The fire sparked and sizzled in the library’s flamboyant, tiled fireplace. A flame leaped high toward the chimney and freedom until the log underneath cracked loudly then collapsed onto the hearth. Ashes billowed toward the room beyond like a small, deadly storm, dotted with ravenous sparks. They almost seemed angry they couldn’t devour the wedding reception for a British earl and a New York debutante.
If William Donovan had any sense, he’d let those fiery devils seize the woolen carpet and burn down Walter Townsend’s New York mansion. They would need far less than an hour and he’d easily have his family out of here long before they were done.
Richard Lindsay, Viola’s father and Portia’s doting grandfather, watched silently, brocade curtains spilling behind him like memories of the Barbary pirates he’d defeated as a naval officer decades ago. They’d drawn straws for who’d have the privilege of leading this conversation and William had won, illegally of course. Townsend was probably better off dealing with an Irish street rat than somebody who’d learned mercy in Tunisian slave pens.
Portia’s father puffed another set of smoke rings at the paneled ceiling. He filled his leather easy chair like a toad on a lily pad, all corpulent self-satisfaction and disinterest in anyone else’s condition.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, had the bastard no interest in his daughter’s fate? Had he taken a single glance into Portia’s eyes when she staggered away from her husband at the altar?
“Splendid ceremony, wasn’t it, gentlemen? I fancy you won’t see its like out west for many years to come,” the poltroon commented and aimed a superior smile at his three companions. “People will be congratulating me for years on the bride’s looks.”
Hal Lindsay snapped his jaw shut with an almost audible click, his blue eyes hotter than the fire. Every blessed saint in heaven would be needed to protect somebody who spoke that callously of Hal’s little girls.
Yet he locked down his anger, as if he tamped down his steamboat’s boilers against an explosion, and took up station by the library door. A single fulminating glare warned his brother-in-law to hasten before he forgot their bargain and took action first.
“D’you think so, Townsend, my lad?” William inquired, sliding into a dark croon better suited for Dublin’s back alleys than Manhattan’s fancy mansions. “Or will people be talking for days about how your daughter cowered from her husband?”
“In God’s holy church, too, no less,” Richard contributed.
“Aye, a terrible thing that. Sure to increase the gossip,” William mourned, eyeing his enemy’s distorted appearance in the wineglass’s facets. The grotesque countenance was probably an accurate rendition of the selfishness inside.
“Ridiculous!” The New Yorker slapped his hand down onto the table. “Did you see how many people came? She was simply overwhelmed by the occasion and started to feel faint.” His voice rose, shedding its usual warm patina like a snake discarding its skin to escape predators. His eyes darted around the room and, for the first time, hunted for escape routes.
“I saw a girl jerk herself away from a man, like a filly fleeing a cruel spur.” Even Hal’s shortest syllable contained a deadly warning.
“Nonsense.” Townsend stormed onto his feet, his watch chain rattling across his over-fed gut. “Today was a great moment for the entire family. Portia will tell you the same, once I speak to her.”
“As soon as you tell her exactly what to say?” William asked, rage ripping hot and wild through his blood. Did the bastard consider his daughter an obedient doll, useful only for his ambitions?
“Of course! No matter what befalls her, Portia will do what I command. She knows better than to argue with me.” His jaw jutted out, belligerent as the fire irons warding the hearth from the room.
“You son of a bitch.” William punched his brother-in-law on the jaw and Townsend’s eyes rolled back into his head. He crumpled onto the carpet into a disheveled heap, like the shattered ruins of a false god.
Satisfaction spilled into William’s belly, touching the few edges left unoccupied by his terror for Portia. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, her skin couldn’t have been any tighter over her jaw when she left for her wedding night than if she’d sat next to a cougar.
“Good blow,” Hal commented from beside William’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have been as polite.”
The ambitious easterner stirred. He clambered onto his knees and glared at them, his tiny eyes malevolent in the fireplace’s baleful glow. “You had no right to do that. Girls were meant to be obedient, not to be heard!”
“This is for sending my granddaughter away to the other side of the ocean and separating her from her brothers.” Richard lashed out with his foot in a blow to make any veteran saloon fighter proud. The kick sent Townsend onto his back with a loud “oof!”
William watched grimly, wishing it had been that bastard, St. Arles. Blessed Mother Mary, how he prayed Lowell would find a way to help Portia.
“Come on, let’s get him up,” he ordered, hating the necessity to be civilized. “We need to find out if there’s any way we can ease Portia out of that brute’s clutches.”
Hal helped him haul Townsend’s flabby, elephantine weight upright. William brusquely cuffed him across the face, unwilling to waste time with extra words. The fool swayed in their iron grip, his eyes bleary.
“Lazy asshole.” William slapped him again. “Listen to me.”
Townsend blinked and tried to jerk away. Richard shoved him back into place.
“You’re a pitiful excuse for a father but you’re the only one Portia has,” William snapped, more harshly than he’d ever spoken to a mule. “So we’ll make the most of you, do you understand?”
Their ostensible host curled his lip and declined to answer—until Hal pricked his chin with needle sharp, cold steel. Townsend shrieked at the dirk and almost pulled out of William’s grip, spilling a foul stench into the elegant room.
William cursed violently in Gaelic and yanked the fool forward by his vest. “Townsend.”
The New Yorker trembled violently but didn’t try to run this time. Hal’s knife stroking his cheek undoubtedly aided his concentration.
“Will you be a good father to Portia?” Richard asked sternly.
“Yes,” Townsend whispered hoarsely, his gray eyes flapping sideways toward Hal’s blade. Sniveling easterner had definitely never seen a true threat before.
“A fine one, to be proud of?” William demanded.
“I swear it!” Blood trickled down his unhappy relative’s throat and stained his collar.
“How much did St. Arles wring out of you for Portia?” Hal inquired, deadly as a coroner hurling questions over a corpse.
“A lump sum sufficient to pay off his father’s and brother’s debts.” He tolled the words like an accountant recounting the loss of hard-won pennies to a bitter enemy.
“Good Lord!” Richard ejaculated. “Surely there were other peers on the Marriage Mart you could have bought for that much?”
“Not of the same rank.” Townsend shrugged pettishly, braver now that he could look away from the knife. “St. Arles was willing to take a far smaller annual income after the ceremony, if he received the bulk at the beginning. It was a better bargain all around.”
“A half million?” Richard’s tone indicated he named a larger than usual sum.
Townsend shook his head and jerked his thumb upward to indicate a far higher sum.
William’s vision began to darken. He’d grown up on a seaport’s streets and knew far too much about buying and selling flesh. But back there, the seller was always motivated by matters of life and death. Here, it was only to increase the feather bed comfort of a greedy fool’s life—and risk destroying his own flesh and blood.
William’s fingers tightened on the bastard’s shoulder, grinding muscle and sinew against bone.
“Ahh!” The weakling’s knees started to buckle and Hal ruthlessly yanked him completely upright.
“Did you tell St. Arles about Julie
t’s money?” Hal demanded in tones which would have cut steel.
William froze, a faint spark of hope warming his veins. Viola and Juliet, as the only granddaughters, had split Richard’s mother’s investments. Portia, Juliet’s only daughter, had inherited all of her mother’s share.
Surely Townsend would have told St. Arles about that family trust. But if he hadn’t…
“Not yet. It’s not a very sizable amount—is it?” He glanced around at the other men and read the answer in their implacable countenances. “A fortune? Good Lord, I must tell St. Arles immediately. He might refund me some of Portia’s dowry!”
Hal kicked his greedy brother-in-law’s feet out from him and sent him straight onto his knees with his face only inches from the fire.
“One more word like that,” he warned, his immense seaman’s paw wrapped in his enemy’s graying locks, “and your nose will start roasting. Do you understand me?”
Townsend’s face and eyes turned the same pasty shade of gray. “You’d never do that to your brother—would you?”
“I’d gladly destroy anyone who threatened my niece.” Hal’s voice held the flat certainty of a butcher announcing the daily special. “Today you helped terrorize her. Why shouldn’t I kill you?”
Townsend gulped for air, his lips fluttering like a dying fish’s gills. He glanced wildly at William and Richard but found only cold silence, comfortless as the North Pole’s icy reaches.
“Of course I’ll keep the family secrets,” he finally stuttered and climbed cautiously onto his feet. He swung his head back and forth, weighing the paths to the doors. Hal stepped in front of one, knife in hand, eyes joyous for any excuse for a fight.
Townsend recoiled and spun around.
William glared at him from the other side. If the easterner had an ounce of manhood, he’d draw a weapon—any weapon!—freeing William from his promise to Viola not to kill him. His darling thought their foster daughter needed to keep as much family as possible, given the hard times she sailed into.
Even so, William brought his dirk into the open fast and smooth so the arrogant beast opposite him would know the penalties.
Townsend squeaked, stammered, and flung up his hands.
“Good to know we’re finally starting to understand each other.” William bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off the other. “Let me reiterate our bargain one last time. You will never tell St. Arles of Portia’s inheritance from her mother.”
Because a trust’s arcane rules just might keep the money away from her husband and thus give her a little independence.
Townsend nodded, a single bright spot of crimson burning on each cheek.
“You will be an excellent father to Portia, a veritable example to the world, no matter how great the effort.”
“No,” Townsend gasped. Horror blanched his cheeks even paler. “Surely, you cannot mean I’d have to approve all of her mad starts—”
“Or else her mother’s family, the golden Lindsays, will enjoy increasing your punishment,” purred the old commodore and twirled a hot poker like a sabre.
“Yes, yes, of course. My daughter’s welfare will ever be—is always—my greatest concern,” Townsend assured them, his eyes totally fixated on the iron’s red-hot tip.
“And Portia will never know any of this,” William reminded him.
“Certainly not!”
That at least held the ring of truth.
If only they could protect Portia herself as easily.
Chapter Eight
Silence assaulted Portia from all sides, dangerous as trackless sand dunes. Her finger rotated around and around her coffee cup’s rim, every loop as meaningless as a politician’s platitudes. If she set the china down, she might have to look at her wedding bed, here at their hotel.
She could barely see it in the shadows beyond her dressing table. The gaslight had been dimmed, except for two wall sconces. Not that there was much to see, despite the room’s luxury. It could have been any small bedroom in a good hotel, meant to be occupied for a night and forgotten in the morning. She’d even seen its furniture a hundred times before, albeit in cheaper copies of century-old French originals.
Tomorrow she’d leave for London aboard one of Britain’s fanciest liners. She wouldn’t even have the comfort of honest American accents for a few extra days, no more than what she’d heard Gareth say in the church. Let alone actually speaking those very unsettling phrases in the note the hotel maid had slipped to her.
As if she would overturn her sworn oath to her husband now, no matter what the provocation! No, she would never run away from her husband tonight.
She shuddered slightly and swirled her cup to kick its dregs back into motion. Not much there, truly, but maybe enough to bring a little life into her cheeks. She’d always thought her wedding night would be different: an encouraging grin from Uncle William and a quick hug from Aunt Viola, then a wild rush into Gareth’s arms.
Don’t think about him now. Don’t think about him ever again.
Her heart thumped disconsolately against her ribs, probably because she’d been alone for too long. Or maybe because she was so pale in this light. Blond hair and white skin didn’t always display to their best advantage under spluttering gaslight.
Perhaps she should change. She wore a silver white satin peignoir with bands of embroidery and lace along the cuffs and lapels, over a matching nightgown cut high to her throat. Aunt Viola had argued against the shade, saying it faded Portia’s coloring. But her stepmother had insisted, calling it virginal and irresistible to a man who’d been married before.
Now the cold threads skimmed over her bones like parchment wrapped around a trout, all decoration and no protection.
Surely everything would go well tonight. Surely her husband would approve of his new bride.
Portia wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and found another meaningless smile for the pale female facing her in the mirror.
A shadow blocked out the wall sconce behind her.
“My dear,” St. Arles intoned with obvious anticipation, “be certain to keep your eyes on me while I instruct you. I married you for your reaction when you learned my true plans.” Anticipation curved his mouth into a hyena’s approximation of happiness.
Her cup rattled into the saucer.
“Clumsy child.” St. Arles yanked her robe down her shoulders and over her arms, then ruthlessly, brutally tightened it around her elbows. Her peignoir’s lapels bit into her nightgown. Lace, meant to be enticing, instead became a burning brand searing her breasts.
She yelped and tried to squirm away. But she couldn’t get out of it, could barely even shrug her shoulders. She stared at him through the mirror, appalled and frightened, her heart beating faster than when she’d watched for Apaches.
“That’s it, my lady, that’s it. That’s exactly how I want you to always behave when we’re alone in bed.” Bright satisfaction marched through his eyes.
“What do you mean?” She tried to pull away from him but his grip tightened. Could she even move her arms?
He dangled his white silk scarf beside her cheek and she shrank away from its dreadful softness. “Let me go!”
He chuckled, the sound glittering with evil. An instant later, he whipped it around her neck like a cravat and tightened his fist in it.
She shook, darkness clawing at her vision, and fought to stand up. She couldn’t scream.
“No,” she croaked, the sound harsher than duty.
“This is your first lesson in how to please me, my dear.” Evil smiled at her through the glass.
“I enjoy my pleasure mixed with pain,” he informed her, his words echoing with far too much prior experience. “After all, orgasm is called the Little Death. I merely prefer my partners gasping on the edge of death. I find it provides both of us a far larger jolt into climax.”
“You’re joking.” The dreadful silk eased just enough to let her speak. Aunt Viola had never mentioned anyone could do something like this.
>
She pushed against the vanity to stand up but he shoved her back into place, the casual blow slamming her face against the unyielding wood. Tears started in her eyes, burning harsher than her throat.
How would she survive tonight? Or all the nights and years to come? If he consummated the marriage, she could never have an annulment and she’d be tied to this living hell forever.
“Not at all.” He licked his lips, his eyes crawling over her like tarantulas. “My first wife was a widow and she’d been poorly trained by her previous husband. But you’re a virgin so you’ve nothing to unlearn. You’re absolutely perfect.”
“Noo…” She looked around desperately for an escape.
A door or the window, from which she could summon Gareth? She’d been such a fool when she sent him away. Could she reach it with her arms bound?
An iron bar locked around her throat and linen rasped her jaw. Her husband—heaven help her, her husband—dragged his teeth along her ear like a saw testing a log.
Blood dripped onto her cheek, hot and wet as the tears she fought back.
“I’ll mount you the instant you start to lose consciousness,” he whispered like Satan’s wind against her hair.
His grip loosened slightly on the robe. She twisted sideways and slammed her elbow into his groin, barely missing his privates.
“You wretch!” he shouted and jerked away from her.
But she had no time to savor her triumph, let alone use it.
An instant later, the silk rope closed abruptly around her neck and the world went black around her.
“By God, I’ll show you who’s master here,” were the last words Portia heard on her wedding night.
Dawn slunk into the rain-soaked alley behind the hotel, its fitful glow useless as a broken sword on a battlefield. Cobblestones gleamed clean and fresh for once, thanks to the night’s deluge. A cat prowled past, secure in the knowledge he could either outfight or outrun any attacker in the long, narrow space.
Gareth flipped his knife, the blade Portia had given him, end over end, as he’d done since before midnight. His throat was drier than if he’d walked across the Mojave.
The Devil She Knows Page 5