have my word on it, unless you tell me why I shouldn’t.”
Her eyes flashed up to meet his. Determination waited within those silver eyes, harsh as the Arizona landscape.
“You could be killed,” she whispered, her voice softer than the wind whistling outside.
“I’ve risked my life before and will do so again.” He impatiently waved off any such concern. His eyes narrowed, turning colder. “But anyone who’d burden a woman like you with a secret worth killing for, warrants a hanging himself.”
She shook her head, an unwilling chuckle breaking loose somewhere deep in her belly. “Ah, Gareth, you do say the sweetest things when you know nothing at all about what’s going on.”
He scowled and she patted him on the shoulder consolingly. Her hand lingered for a moment, startled by the sweep and strength of his muscles under the fine wool, the solidity of his bone, the straightness of his carriage. All offered to her service without asking for any recompense.
He put his hand over hers and kept it there for a moment, light as a warm woolen blanket against winter’s last cold winds.
She stepped back reluctantly and hid her reaction to Gareth by a kick to St. Arles’s abominable luggage. It thudded dully, like a monstrous barricade against her future.
“Nobody wants to hurt me. They only want the trunk St. Arles saddled me with.”
“Trunk?” Gareth frowned and squatted to examine it. Iron bands, lock—even the oak planks—received a freight master’s exacting scrutiny. He ran his hands over it, examined scratches through a jeweler’s loupe, confirmed the handles’ strength by tugging it, and tested the wheels’ smooth movement.
“A gentleman’s small trunk, probably a courier,” he pronounced finally. “Approximately three and a half feet long, two feet wide, a foot and a half tall. Metalwork’s been very freshly painted so any attempt to force or pick the lock can be easily seen. Damn—excuse me, very heavy for its size, although she’s built to carry larger loads.”
“It could carry more?” Portia almost squeaked.
“Indeed. A fully loaded gun case would be the same size but weigh more, for example.” Gareth rose to his feet. “What did that brute tell you?”
“‘The Turks will think it’s jollier than old Humpty Dumpty,’” she quoted.
“A bomb perhaps? But for who?”
“I think it’s gold to trigger a revolution.”
“That would explain the jolly and Humpty Dumpty aspects of his explanation. But my gut doesn’t agree.” He walked around the trunk again. “You take the Paris train tomorrow and I’ll dispose of this.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not? I’ve worked for Donovan & Sons for eighteen years and high-risk freight to high-risk places is our business. If I can’t make something like this disappear, I deserve to be fired.”
“St. Arles—”
“By the time anybody figures out what happened, this piece of hogwash will be long gone.”
“He promised he’d fire all the servants who helped me throughout the divorce,” Portia said desperately, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. “They’ll be put out on the street without references. They won’t be able to find a job.”
“Hell and damnation! That miserable piece of Satan’s spawn isn’t worth sharpening a scalping knife for. Why, he should be…”
Portia wrapped her arms around him and hid her face against his chest.
He stilled, his heart thudding like a startled deer.
After a moment’s hesitation, he clumsily put his arms around her and patted her back. “There, there now, honey, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure St. Arles can’t harm any of your friends.”
“We could cable Uncle William’s contacts in London and ask them to help.” She sniffled and tried to speak more clearly. “But that will take time.”
“Not too long.” Gareth thumped her again. “They’ll be fine.”
“But he can dismiss them faster than we can help them. Plus, I’m surely being watched.” She craned her head back to look at Gareth. “Look at how easily those men found me.”
“Oh, hell.” The eager glow of securely offered sympathy vanished from his face, to be replaced by gnawing worry.
She tore herself out of his arms’ distracting shelter.
“Isn’t there someplace safe I can stay here in Constantinople until it’s time for me to hand over the trunk to St. Arles?”
“Honey, you’d have to be watched over constantly. This is the best hotel in town yet you weren’t safe here.”
“What about where you lodge?”
He shook his head promptly. “I don’t have rooms at a hotel. I board with a family instead and I can’t bring you home with me.”
“Why not? Would the trunk be stolen there?”
“Hardly.” He snorted, dark laughter curling across