The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,45

skin, which had been slightly chapped during her voyage to Constantinople.

Yet she was uncommonly warm for someone covered only by a fine linen sheet and silky soft blankets, given the morning chill crisping her cheeks. In fact, she could have hurled the covers away and burrowed back into her blissful dreams.

She rolled over and groped for the cloth’s edge.

Instead her fingers glided over the warm satin of a man’s bare shoulder.

“Eek!” Shock ripped every nerve apart and hurled her to the other side of the bed.

“Good morning, wife.” Her very naked husband nodded respectfully to her from where he now stood beside the bed.

She’d never seen him without clothes before.

Dawn’s first light filtered dimly into the bedroom through the slatted windows. Seagulls called to each other like magicians, while the waves renewed their acquaintance with the shore. Two men quietly chatted in the distance, using the desultory phrases of a conversation’s end.

The bedroom glowed like an exotic jewel in the dim light. Everything was scarlet and pale gold, from the delicate silk rug underfoot to the embossed ceiling overhead. The bed was so intricately carved it looked like lace, yet it sent four gilded poles soaring toward the ceiling. Delicate frescoes of local landscapes and seascapes graced creamy walls between shuttered windows. A single low divan provided the only seating.

All of that was an insignificant background to Gareth’s stalwart body. His face and chest had been tanned by the sun to a burnished gold, which faded to a soft cream over his hips and below. His raven black hair moved like a living shadow around his head and blue veins laced his skin to his heavy muscles and straight limbs.

Evidently satisfied she was well—despite her speechlessness—he turned to scan the room, a heavy, broad-bladed knife at the ready. His eyes searched every shutter and nook, on the alert to protect her without thought to his own safety. Scars slashed and pried at his muscles in shades ranging from deep crimson to shadowed mauve, as if old battle wounds’ poison still haunted him.

Her fingers curved to touch and hold, comfort and heal.

“Good morning, Gareth.” Blood heated her cheeks brighter than the curtains and she tugged the sheet higher up on her shoulders. Oddly enough, she was only wearing a day chemise with its deep neckline and short sleeves, rather than her more enveloping nightgown. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“That’s quite alright. I usually rise at this hour.” He glanced at her from beside the shutters. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I only slept with you to be sure you were warm.”

“I understand. We need to sleep together since we’re married, after all.” Her eyes slipped sideways toward his naked hip but she dragged them back. “It would look very odd if you slept on the floor.”

But he too had been fast asleep until her fright woke him up. Portia’s heart sunk a little further and she curled herself further into the covers.

How could he be willing to fight for her, even when roused from a sound sleep? Tears touched her eyes at the sight of the highly distinctive bowie knife she’d given him almost fifteen years earlier.

She’d bought it when she was fourteen at San Francisco’s annual mechanics’ fair from Michael Price himself, where she’d had to beg the great man to part with one of his finest knives. Unlike his more recent work which was made for surgeons and indolent Easterners, this one had a modern blade’s fine steel but the inconspicuous hilt of Gold Rush Era pieces. It hummed with quiet readiness to be carried into dangerous places by equally deadly men, instead of worn strictly for show.

Had it saved Gareth’s life as many times as she’d hoped?

Moving very, very slowly and keeping his hand behind his back at all times, Gareth carefully hid his bowie knife under a book on the nightstand. He stood so close she could only see him from the waist up.

Her heart twisted. Now he treated her like a hothouse flower, unable to withstand even the slightest reminder of danger, such as the sight of armed protection.

“Would you like me to send for a cup of tea or coffee?” He lowered his voice to the same deep croon he’d offer a skittish horse.

“Oh no, certainly not.” And let strange servants know what had transpired between her and her husband on their wedding night? Never!

“You must be chilled,” she ventured, softened enough by his concern to offer an equal token. “Would you like a