shaft and squeezed gently, transfixed by the contrast between strength and velvet.
“You’ve a lovely way of expressing yourself.” Gareth groaned and lifted her up but she never released him.
When she came down, his shaft entered her precisely where she craved him. She bowed into an arc and her entire body became an instrument to envelop him.
Both of them worked to find pleasure during that wild ride, hands, legs, thighs, hips—who cared whose muscles brought it, so long as passion flourished? Body drumming against body, hot musk perfuming the air, and insatiable lust burning hotter and brighter in Portia’s loins.
She was a being of pure sensation, existing only for the delight of this moment with Gareth.
Then he rubbed her pearl hard, the hidden nubbin only she—and he—had ever pleasured before.
She sang out his name and leaped for the stars, tumbling into orgasm as if she’d never felt its delights before. Every bone melted and dissolved in a ribbon of lights.
She pillowed her head on his chest, too content to be irked at his usage of a condom with a barren woman. She might have liked a small bit of hope for his child, no matter how unlikely.
Or should she simply concentrate on praying that St. Arles would behave like a gentleman and leave town?
Chapter Twenty-four
Gareth handed Portia into Kerem Ali Pasha’s personal carriage, as carefully as if she were the Ottoman princess whose dowry had provided the luxurious vehicle.
Damn, but she was beautiful enough for royalty, even if she did keep falling asleep immediately after she’d had an orgasm. And with the most adorably bewildered expression, too, as if she’d never before been safe enough to totally yield to pleasure and the relaxation it brought.
She took her time settling into the fine carriage, fluffing out her skirts to make sure the acres of black, furbelowed silk remained crisp. For a nickel, he’d take her back to their bedroom and explore those enticing ruffles, both silk and feminine flesh, under her striped underskirts. She’d dressed as properly for an audience with the Pope on the outside. But what lay underneath was infinitely distracting to him.
But he hadn’t yet earned that privilege. More important than anything else was seeing her laugh and maybe, one day, watching her throw herself at life the way she had before that hellish marriage.
Before he’d betrayed her and let her be swept into that damnable union.
“Ready, Gareth?” Her voice sliced through his heart. He’d have tolerated constant accusations better.
“Of course.” He stepped inside the open barouche and reached for the door.
“Cable for you, Lowell.” A yellow envelope was thrust into his hand. He barely had time to nod at one of his best men before Selim was gone, blending into the dockside crowd like the pickpocket he’d been.
Gareth slid the latch home and rapped his cane on the floor. The carriage swung into motion, its pair of beautiful horses catching the eye and causing onlookers to step back.
“Congratulations,” Portia murmured. “You look and behave quite the man about town.”
“Their shirts are too well starched and their neckties too tight.” Gareth snorted. “But sometimes it helps to blend in with the scenery.”
“Especially when we’re about to see the Sultan?”
“Especially then,” he agreed.
He measured his finger against the envelope’s flap then sighed and settled for a pen knife. His fancy gloves were too damn thick to fit inside much, let alone something this tightly sealed. A few seconds later, he passed the contents over to Portia without a word.
He couldn’t think of anything fit for a gentlewoman’s ears, anyway.
She stared at him. “Why, that filthy, double-dealing, lying, conniving…” She crumpled up the paper and hurled it onto the carriage floor.
“Skunk?” Gareth suggested.
“Bastard!”
The unusual profanity made Gareth’s eyes widen.
“He must have known when he spoke to me That Woman was already starting to dismiss the servants. People who’d been with his family for years.” Color flew in her cheeks like battle flags.
“But not all of them, and not the four he named to you.” Thank God the coachman only spoke Turkish, not English or French.
“Does it matter?” She tightened her lips and shook her little fists, as if begging for a target.
“It might, if you’re holding to the letter of a bargain and not the spirit.”
“Are you defending him?” She pulled her voice back from a shriek an instant before it echoed off the stone walls beyond the carriage.
“Hardly; I’d rather kill him.” Very slowly, using some of the nastier Apache techniques.
Christ, what he wouldn’t do to simply throw Portia over