The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,63
allowed himself a small, contented smile and returned to the main door. Unfortunately, the superiority of British styles and customs was recognized for all too short a time.
“Will the revolution still occur next Friday?” The leader’s voice boomed through the house, stately as a minister reading the Sunday lesson from the pulpit. “Even though you don’t have the chest?”
Damn, damn, damn. St. Arles caught himself an instant before he would have killed the filthy heathen for implying an Englishman could fail.
He should have strangled the bitch instead of letting her off with a divorce. A more obstinate, uncooperative guarantee for trouble he’d never encountered.
He could not show weakness, especially not there and now. He needed time—to win this game, then kill the slut.
He made his turn into an excuse for lounging against the door. Would any of these idiots break ranks? No, they were all back in their mulish circle, eyeing him like the jailer come to lock them up again. Dolts.
“Yes, of course, the revolution will still go forward exactly as planned,” he answered, his bonhomie smooth enough to please even Whitehall.
Because no matter how much he loathed dealing with these idealistic donkeys, they were still his only chance of blocking the Ottoman garrisons. Without them, there’d be no revolution—and no British warships in the Dardanelles or at Russia’s throat.
Chapter Twenty-six
The evening sunlight drifted over the Bosporus, turning it into a fools’ highway paved with gold. Dozens of steamers huddled at its crossroads, as if hoping for a prurient glimpse into the Topkapi Palace’s harem. None of them were warships, only merchants.
The Moslem call to prayer echoed faintly from dozens of minarets, then silence. The perfect peace of prayer and meditation. Even thieves didn’t tend to disturb sunset prayer.
Gareth enjoyed Moslem countries for that accomplishment. Only they could guarantee him at least one hour every day when no fighting made ghosts erupt out of his past.
Portia was triggering rustling noises from the dressing room. She’d been doing much of that for the past day, ever since they’d come back from seeing the Sultan visit the mosque—and talking to that filthy British earl.
As long as Gareth heard her like this, he knew she was well. She spooked a little too easily if he tried to help her dress or watched her too blatantly.
As soon as he got her out of here, he was going to grant himself the pleasure of hunting down her bastard of an ex-husband and destroying him like a cockroach. He’d already discarded at least five methods as being too gentle.
Lovely ladies like her should be cherished. Anybody who did differently should be destroyed.
She pushed open the door. The shutters’ filtered light framed her brighter than any rainbow and just as unlikely to fulfill a man’s dream.
“Plums?” she asked, holding up a bowl of the tart green fruit.
He had to clear his throat before he could speak.
“Not now, thank you. It’s too close to dinner.”
She sat down on the divan to watch the Bosporus with him, clad in yet another of those frilly tea gowns. His blood promptly remembered the pleasures that lay underneath the silken confection and the barriers which did not, such as a corset, and surged into motion.
He cursed under his breath, not in English or French, then settled a little more against the yali’s bedroom window and stretched his shoulders. Adjusting his trousers would be better but there was no easy cure for their tight fit. Leaping upon his wife—God help him, what was he doing with one of those?—to satisfy his own lust would be a sure route to hell for both of them.
Perhaps he’d borrow some horses tomorrow and take Portia riding, with grooms in attendance, of course. Or maybe he’d try to take her a little farther north to one of the summer resorts; that should be safe enough for both of them.
Somewhere she could relax and become a hoyden again, as she’d been before that damned ride across Arizona. Somewhere she could laugh and yell her objections to idiocy and hurl herself into life.
She’d never been the same since she headed back East after that trip. She’d been a high-strung filly who warranted gentle handling, and his clumsiness, when he knocked her cold, had hurt her badly. Now it was his duty to heal her.
Nothing else mattered. Certainly nothing he wanted for himself did, even if he had any right to those desires.
POP! POP! The small explosions burst through the room, almost rolling over each other.