The Devil She Knows (22 page)

He thrust again, harder—and slid sweetly home, embraced and held to his root.

Portia moaned, rocking herself voluptuously against and upon him.

Pleasure wailed through him, too great and too familiar to be snatched immediately. He began to move again, driving both of them toward a barely glimpsed destination.

And oh, how she encouraged him, with voice and hands and body. Stroking him, gripping him, singing to him of her lust and love.

Until the passionate drumbeat roared hot and heavy through his cock, fueled by the scent of musk and barely restrained by the slick grip of her fiery hot sheath.

“Gareth!” Portia cried out and tumbled into passion's whirlwind, climaxing with a rapturous energy that gave as much as it demanded.

He shouted and followed her, shooting jet after jet inside her. Ecstasy tunneled through him and rocketed out, rattling every bone and remaking every muscle in a coruscant torrent, like the inside of a waterfall. Rainbows pummeled his eyes until they rolled back inside his head.

He cuddled her afterward, linked by sweat, the raspy sobs of their recovering breaths, and the last sticky remains of their lust.

God help him, he was horrified he'd remembered to use a condom. But wanting to make her pregnant would prove he was in love.

He didn't, quite, hurl the damn thing through a window into the Bosporus.

“I
will accompany you to exchange the trunks,” Portia stated again, far more forcibly.

“No.” Gareth dusted a nonexistent speck of dust off his bowler hat. Fiddling with his clothing was far better than considering his wife or looking too deeply into his heart.

“St. Arles will never send his trolls out if he doesn't see me.” She was dressed like a female admiral in a closely fitted blue dress. She sounded like one, too.

“We need to buy time, Portia, so your friends can escape.”

Her sigh shivered his heart. “The last cable from my solicitor said he had some ideas.”

“Many of your friends still remain at St. Arles' houses, despite how he's firing others. They're afraid of the unknown,” he added more gently.

She leaned her forehead against his shoulder and he hugged her consolingly. This early in the morning, no gardener should disturb them in a corner of Kerem Ali Pasha's gardens.

“I wish…” Her voice trailed off, like how the sun was rapidly burning off the fog.

“Hmm?” he prompted, savoring her delicate scent and warmth pressed close to his heart.

“I wish Uncle William was here. Of course, you're grand”—her enormous blue eyes beamed up at him—“but it would be comforting to know my uncle could back you up.”

“I understand, honey—and I feel the same.” Gareth plopped his hat on her head. “But we'll manage.”

“Wretch!” She batted at the brim, forcing the oversized hat backward. “You just want to blind me so you can sneak off.”

“Would I do that?” Gareth drawled, pretending to be offended.

“Yes,” she snapped, backed by the certainty which came from years of acquaintanceship, and triumphantly slung the offending headgear onto his scalp.

Ahoogaa!
boomed a horn in complete agreement.

They both turned toward the Bosporus to listen.

“That's not one of the ferries, is it?” Portia asked.

“No, and it's not a local freighter either.” He'd spent too many years around their ilk not to have learned their favorite cries. “Or a local navy ship.”

Oars dipped and splashed rhythmically into the water, like the accompaniment for an unknown song. Very well-trained crew, too.

Gareth grabbed Portia's hand and headed at a dead run for the landing.

Sunshine painted the little dock until it appeared as vibrantly alive as the flowers behind it or the mansion rising solidly, if vividly pink, next to it. The sky was bright blue and even Constantinople's ancient stones were a golden cascade beyond the Bosporus's rippling waters.

A very long, sleek, black boat lay at anchor off the yali. A single golden stripe ran down her side and the Stars and Stripes waved gently above her, near a golden pennant.

Portia whooped and hugged Gareth.

Servants clustered at the garden gate and even the womenfolk watched from the windows.

A rowboat, white as the gulls circling overhead, nudged against the quay. The uniformed crew rested on their oars at a single command, every one of them careful not to cast a single glance at the veiled women observing their every move.

Who the hell had disciplined them that well? More importantly, who the devil had taught them such good manners?

A tall, well-built man in naval uniform leaped deftly out of the rowboat and onto the dock, showing the cat quickness which only long years around the water confers upon land mammals. Another man followed, similarly outfitted and equally graceful.

Gareth would have far preferred to fight alongside, rather than against, either of them.

The first, and considerably more senior, fellow had already assessed his greeters with a born commander's ease. He turned his gaze upon Portia.

“Mrs. Vanneck, I believe?” he asked, in the purest of South Carolina accents.

“Mrs.
Lowell
,” she corrected, her voice only slightly tinged by a note of
thank God!
“This is Gareth Lowell, my husband.”

“Sir.” The newcomers bowed to them both.

“I am Captain Elliott Pendleton of the SS
Naiad
, and this is my first officer, Theodore Barnesworth. Our services and the
Naiad
's at your service, ma'am, while you cruise the world.”

“I-I don't own a yacht,” Portia stammered.

“Mr. William Donovan thought you might be more comfortable in your own vessel than if you were dependent on hired accommodations.”

Kerem Ali Pasha, flanked by both of his sons, could just be glimpsed coming through the gardens.

“However, his yacht was not readily available, since it cruises in Pacific waters, ma'am. He sends his apologies for any disappointment,” added Barnesworth.

“Quite all right,” murmured Gareth. He'd swear the fellow had lost his earlobe to a knife, although it was well-hidden in neatly barbered hair beside his black eye patch.

“Mr. Donovan therefore acted with your grandfather, Commodore Lindsay, to find and purchase a suitable yacht. The
Naiad
was commissioned for Mr. Gould, but he had expressed some concern that the designers had sacrificed comfort in favor of speed.”

“Do you agree with Gould?” Gareth asked.

“I believe you will have no complaints in either quarter, sir.” Pendleton allowed himself a small smile.

This changed the game. If he could get Portia out of here…

“How big a crew?”

“Slightly more than fifty, sir, and all of the officers are former Navy. The Lindsay family brought each of us in.”

Portia beamed as if the sun, moon, and stars were floating out there upon the water.

The two naval officers looked her over protectively, proud as if they were watching a race horse run for the first time.

Kerem Ali Pasha stepped onto the quay and Portia, as the closest, turned to make introductions. But Pendleton stepped back for a last, more private word with Gareth.

“I served with Hal Lindsay, your wife's uncle, in the Mississippi Squadron during the war between the States, as did Barnesworth and Murrah, the engineer. We'll protect any member of his family, as well as we did him.”

“Thanks. I'll remember that.”

The first genuine grin touched Gareth's mouth in far too long.

“My old friend.” He bowed to Kerem Ali Pasha. “May we borrow your house for a very private conversation with our newfound friends?”

 

The delicate pink salon was almost overwhelmed by so much masculinity crowded into it. The yacht's two officers, Gareth in his formal business attire, Kerem Ali Pasha wearing the fez and black robes of a high ranking state secretary. Even Adem's military uniform with all the gold braid and Kahil's simpler student tunic added to the impression of men gathered to do battle.

“Gentlemen, do you speak any French?” Gareth asked the yacht's two officers.

“Reasonably well for technical matters,” Pendleton admitted, “although you'll not catch me spouting any poetry.”

“Barnesworth?”

“I can't write it but I can understand it well enough,” the younger man admitted warily.

“Good; we'll converse in French. Kind sir, are we assured of privacy?” he asked their host.

“My mother has guaranteed it and my wife has promised to enforce it.” Kerem Ali Pasha folded his hands across his middle, like that of a man who prefers not to be aware of any details.

Portia started to question him and then decided she too didn't want to know. No government spy was a match for those two ladies.

“You are a great and powerful man in the Empire, as your father and grandfather have been before you. I brought my wife here for protection from burglars, which you have generously provided, and for which we thank you.”

Gareth bowed deeply, adding courtly flourishes. Portia echoed the movement, careful not to say anything. They needed the Turk's help and one wrong word from a woman could curdle their chances.

She sensed, rather than saw, the two officers glance at each other but they too remained silent.

“But matters have grown worse. We have learned that evil men intend to break into Chiragan Palace and restore Sultan Murad to the throne.”

“No!” Kahil came to his feet. His father snapped his fingers and pointed. The young man slowly resumed his seat, his expression thunderous.

“What do these evil men desire?” the state secretary inquired, calm as if they discussed the latest popular play.

“They believe that my wife's luggage contains a large enough bribe to make the palace guards disappear.”

Portia barely stopped herself from going slack-jawed in surprise. That was one description of a dozen rifles and their ammunition—but hardly the most accurate. It might be the most polite one, though.

“Bribes. Faugh!” Adem made a violent gesture then pounded his fists together. “They will be the death of our country.”

“Adem!”

Dark eyes clashed with darker before the sire won.

“Continue, please.” The saucer shook slightly in the old bureaucrat's hand but his voice was completely steady.

“We believe they will take action tonight, sir, on the Night of Absolution,” Gareth said. “I have some ideas on how to stop them but doing so will require all of our assistance.”

“What is the Night of Absolution?” asked Pendleton.

“It's one of five religious festivals when the mosques are outlined in lights,” Adem answered, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Many people spend the night outside in the streets, praying or visiting friends.”

“But why is it called the Night of
Absolution
?”

“Allah comes closest to Earth at this time and settles the destiny of each believer for the coming year. Some describe it as being similar to a court of law, where decisions are handed down,” Kahil explained.

“Court of law?” Pendleton shook his head and settled back.

“What does that have to do with snatching a former sultan?” Barnesworth queried. He leaned forward, his single eye alight with curiosity.

“The streets will be lined with soldiers for the Sultan's procession to the mosque,” Adem said crisply. “It usually weakens the forces at Chiragan Palace.”

“Can't they get enough from elsewhere?”

“Too many disciplined troops are needed. Turkish soldiers aren't fed or clothed by the state, except for those stationed within Constantinople.”

“Such as at Chiragan Palace,” Portia gave the example, feeling rather hollow. Soldiers who weren't reliably fed? Good heavens, how trustworthy could they be?

“We need to stop the attack.” Gareth watched his host, whose fingertip was endlessly circling his coffee cup's rim.

“Can you identify them?” Ancient eyes contemplated the Bosporus's glittering waters floating past.

“Yes—and ensure they're arrested for stealing from foreigners. But only with your help, sir.”

Kerem Ali Pasha looked at each of his sons. His grandson wailed in the distance and he flinched, growing decades older.

“Very well. What do you want us to do?”

K
erem Ali Pasha bowed politely, but not too deeply, to Qadri Bey, the new head of the secret police. One had to remember all of the nuances for why one was supposedly here—and not keep thinking about exactly how Qadri Bey had gotten his blameless predecessor exiled to Aleppo. A western fan whirred overhead, incapable of eavesdropping through the shadows unlike old-fashioned slaves.

A single sheet of paper, covered in Kerem Ali's handwriting, glittered balefully from the official's blotter.

The entire family had worked on their reports with Meryem's aid. Even his mother had contributed a note obliquely urging an investigation of strange doings in the old palace.

“You state here that a group plans to attack Chiragan Palace.” Qadri Bey picked up the page and pretended to exam it more closely.

“Yes indeed, sir.” The honorific rasped his throat worse than all of a mackerel's bones.

He owed Lowell his son's life and he trusted the man. If Lowell said there was a threat, then the dagger was poised, ready to fall sooner than his family had guessed. That certainty alone kept his face calm.

He stretched his legs out, in a casual assumption of authority designed to prod the other into action.

“They are driven like sheep by the British, Qadri Bey,” he added. “If you reach out your hand, you could cut their throats.”

Flat black eyes turned inward and the overly polished hand slowly waved the sheet back and forth. Finally a snake's obscene spark of life returned to them.

“The Sultan wishes to thank you for your concern.”

Kerem Ali gratefully recognized the dismissal and rose, gathering his dignity around him like a cloak.

“A token of his gratitude will be delivered to your home.” For a moment, naked envy blasted the secret police chief's face.

Kerem Ali bowed very fast before he saw too much then left as rapidly as possible.

Everything Lowell had said was true—and more? They must have already suspected a plot, for which his words provided the evidence and a chance to catch the devils behind it.

Allah willing, the same brutes who'd so swiftly knocked out his son would not eliminate Lowell and his wife.

 

Portia longed for an enormous hat, or two, or three. Or maybe a half dozen brocaded kaftans with matching pants. Anything to drip convincingly from the corners of her enormous trunk, which was now being propelled by a uniformed porter down the busy quay in Constantinople's European City.

Some trinket to make her and Gareth look as if they belonged, so he wouldn't need the knife that had brushed against her, from inside his sleeve. Wouldn't need to use the coiled tension behind his amiable gaze, with which he surveyed everyone who walked past.

If something happened to him, her world would end.

Dogs scampered by, vendors hawked a variety of foods to tease the senses, and men rushed onward as if their lives depended on being aboard the next grubby steamer.

She wet her lips again, wishing she could clear the dust from her mouth or open up her lungs to the tangy air. Maybe if she could avoid looking at that blasted British cruiser and its tea party for the ambassador. Half the European population had to be aboard under that canvas awning, including no doubt St. Arles.

They hadn't been able to talk to the police before coming here. If anything went wrong with the plan, there would be only the two of them to deal with St. Arles's blackguards.

No matter how much Barnesworth might boast of his ability to act in disguise, he was still acting as a porter and that heavy trunk would keep his hands busy.

Her stomach wrenched into an incipient sob but she ignored it. To protect Gareth, she'd use every lesson she'd ever been taught in finishing school or those years of duplicity and vitriol called international diplomacy.

This was the moment to show only her appreciation of the crisp breeze and lovely view of Hagia Sophia to the south from across the Golden Horn.

Very well, she could manage that, no matter how much the little hairs shivered on the nape of her neck.

Maybe if she imagined that she was strolling alongside San Francisco Bay, the salt breeze teasing her hair, and no greater concerns than the perfect folds of her parasol—and how quickly she could coax her beloved husband to take her home. His strong arm under her hand, his thigh propelling her forward, his warm breath teasing her cheek when he bent to answer a question—Oh yes, she could saunter like this forever.

And if she imagined that Barnesworth was merely a silent banker, not a porter…Yes, that would do.

She elevated her chin a little higher and strutted a little more emphatically, using her parasol to emphasize her pace. At least her hat and parasol were the latest fashion, bought during a whirlwind visit to Paris when she'd freed herself of anything which smacked of St. Arles' taste.

Gareth patted her hand approvingly but said nothing. His beautifully tailored suit became him admirably, although she suspected it hid more than the single weapon she knew of.

Another porter stepped out of the crowd, also pushing an expensive trunk. A trunk which exactly matched Portia's, down to the same number of black, wrought iron bands circling it and the heavy lock on the top. The porter was dressed as they'd been informed, in a dull maroon livery.

Her foot skidded on the uneven planks but her parasol's rhythmic
tap, tap
never faltered. Tension swirled like an opera cloak and settled into her bones, cold and surprisingly calming.

The two porters came abreast of each other and Barnesworth stepped toward the newcomer as he'd been instructed—and they'd planned—ready to exchange one set of handles for another in mid-stride.

A second man, dressed in a well-worn suit, abruptly stepped out of the crowd and brutally clubbed Barnesworth down. Then he grabbed the trunk's handles and started to run for the nearest boat.

Gareth slammed into his back, driving him onto the chest. The attacker twisted and rolled over with a trained wrestler's speed until they came snarling to their feet.

They circled each other, both clearly more ready to kill than talk. Knives flashed in their hands, pitiless as serpents' teeth.

Portia's heart was bouncing within her ribs.

Whistles blew shrilly from behind her back, too far away to help her husband.

She looked around for a gun, a weapon, anything to aid Gareth. Anything to stop another threat against him.

The original attacker started to run, pushing his trunk past Barnesworth's limp body.

Portia shoved her parasol between his legs and twisted it, the tendrils of ribbon and lace wrapping against his ankles in a foaming torrent of feminine wrath.

He screeched and tumbled head over heels into the uniformed policemen finally running toward them down the quay.

Portia retrieved her parasol and quickly turned around, ready to assist Gareth.

“Well done, my dear, well done.” Her beloved nodded to her above a very grubby, infuriated villain. Gareth had painfully twisted the fellow's arm behind his back, thereby winning the bout.

“And you, my love.” Her heartbeat slipped slowly back into normalcy. He was alive, with her, for a little longer.

Barnesworth stirred and she stooped to check him.

Together they awaited the forces of the law, who'd perform the cleanup—and make sure none of St. Arles' packages entered Chiragan Palace.

At least on this Friday night.