The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,89

two possible targets from here—St. Arles’ damn chest or the beast himself.

For a moment, she teetered, fighting the wind. Her skirts tried to become sails and manacles, while she had nothing nearby to hold on to.

But she’d manage this. Somehow. For Gareth and everyone else whose lives St. Arles had carelessly wrecked.

Calling on all the Lindsays in her blood, she created a balance between herself and the ship and the sea. Then she took a firmer grip on the axe.

One long step to the trunk and the weak rope holding it—or three paces to St. Arles.

Gareth’s eyes widened slightly, even underneath the salt spray and the blood from his wound. His smile turned as sharp-edged as his blade.

“Perhaps you should look to your own defenses in this weather,” he suggested to St. Arles. He feinted, moving forward, pressing his opponent as if he had full advantage.

He’d attack a man with a gun—when all he had was a knife?

The Englishman laughed, the sound’s gleeful triumph resonating through the sudden absence of bells and shouts from the Naiad’s bow.

“You fool. You bloody, glorious fool.” He shifted and circled, keeping his gun pointed at Gareth’s chest. Then he cocked it.

Her heart leaped into her mouth. She swung down the same way the judge had wielded his gavel on the bench—and sent the axe’s full weight into the hemp strands. The blade thudded into the solid oak, final as the gavel’s slam. The strands snapped in an instant and the trunk hurled itself forward to slide free.

The big, heavy chest roared across the deck toward the two fighters. Gareth sprang for Portia and knocked her away from it.

St. Arles turned to dodge it but slipped on the wet deck. The Naiad continued to roll, sending the iron-bound oak chest thundering down upon him. He fell, screaming curses, and skidded into the ravenous seas through the open gangway only inches ahead of the great chest.

Gareth and Portia raced to the rail.

“Where is he?”

“There!” Gareth pointed. “Can you see him swimming?”

“If you say so but I’m not sure I want to.” She leaned against her husband and tried to find merciful thoughts.

Others joined them, smelling strongly of smoke. Someone handed her a telescope.

“He’s heading for the small white palace to the north. With the large terrace,” Captain Pendleton reported.

“Chiragan Palace,” Portia said. A very hollow feeling began to grow in her stomach. “Where the former sultan is held captive.”

“All unexpected visitors to Chiragan Palace are always interrogated by experts,” Gareth murmured. “I understand it frequently involves having your rib cage bound so your spinal column can be extracted.”

Neat as any marshal, she and Gareth had delivered St. Arles to the only tribunal where his nationality and rank meant nothing, compared to his crimes.

Portia hid her face against Gareth’s shoulder and he hugged her. She’d have to go to church and pray for forgiveness, because she had no regrets.

St. Arles hadn’t gone to court for adultery but he was standing in the dock now.

In a Turkish court, on the Night of Absolution, may Allah have mercy on him.

Chapter Thirty-eight

St. Arles staggered onto the rocky shore, his woolen coat streaming water from the howling gale. Wind beat at his back and waves tore at his knees and ankles. The golden moon sailed above, barely visible through the pounding spray.

He hissed with pain when the first boulder cut into his feet but kept walking. He’d quickly sacrificed his boots when he first went into the Bosporus, lest they became sea anchors dedicated to locking him onto this foul place.

White steps glimmered ahead of him, probably from somebody’s seaside mansion on the Asian side of the Bosporus. A few bribes, the mention of the British Ambassador, and he’d be able to fight once again, ready to destroy his ex-wife and that cur Lowell.

Once he had his revenge—and silenced their yapping mouths, no doubt—he could decide how best to bring rifles into Constantinople. The filthy Sultan still needed to go to hell.

He caught the railing and started up. Another wave crashed into him and snatched his breath away. He clung, panting, to the heavy marble balustrade until the swell slunk away.

Dammit, any house this grand should have servants to help unexpected guests. Where were they?

He spat out more saltwater and pulled himself onto his feet. Water swirled below the stairs, green and black with debris beneath the angry foam.

Now—finally!—boots pounded toward him across the marble terrace.

St. Arles shoved his streaming hair off his forehead and wiped his eyes so he could

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