The Devil She Knows (24 page)

S
t. Arles staggered onto the rocky shore, his woolen coat streaming water from the howling gale. Wind beat at his back and waves tore at his knees and ankles. The golden moon sailed above, barely visible through the pounding spray.

He hissed with pain when the first boulder cut into his feet but kept walking. He'd quickly sacrificed his boots when he first went into the Bosporus, lest they became sea anchors dedicated to locking him onto this foul place.

White steps glimmered ahead of him, probably from somebody's seaside mansion on the Asian side of the Bosporus. A few bribes, the mention of the British Ambassador, and he'd be able to fight once again, ready to destroy his ex-wife and that cur Lowell.

Once he had his revenge—and silenced their yapping mouths, no doubt—he could decide how best to bring rifles into Constantinople. The filthy Sultan still needed to go to hell.

He caught the railing and started up. Another wave crashed into him and snatched his breath away. He clung, panting, to the heavy marble balustrade until the swell slunk away.

Dammit, any house this grand should have servants to help unexpected guests. Where were they?

He spat out more saltwater and pulled himself onto his feet. Water swirled below the stairs, green and black with debris beneath the angry foam.

Now—finally!—boots pounded toward him across the marble terrace.

St. Arles shoved his streaming hair off his forehead and wiped his eyes so he could better gauge his greeters' social rank.

But behind them rose the immense white marble block of Chiragan Palace, more dangerous to the unwary than the Tower of London. The etchings around its windows and doors seemed to writhe in the fitful light and pour water like demons grasping for his soul.

Two big brutes grabbed his arms and half threw him onto the terrace.

“I say, now!” he protested. “I'm a British diplomat.”

A boot on his neck ground his face into the tiled surface. More enormous ruffians pinned his legs and back against his attempts to rise.

He yelled again. Surely they wouldn't treat a foreigner like one of their own ignorant heathen.

They rolled him over, two men on every limb and others on his torso. The indignity was more than any St. Arles had tolerated since Cromwell's time.

“Release me, you filthy buggers!” He bucked, outrage washing away diplomatic platitudes.

A boot smashed into him, precisely between his legs.

Fiery pain ripped him apart, more crippling than anything he'd ever endured. Fierce as the worst agony he'd seen in a bed partner's eyes before she died.

His scream came from the bottom of his soul. He tried to jackknife but the fiends held him still, even piled on more to hold him down.

When he could speak again, cold black eyes watched him above a gold-braided uniform, lit by an equally impassive golden moon.

“You will speak politely of my men, English,” the officer remarked, “or you will regret it. That is, if you are English.”

His accent was barely understandable.

St. Arles spat. “You fool—”

The officer kicked him in the ribs.

The pain wasn't as foul as its predecessor. On the other hand, St. Arles was certain he had at least one broken bone.

He lay on the terrace, sweat streaming down his face, and stared up at a dozen foreign heathen. All of them were big, strong, and clearly ready to use their big knives on him.

For the first time in his life, terror crystallized his bones, not his bed partner's.

“Why are you here, English?” the officer asked. “The truth please, or you will speak only to the torturer.”

“I was—” He stopped to wet his lips. He was a diplomat; where had the clever words fled to?

“Explanation, English.” The officer's tone hardened.

“Visiting a lady.” Surely they wouldn't ask him to produce her as his alibi.

“So you went swimming during a storm? Fully dressed? Here at Chiragan Palace, which is close to nobody's home except the Sultan?” The Turk put one hand onto his sword hilt, a gesture echoed by all of his men.

All the water St. Arles had swallowed surged into molten poison inside his belly.

“Liar!” Another kick hurtled into St. Arles' ribs. “You are only disguised as an Englishman.”

“No,” gasped St. Arles. How could he get a message to the Ambassador?—if the chap was even at home to receive one in time.

“You are a traitor who hopes to steal the former sultan and replace our glorious master.”

St. Arles stopped writhing and stared at his interrogator. How had the fellow guessed the plot? An instant later, he pulled the old diplomatic mask back on but the damage was done.

“So—you are a traitor! Guards, take him to the torturer. He will extract the truth.”

The brutes started to lift him up and St. Arles kicked out wildly. He could not let them interrogate him and discover the British network here in Constantinople.

His hand slipped free, then a leg. A wrestlers' twist, learned on a Portsmouth dock, left them holding only his coat.

He raced for the terrace's railing.

“Grab him!” shouted the officer.

Twice as many thugs leaped upon him this time and his head banged against the paving. He threw off some of them but more came until every inch of him was weighted down. His ribs slashed into his chest, a fiery reminder of past pain and future torment. Fiery stars blurred his sight.

“Take him away.”

Prayer was for weaklings. Instead, St. Arles offered them a golden bargain.

The senior Turk belted him in the side of the face and St. Arles's teeth ripped free into the wind.

The last fresh air St. Arles ever breathed was tainted by the officer's contempt.

 

From
The Times
of London, 10 May 1887:

Dover, England, late May 1887

G
areth reached under his coat and tucked his vest down, striving again for sartorial perfection. Idiotic thing to do, since he had no intention of being present when William Donovan boarded the
Naiad
. To say nothing of anybody else Donovan saw fit to bring along, like his wife Viola or maybe his right-hand man Morgan Evans. Or Mrs. Donovan's brother and Portia's uncle, Hal Lindsay.

Or all the other family Portia had, which he didn't.

Spilled milk, boy. Spilled milk. Don't fuss about it, just move on.

He'd left a detailed letter explaining everything he'd done for Portia. If—when—Donovan wanted to know, they could discuss it in the fall, when he went back to California.

Six months should give her plenty of time to get an annulment or a divorce started without scandal, since she had his lawyer's name.

But he'd kept his word: He'd stayed with her until she reached England, despite the slowest boat trip he'd ever taken. Now it was time to leave.

One way or another, he'd make sure she was happier the next time around. She deserved somebody far better than St. Arles or him.

Maybe, if he was very lucky, she'd still think kindly of him, enough to let him stay in touch if she had children. He'd happily dote on her daughter.

“Good morning, sir. Newspapers for Mrs. Lowell.” Barnesworth offered him an enormous market basket overflowing with newsprint, like a gray and white fountain.

“Where on earth did you find so many?” The heap looked as if it might heave and throw out offspring at any minute.

“Mrs. Lowell gave us a list.”

“Really?” While Portia liked to read, she'd been more interested in books than newspapers lately. But perhaps she wanted to lay in a supply for the long voyage back home. Or maybe she was looking for a more accurate obituary of St. Arles than what the
London Times
had written.

Tropical disorder, indeed. British government lies, more likely.

At least all her friends, St. Arles' old servants, were happy with the new Earl of St. Arles. He'd hired them fast as St. Arles released them, even before he inherited—probably to infuriate the cousin he openly loathed. Now he had a staff whose loyalty he praised and which Portia was eager to meet again. They'd certainly have a great deal to say, just like the damn newspapers did.

“I'll take them down to her.”

They might also give him a graceful topic to ease his way out the door before Donovan arrived.

“Portia?” He rapped lightly on the stateroom door before entering, then stopped. God help him, he could live with her for a century and still be amazed by how beautiful she was.

Or still be scared spitless when he remembered how she'd stood there with that damn big axe over her head and a boat rocking wildly around her, ready to bring it down to save him.

Today the spring sunshine gilded her hair like a halo before the mahogany paneling. She wore a simple pale blue dress, embroidered with white flowers, and her mouth was still swollen from his kisses.

If he looked closely, he'd see the bruise at the base of her neck where he'd marked her and he could probably smell himself on her. She swore she loved that scent as much as he loved hers.

Through the door on her left was their bedroom, which contained a bed more than large enough even for him.

He formed his face into a vaguely social expression and edged toward her.

“Newspapers, honey?”

“Why don't you read one to me? The social page first, if you please?”

Was she wearing a corset? No, her breasts were definitely unbound.

“Certainly.” At least his voice hadn't cracked.

He managed to pull one out of the stack without ripping any pages. It was from a town he'd never heard of, that seemed more interested in industry than society.

“The marriages,” she prompted, her cheeks a little pink.

He frowned and ran his finger down the brief list, looking for names he knew.

“Married. Gareth Lowell and Portia Vanneck. At Constantinople, 30 April 1887.”

The sheets dropped onto the floor.

He cast her an incredulous look, which should have sent her shrinking back into her seat.

Instead, she fluffed out her hair and toyed with his mark, as if well satisfied.

Air started to disappear from the elegant stateroom. If all England knew they were married, a quiet divorce would be impossible. Her good name would be ruined if he left her.

He scrabbled through more newspapers but every one of them contained the same announcement, the same golden manacle: his marriage to his darling.

He stared at her, his heart beating in circles somewhere around his ears like a bird taking wing.

“Portia, what the devil is going on here? A dozen or more newspapers are touting our marriage. You'll never be able to have a quiet divorce from me.”

“You spoke of love—but you also spoke of leaving.”

“You deserve better than me.” The old cry was a shout from somewhere in his past.

“I am proud to be your wife because you are the finest man I know. I have wanted to call you
my husband
since I was twelve years old.” Glory shone from her eyes.

“All these years?” He couldn't reach for her.

“Ever since you walked into Rachel Grainger's kitchen on Christmas Eve, I knew you were meant for me.”

“That's madness. Nothing lasts that long.”

“You healed me from St. Arles' tortures and taught me how to believe in joy again. Of course, I want you.”

“Portia, any man who loves you would have given you that.”

“You admit you love me.” Her face lit up, brighter than the sun dancing on the water.

“Yes—no!” He slammed his fist down on the table. “But it does us no good. We must part.”

“If you want a divorce now, you will have to fight for it. I love you and I want you more than my life. You must create a scandal in order to end our marriage.”

When would she see the blood dripping from his hands, the trail of men he'd killed, the taint he'd pass on to his children?

“Portia, nobody in California knew you were married. All you had to do was get an annulment.”

“Gareth.” She knelt before him and kissed his hands. “You are the best man in the world. Why can't you see that? If you leave me this time, I will follow you, no matter where you go. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go. And thy people shall be my people and your God my God', as Ruth said.”

“Portia—”

“Gareth, you know you brought justice to your family's murderers, no matter how bitter the price. Please believe I understand that, too.”

Christ, when he thought about all the nights when all he could see were the faces of the men he'd killed. But he never saw them with her.

“Come down here and love me,” she pleaded, sliding her fingers around his wrists as if desperate to tie them together.

Instead he lifted her up and held her against his heart. He started to blaze a trail of kisses over his wife's cheek and down to her lips.

“Sometime soon we'll have to go above deck and greet our family,” she reminded him.

Our family.

He began to grin, enthusiasm for the future bubbling up inside him for the first time since he was twelve.

Santa Barbara, California, August 1892

R
ays of sunlight heated the lemon grove's dappled shade. The woodsy, sharp scent of citrus wood brightened the air until a breeze brought the headier aroma of jasmine from the banks by the irrigation ditch. A haze of lavender grew contentedly high along the ridgeline, in one of the few hillside fields not full of cattle or vineyards.

The Pacific Ocean sparkled beyond them, bright blue as a sailor's dream. Today it seemed to be on its best behavior as an avenue of commerce.

Gareth plucked a twig from one of his trees and began to examine it. Portia cast a suspicious glance at him then patted Juliet, their eldest child and only daughter, on the shoulder.

“Go tell Uncle William and Aunt Viola that Mother and Father will be along in a few minutes, please.”

“Honest?” The little girl looked at them curiously, her clothing very clean for once. “But you're never late.”

Gareth felt crimson steal into his cheeks and hastily adopted a stern mien. The attitude had grown easier since he'd been elected to the local city council. If nothing else, pomposity deflected questions about quick exits from official functions—and sudden reappearances with his beautiful wife.

Portia's skin was flushed, too, beside a very tight smile. Their passion for each other had caused tardiness more than once—but not in front of the children.

Gareth came to his hapless darling's rescue, before her incurable honesty disclosed too much.

“Your mother and I need a few words together. In private,” he added firmly, lest the little minx think to join them and thereby lord it over her siblings.

Juliet's eyes lit up. She started to wag both hands, the tell-tale start to a mischief-making campaign.

“We need to discuss some details about the ranch before we leave.” Portia slammed the door on her interest in their conversation.

“For that?” The little tyke glared at them. “We could be in Uncle William's private car already!”

She took to her heels and raced off, every line blazing with indignation.

“I am properly put in my place,” Gareth remarked and tossed aside his tree's leaves, satisfied they were healthy as his daughter. His father and grandfather would have been proud of this ranch, a worthy inheritance for future generations of Lowell family farmers.

The railroad had arrived in Santa Barbara the same year he and Portia returned from Europe, making this lovely port the western terminus of the southern transcontinental route. From here, travelers took a steamer to San Francisco, since the Southern Pacific had not yet conquered the coastal mountains' steep inclines.

He'd resigned from Donovan & Sons once he returned, determined to spend time with his wife instead of on the road. Portia, thank God, never wanted to set roots in San Francisco; she probably suspected the urban hurly-burly evoked his nightmares more rapidly than any other setting.

This delightful town offered the perfect compromise. It was only a few days away from her family, close enough that visits were frequent and casual. Yet the setting was quiet and bucolic. Their beautiful ranch had once been a Spanish land grant. Many of the buildings' small details, such as the creamy stucco walls and red tile roofs, provided reminders of the Arizona towns and friends who'd sheltered him long ago.

Even his dreams were peaceful here, in his wife's bed.

Portia tucked her arm through his and began to stroll toward their private railroad siding, a wedding present from her grandfather.

“I sent a half dozen cases of our lemons ahead to my brothers,” she remarked. Her golden hair gleamed above her white dress, showcased by the jasmine's glossy green leaves behind her. He never tired of telling her she was the most beautiful woman in California. “Their chefs apparently plan a competition at Newport showcasing their use.”

“Bravo. Cynthia and her husband are judging it, aren't they, now that they're back from Australia?” He cast a longing glance back at his grape vines. This would be the first time he missed the harvest. “Do you think—”

“No,” she retorted. “You have to leave the ranch sometime, instead of making everyone visit us here. Besides, this is a very important family trip and everyone will be there.”

“Morgan and Jessamyn Evans, Lucas and Rachel Grainger, even Hal and Rosalind Lindsay will meet us in Los Angeles with all of their broods.” He whistled softly at how far that steamboat captain and his lady gambler had traveled. Then he reached up and snatched a golden fruit from the highest branch. “All to see Neil Donovan, the firstborn son of an Irish clan, off to Harvard. Truly, miracles do happen.”

Children's laughter swelled through the trees from up ahead. A man shouted something, more weary repetition than sharp warning.

Gareth offered the token to his darling, the lady who'd given him joy and warmth beyond measure. Her fingers wrapped his wrist in an unbreakable bond.

“Yes, truly miracles do happen,” she agreed and trailed her fingers down the side of his face. “You are finally mine.”

“We are both at home in each other's arms.” He kissed her, heedless of the clock or their proximity to dozens of family members. Only her sweetness mattered to him now—until the four Donovan boys ran past, hurling their usual insults at each other.

“Marlowe Donovan, where do you think you're going?” Neil Donovan shouted, his voice as effortlessly loud as his father's. At nineteen, he was already a fine man whose eyes were older than his years.

“To pick some grapes!” The younger boy's response faded along the path toward the orchards.

Gareth lifted his head to watch, his arms still locked around his wife.

“Dammit, Brian, why did you teach a ten year old how to make wine?” Neil snarled. Due to some trick of the landscape, almost any word said close to the working sheds could be heard by the stables and the railroad siding.

“I didn't—he stole the book,” snapped the second son and redoubled his pace. Slimmer than his older brother with laughter tempering his eyes' alertness, Brian soon passed Neil on the lane but still lost the two younger devils, who'd disappeared into the packing shed.

“Do you think any of Marlowe's efforts will be drinkable?” Portia asked softly, her voice pitched in the husky croon which wouldn't carry to the sheds—but always traveled straight to her husband's groin.

His blood immediately answered her, as always, and Gareth cursed silently. Still, they'd be alone together again soon enough in their own private car on Donovan's private train.

He tried for a joke to cover his response.

“Perhaps we should let him make it and then taste the results. After that, he'll probably look for different mischief.”

“Unlike us, who found the best during childhood.” Portia drew a heart on the back of Gareth's hand.

He caught her fingers and stared down into her eyes, eternally amazed by the miracle of her love. Surely there was time for a quick detour into the house.

“Ahem.” A man coughed softly and Gareth reluctantly looked up.

William and Viola strolled through the garden from the railroad siding to join them. Thank God Viola's eyes twinkled with laughter over her sons' antics. It was far better to see that than the coughing spasms which could attack her when she was anxious.

“How long do you think it will be until Neil rounds them up?” Portia asked, her tone light and jocular.

“Less than five minutes.”

Gareth had never dared to disbelieve William Donovan before. But such a flat statement certainly begged to be contradicted.

The Irishman glanced at him, his arm locked around his wife's waist the same way Gareth held his lady.

“All of them know the chef has a fresh batch of raisin cookies in the oven.”

“They won't miss those,” Gareth agreed, awed by his friend's foresight.

“Every husband and father learns what bribes work and when to have them ready.” William winked at him. “It's part of leading a family.”

“Thank you for the advice—and for welcoming me into your clan.”

“You always were a member of my family, from the minute you joined up in Kansas City.”

Gareth's breath stopped in his throat, while all too many things became clear. His friend's casual but vital teachings, the protectiveness, the willingness to let him go his own way while always making sure he had friends and resources to back him. And, most of all, the unquestioning support whenever he needed it.

William held out his hand to him and they gripped strongly, while their wives beamed.