it over.
It came smoothly into Gareth’s hand and glided easily onto Portia’s finger.
Maybe Ma was here today, to guide this wedding.
“With this ring…” His voice was very hoarse.
Ma had died with her left hand tucked under her. Gareth had never understood why he hadn’t buried the ring with her nor sold it later for food.
At least not until now.
“I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
The simple gold band looked just right on Portia’s finger, especially when she smiled up at him with tears dancing on her eyelashes.
He took her gently by the waist afterward, intending only to hug her. That would be the proper thing to do in a fine stone house of God like this one, with arches flying overhead and fancy windows making music out of light. Just something to reassure her that he cared for her first of all and wouldn’t embarrass her, the way St. Arles had.
Portia stepped confidently up to him, the way she always had as a teenager in California.
Like a fool, his blood warmed and swept faster through his veins, until all he knew was how infinitely perfect it felt to stand here, in this holy place, in this circle of light, with Portia smiling up at him like her blue eyes opened every door to homecoming.
And when she fanned her hands over his sleeves like he was a rock to hold onto and tilted her head back for his kiss until her golden curls rippled and flowed over his mother’s ring—well, his heart thumped like a circus band was beating time.
Portia Lowell. His wife, at least for the moment.
He kissed her lightly, warmly. Her lips hesitated, then opened cautiously under his like a young girl’s who’d never been tasted before.
What the hell? Didn’t she know this much at least of men, and joy?
He lingered on her mouth, taking his time to tease her into relaxing. Stroking her lips with his tongue, shaping his mouth to match hers, gently sharing his breath—anything to catch her interest.
Portia moaned softly, deep within her throat.
The preacher’s wife coughed louder than any doorbell.
Gareth lifted his head with considerable reluctance but was delighted to leave a dazed look on Portia’s face. For once in their relationship, he had the advantage of the better social mask.
There was no point in considering how much his hands were still shaking—or how hard his cock was. He’d survive his wedding night somehow, no matter what happened.
The caique, a fancy cousin to the gondola, plowed its way across the Bosporus toward the distant Asian shore, its small steam engine humming briskly amidships. Daylight’s balmy skies had given way to a crisp evening breeze and the waves constantly jostled the hull. Sparkling lights to the rear outlined Constantinople’s ancient bulk, while fizzing sparks trailed like fireflies from the boat’s smokestack.
The shore ahead was filled with rolling hills, marked by only a few lights against the moonlit sky. Except for the engine chugging below decks, this could have been an ancient Greek boat sailing these seas for the first time.
Portia linked her fingers more tightly with Gareth’s and leaned her head against his shoulder, grateful for the loan of his jacket. Sitting on a bench in the stern might be the place of honor but it also attracted every chilly wind.
“Only a few minutes more, honey. We’re almost there.” He gave her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.
Hope for something more than their old friendship stirred inside her heart, dispelling second thoughts.
“Are you certain Kerem Ali Pasha will welcome me?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask how long Gareth would accept their marriage.
Her trunks seemed to weigh down the boat like a guilty conscience from below decks. Like any good Donovan & Sons freighter, Gareth had produced a handful of sturdy men to transfer her luggage from the hotel and stand guard over it during their wedding.
“His note said so, didn’t it?” Gareth kissed her fingers then rubbed her hand lightly to bring warmth back into it.
Her free hand lifted instinctively toward him but he spoke again, dispelling the magic.
“See those lights dead ahead? Where the dock cuts into the water?”
Her arm dropped back to her side and she answered him as practically as possible. What did it matter if she was clumsy at showing affection? He’d always liked conversing with her.
“But those are long windows with the rooms fully lit inside.” She leaned forward. “The house looks like a lantern swinging over the water.”
“It’s Kerem Ali Pasha’s yali, a seaside