scattering clothing, shoes, and parasols like cheap bric-a-brac. Even her jewelry garnered no more than a cursory glance.
She caught the ruffian’s callused thumb’s edge and bit down hard, giving it all the anger she’d ever longed to deal St. Arles.
The brute jerked and cursed in Turkish, not French.
Emboldened, she clamped down again twice as forcefully, despite the foul taste and the dizziness scattering her brains, and bit into his entire finger.
Guttural curses spilled over her head and he yanked his hand free.
She screamed again, more hoarsely this time. She gulped for breath, thankful her high collar had blunted the brute’s attack, and tried once more.
The suite’s main door slammed open and Gareth roared wordlessly.
The searcher slammed shut the lid to her evening gowns’ trunk and raced for the bathroom. Her captor freed her so suddenly she staggered, before he too dashed for the more distant room.
A window screeched in its frame, accompanied by guttural expletives.
Gareth stormed into the bedroom, knife in his hand. A single glance, brilliant as sunlight on a drawn sword, reassured him that she was alive. He jigged, his steps heading in two directions at once, like the anger and concern warring in his eyes.
The window complained vehemently again. Sidonie wailed from underneath the enormous black hood like an abandoned kitten.
Portia waved him toward their foes, her heart burning a hole in her chest for him. Was she sending him into an ambush?
He snarled soundlessly but nodded curtly and ran past her, silent as an eagle on the hunt.
Her lungs didn’t remember how to breathe until he emerged again, moments later. Unscathed, thank God.
“They escaped out the window and over the roof, the slimy thieves.” He tossed his knife into the air and cut it, as if readying it for throwing.
“Not thieves,” Portia husked and sank down sideways onto a chair. Logic said her pulse wouldn’t tumble through her feet onto the carpet, no matter what sensation and instinct insisted.
“Not thieves?” Gareth echoed and glanced at the room’s wild disorder.
“Mrs. Vanneck?” the hotel manager called from the door. “Are you well? May I enter?”
Portia sighed and tilted her head back. She could answer for herself but what about Sidonie, who’d never wanted to leave Europe’s friendly havens behind? “Certainly, monsieur.”
“Definitely not burglars,” Gareth confirmed her estimate very softly and stooped down beside her. “Hold still, honey.”
Honey? He’d never called her that before, although he’d used it with others like Uncle Hal and Aunt Rosalind’s daughters.
Even so, she held very still indeed.
His knife sliced quickly and surely through the cord imprisoning her. Her arms separated and she was free again, just as he’d always helped her to be.
The hotel manager filled the room with a covey of his minions and a storm of apologies before she could catch a glimpse of Gareth’s face.
Had he realized he called her honey or had the endearment slipped out?
Gritting her teeth against a thousand questions which could only lead to more heartache, she untied Sidonie.
Chapter Seventeen
“I will not remain in Constantinople!”
An hour later, Sidonie’s declaration still resonated in Portia’s ears. She rotated slowly in the middle of her hotel suite and wondered what on earth she’d do now. One hand held her arm while she rested her mouth against her knuckles.
“Where do you want to spend the night?” Gareth asked quietly. Only an old friend could have found the anger underlying the genuine concern in his voice. “You’re free to change suites, since Sidonie did an excellent job of repacking before she fled to her cousin.”
“Yes, she was very glad to receive the first-class ticket home on the Orient Express,” Portia remarked. She trailed a finger over her evening gowns’ trunk, so much alike yet so different from St. Arles’s damnable trunk. All of her luggage had been made by Louis Vuitton and was monogrammed, even that abomination. The only obvious differences were the size and weight. She could tell it apart in an instant but who else?
St. Arles undoubtedly could.
“You should be on the same train,” Gareth said.
“No.” She barely uncoiled herself from her fist to speak clearly.
“Portia, somebody broke into your room to search your luggage, not steal your jewelry. I don’t know why you’re in danger but you’re not safe here.”
What did safety for her mean if Mrs. Russell’s, Maisie’s, Winfield’s, and Jenkins’s lives were destroyed, together with all the other servants who’d fought for her in their own way?
The chill deep within her bones strengthened.
“I can’t leave yet.”
“I’ll hogtie you and put you on the damn train. You