walked away.” He shrugged impatiently. “By the time I was fourteen, I had more notches on my gun than years under my belt.”

Agony staggered her knees for the first time, for all the men he'd killed—and the isolated fourteen-year-old kid who'd done a man's job but paid more than a man's price.

“That doesn't matter to me.” Except for the strong desire to burn some ghosts in Hades, the way an ancient Greek would. She rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of his neck for several minutes before she could speak again. “Please, let's go to bed and hold each other, husband.”

“Portia!” His bellow almost staggered her and he removed himself from her clasp. “How can you say that, when you know what I am? I will never free myself from the blood on my hands.”

Was that what his nightmares were about, all those times he woke up during the night?

“Gareth, please—”

“Do you think I haven't tried? Even the wildest games and the greatest charities haven't helped. I can still see all the men I destroyed.” He stopped, his chest heaving.

“You deserve better,” he whispered.

But you are mine.
The unspoken words echoed through her heart, as they had when she was twelve, the first time she'd seen him. His hair had been windswept and dusted with snow from an early winter storm. He'd looked like an angel—a very special, rugged angel.

She'd fight with every weapon she had to claim her love, no matter what the cost.

“When I was twelve, some coals popped out of the fireplace and landed on my mother's train, catching it on fire.” Try as she might, her lips didn't work very well on these sentences. Of course, this was only the first time she'd tried to tell anybody the full story.

“I screamed and tried to put it out with water. But Mother ran and ran as soon as she felt the flames on her legs and back.”

“Dear God, Portia.” Gareth took a step toward her, linked by the same raw agony which racked her.

“Her dress burned so fast she looked like Fourth of July fireworks.” Portia choked back memories of the awful smell.

“Hush, dearest, hush.” Gareth rocked her in his arms, his head resting on the top of her head.

“She screamed and screamed until the doctor came with laudanum,” Portia whispered into his shoulder's safe haven. “I prayed for her to die so she wouldn't hurt anymore. But she lingered for days. I thought it was my fault.”

“Never that, Portia, never that.” Ferocity lit his eyes, too savage to be doubted. “You couldn't have stopped those embers, any more than you could have rescued her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

“Then promise me you'll believe you had to obtain justice for your family, because nobody else could.”

He hesitated, his eyes flickering to find an escape from the trap she'd set.

“I believe it,” she added, providing the strongest seal she could.

“I may believe it was the only road to justice, Portia.”

She almost cheered but the hard set of his jaw made her wary.

“But I'm still a man who'll turn killer far too easily. I'm no fit husband for any woman, especially you, because I will never escape that taint.”

“You are my dearest friend, Gareth, and have always protected me. We're already married.”

“Not for long.”

Nightmare glimpses of agony to come racked her bones. Dear heavens, what would she do when he truly took back his ring and the joy of his presence?

She would not let that happen; she could be strong, too, and cunning. She still had a little time to play with and he did care for her, beyond their old friendship.

She would have to use a woman's weapons in this battle, little though she believed in them after her marriage to St. Arles.

Now she would have to open herself up freely and rely solely on what Gareth had taught her about herself in the past few days. It must be successful because it meant everything.

She managed a smile, matched by a hopefully seductive shrug to emphasize her dishabille.

“Do you want to stand in the middle of our bedroom and argue paperwork? Or would you rather come to bed and play for a few hours until St. Arles proves again that he's an ass?”

“You want to sleep with somebody who's killed so many people?” her husband questioned unsteadily.

“I want to sleep with Gareth Lowell,” she corrected him firmly. “The man who makes my pulse melt in anticipation of every hour alone.”

Gareth's gaze swept over her once again, like burning silk caressing every inch of her skin. He had to wet his lips before he could speak.

“It would be an honor, ma'am.”

Slowly, like the first sight of approaching rain across the desert, he held out his hand.

When he made no move to come closer, she lifted it to her mouth and gently kissed it, rubbing her cheek over his scarred knuckles.

A choked gasp broke from him and she waited hopefully. When he still didn't reach for her, she turned his hand over and laid gentle kisses on each callused fingertip. Finally she drew it against her breast and curved her head over it, until her hair poured protectively over his arm.

He shuddered, like a colt ready to bolt for freedom.

She waited, her breath suspended somewhere between heaven and hell, certain he must be able to feel her heart clamoring for him.

An instant later, his free hand stroked her cheek. The tentative touch sent warmth curling into her throat. She leaned closer to him and his fingers opened up to welcome her. His palm cupped sweetly around her head, rough with calluses yet strong and supple. She was perfectly safe from everything except her own desire for more contact with him.

Humming approval slipped out of her mouth and she nuzzled his fingertips.

“Portia, you are a wicked woman.” His voice was hoarser than usual. “Do you know how little sleep we'll have if we spend the night enjoying each other in all the ways I can imagine? For starters, I'd like to lick you all over like a champagne ice, indulgent and intoxicating at the same time.”

His every syllable singed her veins until she quivered, her knees barely able to hold her.

“I could drink your kisses' wine for hours,” she whispered. “Or stroke myself over you again and again, like a cat who knows where the exact combination of curves and textures always brings ecstasy.”

“You temptress.” He snatched her to him and she came eagerly. His fingers bit deep into her shoulders but the momentary pain only reminded her of the joy to come. Her heart pounded sweet and strong, her core pulsed fiery hot and wet for him.

“Sweetheart,” he growled and his mouth came down on hers.

Surely this night was the harbinger of a bright future together, when St. Arles' plots would be vanquished and Gareth would stay with her.

Somehow.