The Devil She Knows (17 page)

“You've a lovely way of expressing yourself.” Gareth groaned and lifted her up but she never released him.

When she came down, his shaft entered her precisely where she craved him. She bowed into an arc and her entire body became an instrument to envelop him.

Both of them worked to find pleasure during that wild ride, hands, legs, thighs, hips—who cared whose muscles brought it, so long as passion flourished? Body drumming against body, hot musk perfuming the air, and insatiable lust burning hotter and brighter in Portia's loins.

She was a being of pure sensation, existing only for the delight of this moment with Gareth.

Then he rubbed her pearl hard, the hidden nubbin only she—and he—had ever pleasured before.

She sang out his name and leaped for the stars, tumbling into orgasm as if she'd never felt its delights before. Every bone melted and dissolved in a ribbon of lights.

She pillowed her head on his chest, too content to be irked at his usage of a condom with a barren woman. She might have liked a small bit of hope for his child, no matter how unlikely.

Or should she simply concentrate on praying that St. Arles would behave like a gentleman and leave town?

G
areth handed Portia into Kerem Ali Pasha's personal carriage, as carefully as if she were the Ottoman princess whose dowry had provided the luxurious vehicle.

Damn, but she was beautiful enough for royalty, even if she did keep falling asleep immediately after she'd had an orgasm. And with the most adorably bewildered expression, too, as if she'd never before been safe enough to totally yield to pleasure and the relaxation it brought.

She took her time settling into the fine carriage, fluffing out her skirts to make sure the acres of black, furbelowed silk remained crisp. For a nickel, he'd take her back to their bedroom and explore those enticing ruffles, both silk and feminine flesh, under her striped underskirts. She'd dressed as properly for an audience with the Pope on the outside. But what lay underneath was infinitely distracting to him.

But he hadn't yet earned that privilege. More important than anything else was seeing her laugh and maybe, one day, watching her throw herself at life the way she had before that hellish marriage.

Before he'd betrayed her and let her be swept into that damnable union.

“Ready, Gareth?” Her voice sliced through his heart. He'd have tolerated constant accusations better.

“Of course.” He stepped inside the open barouche and reached for the door.

“Cable for you, Lowell.” A yellow envelope was thrust into his hand. He barely had time to nod at one of his best men before Selim was gone, blending into the dockside crowd like the pickpocket he'd been.

Gareth slid the latch home and rapped his cane on the floor. The carriage swung into motion, its pair of beautiful horses catching the eye and causing onlookers to step back.

“Congratulations,” Portia murmured. “You look and behave quite the man about town.”

“Their shirts are too well starched and their neckties too tight.” Gareth snorted. “But sometimes it helps to blend in with the scenery.”

“Especially when we're about to see the Sultan?”

“Especially then,” he agreed.

He measured his finger against the envelope's flap then sighed and settled for a pen knife. His fancy gloves were too damn thick to fit inside much, let alone something this tightly sealed. A few seconds later, he passed the contents over to Portia without a word.

He couldn't think of anything fit for a gentlewoman's ears, anyway.

She stared at him. “Why, that filthy, double-dealing, lying, conniving…” She crumpled up the paper and hurled it onto the carriage floor.

“Skunk?” Gareth suggested.

“Bastard!”

The unusual profanity made Gareth's eyes widen.

“He must have known when he spoke to me That Woman was already starting to dismiss the servants. People who'd been with his family for years.” Color flew in her cheeks like battle flags.

“But not all of them, and not the four he named to you.” Thank God the coachman only spoke Turkish, not English or French.

“Does it matter?” She tightened her lips and shook her little fists, as if begging for a target.

“It might, if you're holding to the letter of a bargain and not the spirit.”

“Are you defending him?” She pulled her voice back from a shriek an instant before it echoed off the stone walls beyond the carriage.

“Hardly; I'd rather kill him.” Very slowly, using some of the nastier Apache techniques.

Christ, what he wouldn't do to simply throw Portia over his shoulder and lock her up on the next London-bound ship to weigh anchor. But she'd simply jump ship or leap aboard the Orient Express, determined to come back here so she could protect her friends.

He ignored the cavity sucking out his stomach and forced reality back into her calculations as he'd done so many times before.

“Portia, you still have the chest which St. Arles needs.”

“He will destroy my friends.” Agony wrenched her voice out of its usual music.

“He will try.” Gareth caught her hand. “We have other friends in London who can help.”

She looked up at him, terror distorting her expression beneath her feathered hat. “Are you sure?”

“Always remember that you have something St. Arles needs.” He urged courage into her with his grip.

“But if we meet him before we know my friends are safe—Maisie and Jenkins and…” She caught herself an instant before a hysterical sob. “What will I do if he demands the loathsome trunk then?”

“Choose what your heart demands,” he answered slowly, “and I'll be at your back.”

 

The reception hall at Yildiz Palace was large, extremely gilded, and very full of rustling Europeans and hard-eyed Turkish soldiers, all arrayed in their best.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through an enormous window, framed by cream curtains. Inlaid white and gold panels glowed like jewels above the crystal chandeliers. Mother of pearl panels adorned the walls, while garlands of painted flowers stretched up the columns before uniting with their embossed capitals. A single carpet rippled underneath like a cornfield, uniting the vast room and the crowd gathered within it.

Portia might have called it inviting except for her strong desire to be at home, nestling in her husband's arms where the world couldn't harm her.

“Please take your place wherever you wish, Mr. and Mrs. Lowell.” The court flunkey bowed and stepped away without waiting for an answer.

He probably meant wherever they could find space at the window.

Portia considered the horde gathered in front of the gilded frame and shuddered. Between the adults pressing forward to reach the glass and the children squirming like accomplished spies to pass through, the entire mass resembled a snake pit far more than a civilized encounter.

The dozens of soldiers watching everyone present, as if anyone was worth a sudden shot or knifing, only added to the impression of barely contained primitives.

And for what?

The window displayed a beautiful little wedding cake of a mosque, almost breathtaking in its ivory purity. It was surrounded by dozens of ministers, Moslem priests of every sect, rank, and country, plus hundreds of soldiers, all of them dressed in their finest uniforms and glittering with decorations to out-shine the sun. They were arrayed in concentric rays, like beams of a living sun, vibrant and warm with life.

“Can you see the courtyard?” Gareth asked quietly, wise enough not to jostle his way into the throng.

“Where all the soldiers are? Yes.”

“The Sultan will ride into it, followed by Ottoman guards, all of them on some of the finest Arabian steeds you'll ever find.” A rare display of awe threaded his voice. “The most senior religious leaders will greet him and escort him inside, where he will pray.”

“There are a great many priests there, even to visit a sultan.”

“He's also the caliph, the leader of the Moslem religion, and this is Friday evening prayers, the holiest time of the week.”

Good heavens, he sounded as if he considered their ceremonies equal in symbolism to Christian ones.

“That's not a very big courtyard.” She strained to catch a little more of what impressed him. “How long will we see anything?”

“A few minutes.”

“All this pomp and ceremony for that?” She shot him an incredulous look.

“All this
protection
to ensure the Sultan, heir to a centuries' old line, stays safe at one of the few occasions evildoers can surely find him,” Gareth corrected.

“There must be a thousand men there,” she protested. “Who—or what—could get through that?”

“You've spent time around mining camps, Portia. Apply your brain.” Gareth all but hissed the last three, clearly enunciated words.

She frowned at him then caught his sideways glance at the circulating flunkeys.

Spies?
She mouthed.

He nodded, his mouth very tight.

Here?

He didn't bother to dignify that question with a direct answer. “Isn't it glorious that so many men are willing to die for their Sultan?” he asked, more loudly.

“Quite so,” she murmured, borrowing a phrase from her most despised former in-law.

“Do you suppose the Sultan feels guilty for taking so many men away from their Friday prayers to guard him?” St. Arles' studied, hateful drawl interrupted.

Portia's fingernails cut into her palms inside her sleeves. Who could she denounce him to? Would anyone pay attention if she screamed?

“I'm sure the men in question consider their attendance an honor,” Gareth parried and discreetly guided them to the far end of the room, well away from anyone else. “Who are we, to argue with another religion?”

“Blithering idiots, wasting men like that. Do you see how they've put so many men on the mosque's roof that it looks like ants trying to carry off a gingerbread house? They should simply shove him into a back corner and let him babble his nonsense there.” St. Arles shook his head. “We know to do things more efficiently in England.”

He called what all these people had gathered to celebrate,
babbling nonsense
?

Rage surged through her, icily crisp as a desert wind scrubbing sands with snow.

Portia regally turned to survey its loathed source, immeasurably stronger for the support of Gareth's arm under her hand. Any decision would be hers, but having him beside her limited St. Arles' potential for violence.

The source of a hundred nightmares shot her another one of his impatient glances which had always ripped through her defenses. “Come along; we can't talk in front of him.”

“My
husband
stays with me.”

“Husband?” For the first time, St. Arles truly measured the other man.

Gareth gave him an equally insolent stare, the vicious appraisal of two predators assessing each other's readiness for battle.

Portia licked suddenly dry lips, uncertain who had the advantage. St. Arles' nasty cunning had outwitted more than one opponent.

The court flunkey's voice rose slightly from beside the window, answering a question.

“The procession is about to start,” Gareth translated. His cool tone could be interpreted as anything from anticipation of a social event to sorrow that a prospective fight had been postponed.

St. Arles' faint snarl promised that the battle would occur.

“Bring the trunk here tomorrow.” He shoved a small card toward Portia.

It somehow looked and smelled like a cobra, ready to spit poison at anyone who touched it.

“No.” Her fingers dug slightly into Gareth. “I can't deliver it to the people here.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“Giving it to you would be like opening Pandora's box—and Constantinople's people have done nothing to deserve that.”

Gareth's strong arm tightened under her hand, providing silent agreement with her decision.

“You crazy slut!” St. Arles took a step toward her and Gareth blocked him immediately.

“Do you realize what you're doing? By God, I will destroy those sniveling servants.”

“You can try—and you will fail,” Gareth snarled.

“We have the trunk—” Portia tried for a civilized conversation, given their audience.

“All I have to do is reach out my hand to take it back from you,” St. Arles snapped, the muscles in his neck standing out like ropes ready to fling themselves at his enemies.

“Gentlemen, lady,” the court flunkey reproved, sleek and dignified in his uniform. “May I ask you to join us at the window? Prayers are about to begin.”

“Prayers? I'll show you what that nonsense is worth.” St. Arles shoved past him and elbowed aside a high-ranking Moslem priest in his haste to depart.

The courtier's alarmed gasp made more than one head turn to see the cause. Only the British ambassador's quick gesture of apology stopped a guard from arresting St. Arles for insulting the priest.

For two cents, Portia would have stolen the guard's rifle and used it herself.

The door's violent slam marked a boor's exit and a rattlesnake's return to its lair, ready to build poison for another strike.

S
t. Arles strode warily down the narrow alley, alert for the promised glimpse of a mosque. In this world of rolling roofs, arched lintels, and slender windows, stray cats were more confident than mere humans. Foul brown liquid dripped onto green vines from ancient bricks. Wooden buildings jostled each other like drunkards and crackled at every corner like hags good only for one last bit of gossip.

For some good rum, he'd have brought all of his old shipmates along with him to ward off the prying eyes watching every step.

The excuse for a road jogged right and then left again immediately, bringing the nearest hovel's eaves over the pavement.

A small gray tabby drowsed on a windowsill, the lone observer. He rolled and stretched a paw high in the air, as if to raise the all clear sign.

Amused, St. Arles returned the salute, grateful for the good luck token.

A single minaret rose directly ahead, like a candle on a banquet table.

At least something still behaved according to plan.

St. Arles took a quick step to the right, spun, and ducked through an open doorway into the meager excuse for a room behind it.

Here an ancient oil lamp spluttered and fought the shadows to reveal broken stools scattered amidst furniture makers' clamps. The attics at St. Arles Castle were cleaner and more welcoming. But he'd wager a year's rents that if he returned in an hour—or if the Sultan's spies appeared—only impoverished, ignorant upholsterers would be discovered.

Four men spanned the wall facing him, clearly blocking the best escape route from this rat hole. They were undoubtedly natives and possibly kinsmen, given their dark hair and stocky build. Everything about them, from their suspicious expressions to their hands only millimeters away from their weapons, suited this district. Except for their well-fed air.

“Greetings,” he said shortly. The sooner he finished with them, the sooner he could have a decent meal at the ambassador's home.

“Sir,” the eldest returned in a tone which implied the title was only a formality.

“When can you fetch me the chest?” St. Arles went straight to business. At least these foreigners had enough education to speak French.

“That's not part of the bargain,” the appointed speaker retorted. “You were to bring us the trunk, then we would
secretly
deliver it to the palace.”

“That problem is your fault. If you hadn't gone against my orders and tried to steal it from the hotel, the stupid female wouldn't be frightened enough to hide behind that American.”

“At a state secretary's heavily guarded yali,” his so-called ally added. “I thought she had brought it here at your command.”

St. Arles sincerely wished a single glance would make them all choke on their own cleverness.

“How many men will you have to proclaim the revolution after we deliver the chest?” he asked and moved in, close enough to split them. “I'm sure you'll want to proclaim your reformist decrees in as many places as possible.”

“Enough.” His opponents didn't quite look at each other.

“Are you certain?” he prodded, pleased with their response. Poor bastards couldn't even attack him, since it would be months before the embassy would send out a replacement. He was their only hope for a speedy revolution.

“If we hold Constantinople, we hold the empire,” answered the slender one in the rear. He brushed past the others to come forward into the light, bright as a freshly sharpened knife.

“We guarantee we'll control Rumeli Hisar, plus the other forts here and along the Dardanelles, sailor boy,” their foremost speaker added far too quietly. A blade spun casually between his fingers. “You may want to sail your fleet through here to attack Russia—”

Damn their eyes, they knew all too well exactly how to block him, while he could only bargain with gold or a new Sultan. Bullets in their obstinate backs would be far more satisfying.

Was there nothing the Turks held dear, other than their damnable pastel palaces which they'd built by selling their revenues to foreigners?

By God, he'd demand nothing less than a marquisate for pulling this off.

He stretched his lapels and tried to pretend they were proper Europeans.

“Two years ago, Russia nearly swept into India through Afghanistan. When we tried to protect her by all means necessary, your Sultan stopped us.”

“You mean he would not let you start
your
war from
our
territory,” the other youth stepped forward into the light, betraying fashionable French attire. Entirely too much intelligence sharpened his gaze.

“Taking our fleet through the Dardanelles and past Constantinople to attack Russia's only warm water port,” St. Arles spun to face each of them in turn, his fingertips only millimeters from his gun. “Your lives and land would never have been at issue.”

“But our honor and national pride would have been. We would have become a British satrapy,” the younger man added bluntly and stepped back to assume his guard post again.

Damn the fellow for plain speaking on a matter of foreign affairs. St. Arles shook out his coat, wishing it was a naval uniform.

“Your ships will have safe passage, Mr. Englishman.” The elder's broad shoulders almost blocked out the room's few rays of sunshine. “But it will be done by treaty after we have our revolution. We will have reforms, as in the days of the Tanzimat.”

“You can't turn back the clock to fifty years ago.” Damn, but it was enjoyable to turn the knife in their pride even a small bit. He eyed each one of their outfits in turn then curled his lip at their pitiful attempts at fashion.

Somebody stiffened and metal snicked against leather.

St. Arles allowed himself a small, contented smile and returned to the main door. Unfortunately, the superiority of British styles and customs was recognized for all too short a time.

“Will the revolution still occur next Friday?” The leader's voice boomed through the house, stately as a minister reading the Sunday lesson from the pulpit. “Even though you don't have the chest?”

Damn, damn, damn.
St. Arles caught himself an instant before he would have killed the filthy heathen for implying an Englishman could fail.

He should have strangled the bitch instead of letting her off with a divorce. A more obstinate, uncooperative guarantee for trouble he'd never encountered.

He could not show weakness, especially not there and now. He needed time—to win this game, then kill the slut.

He made his turn into an excuse for lounging against the door. Would any of these idiots break ranks? No, they were all back in their mulish circle, eyeing him like the jailer come to lock them up again.
Dolts.

“Yes, of course, the revolution will still go forward exactly as planned,” he answered, his bonhomie smooth enough to please even Whitehall.

Because no matter how much he loathed dealing with these idealistic donkeys, they were still his only chance of blocking the Ottoman garrisons. Without them, there'd be no revolution—and no British warships in the Dardanelles or at Russia's throat.