fingernails cut into her palms inside her sleeves. Who could she denounce him to? Would anyone pay attention if she screamed?
“I’m sure the men in question consider their attendance an honor,” Gareth parried and discreetly guided them to the far end of the room, well away from anyone else. “Who are we, to argue with another religion?”
“Blithering idiots, wasting men like that. Do you see how they’ve put so many men on the mosque’s roof that it looks like ants trying to carry off a gingerbread house? They should simply shove him into a back corner and let him babble his nonsense there.” St. Arles shook his head. “We know to do things more efficiently in England.”
He called what all these people had gathered to celebrate, babbling nonsense?
Rage surged through her, icily crisp as a desert wind scrubbing sands with snow.
Portia regally turned to survey its loathed source, immeasurably stronger for the support of Gareth’s arm under her hand. Any decision would be hers, but having him beside her limited St. Arles’ potential for violence.
The source of a hundred nightmares shot her another one of his impatient glances which had always ripped through her defenses. “Come along; we can’t talk in front of him.”
“My husband stays with me.”
“Husband?” For the first time, St. Arles truly measured the other man.
Gareth gave him an equally insolent stare, the vicious appraisal of two predators assessing each other’s readiness for battle.
Portia licked suddenly dry lips, uncertain who had the advantage. St. Arles’ nasty cunning had outwitted more than one opponent.
The court flunkey’s voice rose slightly from beside the window, answering a question.
“The procession is about to start,” Gareth translated. His cool tone could be interpreted as anything from anticipation of a social event to sorrow that a prospective fight had been postponed.
St. Arles’ faint snarl promised that the battle would occur.
“Bring the trunk here tomorrow.” He shoved a small card toward Portia.
It somehow looked and smelled like a cobra, ready to spit poison at anyone who touched it.
“No.” Her fingers dug slightly into Gareth. “I can’t deliver it to the people here.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Giving it to you would be like opening Pandora’s box—and Constantinople’s people have done nothing to deserve that.”
Gareth’s strong arm tightened under her hand, providing silent agreement with her decision.
“You crazy slut!” St. Arles took a step toward her and Gareth blocked him immediately.
“Do you realize what you’re doing? By God, I will destroy those sniveling servants.”
“You can try—and you will fail,” Gareth snarled.
“We have the trunk—” Portia tried for a civilized conversation, given their audience.
“All I have to do is reach out my hand to take it back from you,” St. Arles snapped, the muscles in his neck standing out like ropes ready to fling themselves at his enemies.
“Gentlemen, lady,” the court flunkey reproved, sleek and dignified in his uniform. “May I ask you to join us at the window? Prayers are about to begin.”
“Prayers? I’ll show you what that nonsense is worth.” St. Arles shoved past him and elbowed aside a high-ranking Moslem priest in his haste to depart.
The courtier’s alarmed gasp made more than one head turn to see the cause. Only the British ambassador’s quick gesture of apology stopped a guard from arresting St. Arles for insulting the priest.
For two cents, Portia would have stolen the guard’s rifle and used it herself.
The door’s violent slam marked a boor’s exit and a rattlesnake’s return to its lair, ready to build poison for another strike.
Chapter Twenty-five
St. Arles strode warily down the narrow alley, alert for the promised glimpse of a mosque. In this world of rolling roofs, arched lintels, and slender windows, stray cats were more confident than mere humans. Foul brown liquid dripped onto green vines from ancient bricks. Wooden buildings jostled each other like drunkards and crackled at every corner like hags good only for one last bit of gossip.
For some good rum, he’d have brought all of his old shipmates along with him to ward off the prying eyes watching every step.
The excuse for a road jogged right and then left again immediately, bringing the nearest hovel’s eaves over the pavement.
A small gray tabby drowsed on a windowsill, the lone observer. He rolled and stretched a paw high in the air, as if to raise the all clear sign.
Amused, St. Arles returned the salute, grateful for the good luck token.
A single minaret rose directly ahead, like a candle on a banquet table.
At least something still behaved according to plan.
St. Arles took a quick