The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,44
did not mention her lineage before, my friend. Indeed, you are fortunate among men to ally yourself with such a noble family.” He bowed to Portia with a distinctly Gallic flourish. “Peace be upon you, dear lady. I beg that you will forgive my city for the attack you suffered and not allow those ruffians to poison your opinion of us. Pray consider my home to be yours. I swear you will be safe here.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gave him a curtsy, his exuberant welcome smoothing some of her worries.
“Lowell, I know your family is far from here.” Their host returned his attention to Gareth, with an air of polite finality as if she needed time to recover from the journey. “Will you allow me to give you at least a little of the celebration your father would, on this happy occasion?”
Gareth frowned.
“It might also distract your lady from this afternoon’s alarms. A simple affair, rather than the forty days we gave my son or the three days even the simplest villager enjoys.”
“Three days?” Portia queried. That would be a very long party, far more than anything her stepmother had ever dominated.
“Yes, indeed, there are many traditions to ensure both bride and groom are welcomed into each other’s family. But since you are Americans and therefore probably already know each other’s clans, my mother believes you will be content with the banquet traditionally held on the third day.”
Portia slipped her arm through Gareth’s, too curious to remain still. Perhaps someday she’d learn about Gareth’s family, of course. But she wouldn’t ask here and now. She would have to be satisfied by discovering more about these unusual traditions.
Gareth glanced down at her. “Would you mind?” he asked in English.
“Will it be embarrassing?” Heaven forbid it include anything humiliating.
“No, certainly not, especially from Kerem Ali Pasha’s family. But it won’t resemble your previous wedding.”
“Then—yes, please,” she said emphatically. Anything to erase the memory of that awful banquet would be a blessing—the endless toasts while her face stiffened into a smile born of dread and Uncle William looked more and more as if he couldn’t decide whether to murder her husband or her father first. And the horrific night afterward with St. Arles…
“You honor us by your gift,” Gareth told Kerem Ali Pasha and bowed slightly, an acceptance which Portia matched.
“Splendid!” The older man clapped his hands twice.
More servants promptly appeared, led by three carrying drums.
“Oh, Lord,” Gareth muttered.
Drums?
She flicked Gareth an inquiring glance but before he could answer, she had to be polite once again.
“My sons Adem and Kahil,” Kerem Ali Pasha said proudly. “All of us will help escort you to the wedding celebration. That is, if you don’t mind?” he added a clearly perfunctory question.
Portia nodded agreement, unable to even form a question as to why only men would escort her. Their drums would surely cause an incredible ruckus, too.
She started to grin.
“What is it?” Gareth whispered.
“I must do this; my stepmother would be appalled.”
He whooped—and the drummers promptly echoed his joy with a brilliant cascade of sound.
“This is my family’s bindalli cloak, which we have wrapped around our brides for generations.” Kerem Ali Pasha held up a crimson velvet cape, whose sweeping folds were magnificently embroidered in dozens of golden branches sparkling with crystals. A princess would have counted herself lucky to wear it only once.
“Lowell?” He coughed significantly and his eldest son nudged the American forward.
Gareth accepted the priceless mantle and wrapped it reverently around Portia. Their eyes met and for a moment, it seemed as if being enfolded by his protection in this ancient tradition, was just as much of a wedding as any fancy ceremony in a stone church.
“For better or for worse,” he whispered.
“I thee wed,” she answered, equally soft and completely heartfelt.
The drummers launched into an ecstatic din of celebration. Adem, the eldest son, tied a crimson sash around Gareth’s waist which matched her cape.
Portia accepted her husband’s arm and turned her back on the bobbing boat, with the skulking trunk. Head high and heart barely daring to hope for more than survival, she strolled toward her wedding dinner, surrounded by singing and shouting friends.
Chapter Nineteen
Portia was utterly comfortable, snuggled in a nest soft enough to make eider ducks envious. Darkness ruled there, full of coziness too complete to seek change. Even her ribs, normally encased in a corset tightened just beyond necessity into fashion’s tortuous realm, rose and fell freely.
Her bed was firm enough to offer support yet soft enough to caress her