The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,43
mansion with a boathouse built into it underneath.”
“So many windows must allow inhabitants to enjoy the view—or catch the sea breeze.”
“Exactly. It’s been so hot he brought his family out here very early in the season.” Gareth lowered his voice. “It’s isolated enough you’ll be safe.”
The hair lifted on her neck and she nodded quickly.
“It’s almost a fairy castle,” she said wistfully, disliking the need to sully its delicate beauty with St. Arles’s abomination.
“It is also pink,” Gareth commented.
She gaped at him, searching that stalwart profile for any sign of mockery.
“And ornately carved,” he added.
“You’re joking,” she pronounced with complete conviction.
“Not at all.”
She made a burbling sound of disbelief but couldn’t bring herself to express it more explicitly.
“Kerem Ali Pasha also has a scarlet silk tent, which he erects in his garden for parties.”
Now that statement rang with the same simplicity which he’d use to discuss how to pack a mule for high-country freighting, or her stepmother Albinia would describe the menu at a successful dinner party.
Hope began to sift into her bones. “Does he decorate it with lanterns?” she asked.
“And flowers. The entire family is famous for their gardens—and love of literature.”
She sighed happily.
“One door opens to the sea, the other to the gardens. One side of the house opens to the harem, the other to the selamlik.”
“Rooms for the single young men?” Portia remembered what she’d heard of other Moslem customs.
“Yes.”
Were there people standing out on the dock?
“Your trunks will probably be stored in the other half of the boathouse, under the house. If we’re given the guest suite in the harem, we may be able to put them in the dressing room.” His voice was low and rather rough.
She glanced up at him then nodded tightly. This wasn’t the time or the place to argue, no matter how much she wanted to jump to her feet and look for herself.
Or did she want to stand up so she could hurl herself at the ever-polite Gareth?
She bit her lip, her heart’s answer making her even more intensely nervous.
The helmsman cut the engine and the boat glided smoothly against the dock. Torches blazed at the ends, allowing glimpses of a fine garden with a massive tent erected inside.
Even the desperate tightening of her stomach couldn’t stop Portia from craning her neck to see more.
Two liveried servants quickly secured the tidy craft.
“Lowell, my friend!” A slender man, clad in a long, elegant black coat and red fez, almost quivered atop the wharf like a gray wolf eager to greet his family. Two younger men flanked him, clearly his sons judging by their joint likeness to finely honed swords.
“You should have told me sooner what you planned. We would have made you the most splendid abduction of a bride ever seen in Constantinople!” He reached out a startlingly tanned hand and lifted Gareth onto the dock in a single easy leap. Clearly, these two had long since discarded civilized tricks such as steps. The Turk embraced the much taller American enthusiastically and kissed him on both cheeks, a salute that Gareth returned with a smile.
Portia pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to truly relax despite the welcome. Would they freely offer sanctuary if they knew the threat she brought?
“If you had the chance to seize the perfect woman, Kerem Ali Pasha, would you hesitate?” Gareth inquired.
“No, never! I too would have carried off such a pearl, especially after she was threatened by barbarians. She is the one who was tied up and whose luggage was searched, yes?”
“Very much so.”
“Appalling.” The patriarch’s two sons muttered something unprintable in Turkish which earned a stern glare from their sire.
Gareth’s grin grew wider and he gallantly brought Portia out of the caïque to join him on the dock. He brought her hand formally onto his arm so that they stood facing his friend.
“May I introduce my lady wife to you? Kerem Ali Pasha, this is Portia Townsend Lowell, my patron’s niece and adopted daughter.”
The great man studied her as if uncertain how to greet her.
She started to don a polite diplomatic smile then shook it off. No, she needed to be warm. This wasn’t St. Arles’s circle where knives were only inches from the surface, whether forged in steel or carved in poisonous tongues. These were Gareth’s friends and she wanted him to stay close to them.
She smiled a little shyly, uncertain what expression to wear, and moved closer to Gareth.
The patriarch’s expression softened and approval flashed through his eyes under the torchlight.