falling above a man’s prostrate body, while crimson drops complimented their aim.
“Perhaps you caught only some oddities of the current situation, rather than the entire pattern,” Gareth murmured soothingly. “But France is beautiful in spring, while we could still catch a late winter gale here by the ocean. You can rest there, while my wife helps me finish my business here.”
“Of course, she must stay here,” Sidonie agreed and patted Gareth’s arm. “Madame deserves a gentleman like you.”
Portia almost tripped on her hem.
But—but the marriage was only for a short time until she and Gareth somehow dealt with St. Arles’ blackmail and that loathsome trunk.
After that?
Gareth had proven years ago when he rapped her over the head with his gun, he didn’t see her as a wife. Only years of loyalty to Uncle William had made him step forward yesterday to rescue her and, perhaps, some residual friendship with her.
“Madame will have whatever she wants,” Gareth returned lightly.
He must be referring to that quiet divorce he’d promised her.
Oh, she could stop Sidonie’s mouth easily enough. Heaven knew nobody was more discreet or loyal.
But did she want to be freed from her marriage? How could she keep him if he wanted to go?
Gareth handed Sidonie up the stairs to her first-class compartment.
“Goodbye, ma’am.” He bowed, doffing his hat.
Sidonie beamed down upon him, framed by embroidered linen and fine teak. “Promise me you will cherish madame,” she admonished him.
“With my life.”
The three simple words stabbed Portia in the heart—yet he hadn’t mentioned love.
He replaced his hat and stepped back beside her, his expression only that of a polite farewell.
The engineer blew the whistle, long and piercing like a portent of times to come. Machinery groaned softly and wheels began to churn. Steam hissed and blurred the tracks, hiding the future from the present.
“Au revoir, madame!” Sidonie called.
“Au revoir, Sidonie!” Portia cried back. At least she believed she’d see her maid again. She could not have said the same if she’d had to say goodbye to Gareth at this moment.
Chapter Twenty-two
Portia fanned herself again with the painted Japanese fan and glared at the barren table in her bedroom. She’d thought the unseasonable heat would be the worst of the day’s trials. But, no, St. Arles hadn’t yet condescended to send word where to deliver his vile trunk.
She couldn’t do anything about the weather. But she had donned her favorite silk tea gown the minute she was alone. It was a silk confection, made from a blue and cream Japanese kimono that had been embroidered in chrysanthemums. Even better than all its claims to fashion was the fact she didn’t need to wear a corset with it, allowing her to savor the heady freedom of silk floating over nothing more than a silk chemise and drawers.
A light tap caught her attention. “Yes?”
“Dinner,” Gareth announced simply and closed the door behind him, balancing a large covered tray.
“You should have told me you needed help,” Portia scolded and rushed to assist him.
“Weddings here are lengthy affairs, which frequently last up to a week. Since you seem to be getting on so well with me, Kerem Ali Pasha’s family doesn’t want to disturb you.”
Portia balanced the tray and tried to decipher his meaning. “Do you mean that marriages here are frequently arranged, leading to wives who don’t want to see their husbands?”
“Let’s just say others frequently employ tact to ease newlyweds’ relationship.” Gareth stepped outside for an instant and returned with several flagons, which he placed near the long divan.
“But we”—He shot her a reproving glance, swift as an eraser over a blackboard—“I am behaving differently from those stranger brides. Therefore, Kerem Ali Pasha’s family is happy to encourage us by granting us privacy.”
“Exactly.” He removed the tray from her hand and set it down on the low table near the flagons. “Come eat.”
“European food?” She approached the delicious smells eagerly.
“No, these are some dishes from their own meal. What you would call hors d’oeuvres, or finger food.”
She sat down on the divan and sniffed happily.
He nodded, his thick lashes veiling his thoughts. Like her, he’d changed into lighter weight clothing, notably a linen suit instead of tropical weight wool, and had even taken off his jacket. He had to be wearing a sleeveless undershirt since she could see the muscles in his arms through his shirt every time he moved.
She tore her gaze away and tried to forget what he’d felt like that morning under her hands—desperate, iron hard, straining against her, and the hard thrust