The Devil She Knows

by Diane Whiteside

  He scrabbled through more newspapers but every one of them contained the same announcement, the same golden manacle: his marriage to his darling.

  He stared at her, his heart beating in circles somewhere around his ears like a bird taking wing.

  “Portia, what the devil is going on here? A dozen or more newspapers are touting our marriage. You’ll never be able to have a quiet divorce from me.”

  “You spoke of love—but you also spoke of leaving.”

  “You deserve better than me.” The old cry was a shout from somewhere in his past.

  “I am proud to be your wife because you are the finest man I know. I have wanted to call you my husband since I was twelve years old.” Glory shone from her eyes.

  “All these years?” He couldn’t reach for her.

  “Ever since you walked into Rachel Grainger’s kitchen on Christmas Eve, I knew you were meant for me.”

  “That’s madness. Nothing lasts that long.”

  “You healed me from St. Arles’ tortures and taught me how to believe in joy again. Of course, I want you.”

  “Portia, any man who loves you would have given you that.”

  “You admit you love me.” Her face lit up, brighter than the sun dancing on the water.

  “Yes—no!” He slammed his fist down on the table. “But it does us no good. We must part.”

  “If you want a divorce now, you will have to fight for it. I love you and I want you more than my life. You must create a scandal in order to end our marriage.”

  When would she see the blood dripping from his hands, the trail of men he’d killed, the taint he’d pass on to his children?

  “Portia, nobody in California knew you were married. All you had to do was get an annulment.”

  “Gareth.” She knelt before him and kissed his hands. “You are the best man in the world. Why can’t you see that? If you leave me this time, I will follow you, no matter where you go. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go. And thy people shall be my people and your God my God’, as Ruth said.”

  “Portia—”

  “Gareth, you know you brought justice to your family’s murderers, no matter how bitter the price. Please believe I understand that, too.”

  Christ, when he thought about all the nights when all he could see were the faces of the men he’d killed. But he never saw them with her.

  “Come down here and love me,” she pleaded, sliding her fingers around his wrists as if desperate to tie them together.

  Instead he lifted her up and held her against his heart. He started to blaze a trail of kisses over his wife’s cheek and down to her lips.

  “Sometime soon we’ll have to go above deck and greet our family,” she reminded him.

  Our family.

  He began to grin, enthusiasm for the future bubbling up inside him for the first time since he was twelve.

  Chapter Forty

  Santa Barbara, California, August 1892

  Rays of sunlight heated the lemon grove’s dappled shade. The woodsy, sharp scent of citrus wood brightened the air until a breeze brought the headier aroma of jasmine from the banks by the irrigation ditch. A haze of lavender grew contentedly high along the ridgeline, in one of the few hillside fields not full of cattle or vineyards.

  The Pacific Ocean sparkled beyond them, bright blue as a sailor’s dream. Today it seemed to be on its best behavior as an avenue of commerce.

  Gareth plucked a twig from one of his trees and began to examine it. Portia cast a suspicious glance at him then patted Juliet, their eldest child and only daughter, on the shoulder.

  “Go tell Uncle William and Aunt Viola that Mother and Father will be along in a few minutes, please.”

  “Honest?” The little girl looked at them curiously, her clothing very clean for once. “But you’re never late.”

  Gareth felt crimson steal into his cheeks and hastily adopted a stern mien. The attitude had grown easier since he’d been elected to the local city council. If nothing else, pomposity deflected questions about quick exits from official functions—and sudden reappearances with his beautiful wife.

  Portia’s skin was flushed, too, beside a very tight smile. Their passion for each other had caused tardiness more than once—but not in front of the children.

  Gareth came to his hapless darling’s rescue, before her incurable honesty disclosed too much.

  “Your mother and I need a few words together. In private,” he added firmly, lest the little minx think to join them and thereby lord it over her siblings.

  Juliet’s eyes lit up. She started to wag both hands, the tell-tale start to a mischief-making campaign.

  “We need to discuss some details about the ranch before we leave.” Portia slammed the door on her interest in their conversation.

  “For that?” The little tyke glared at them. “We could be in Uncle William’s private car already!”

  She took to her heels and raced off, every line blazing with indignation.

  “I am properly put in my place,” Gareth remarked and tossed aside his tree’s leaves, satisfied they were healthy as his daughter. His father and grandfather would have been proud of this ranch, a worthy inheritance for future generations of Lowell family farmers.

  The railroad had arrived in Santa Barbara the same year he and Portia returned from Europe, making this lovely port the western terminus of the southern transcontinental route. From here, travelers took a steamer to San Francisco, since the Southern Pacific had not yet conquered the coastal mountains’ steep inclines.

  He’d resigned from Donovan & Sons once he returned, determined to spend time with his wife instead of on the road. Portia, thank God, never wanted to set roots in San Francisco; she probably suspected the urban hurly-burly evoked his nightmares more rapidly than any other setting.

  This delightful town offered the perfect compromise. It was only a few days away from her family, close enough that visits were frequent and casual. Yet the setting was quiet and bucolic. Their beautiful ranch had once been a Spanish land grant. Many of the buildings’ small details, such as the creamy stucco walls and red tile roofs, provided reminders of the Arizona towns and friends who’d sheltered him long ago.

  Even his dreams were peaceful here, in his wife’s bed.

  Portia tucked her arm through his and began to stroll toward their private railroad siding, a wedding present from her grandfather.

  “I sent a half dozen cases of our lemons ahead to my brothers,” she remarked. Her golden hair gleamed above her white dress, showcased by the jasmine’s glossy green leaves behind her. He never tired of telling her she was the most beautiful woman in California. “Their chefs apparently plan a competition at Newport showcasing their use.”

  “Bravo. Cynthia and her husband are judging it, aren’t they, now that they’re back from Australia?” He cast a longing glance back at his grape vines. This would be the first time he missed the harvest. “Do you think—”

  “No,” she retorted. “You have to leave the ranch sometime, instead of making everyone visit us here. Besides, this is a very important family trip and everyone will be there.”

  “Morgan and Jessamyn Evans, Lucas and Rachel Grainger, even Hal and Rosalind Lindsay will meet us in Los Angeles with all of their broods.” He whistled softly at how far that steamboat captain and his lady gambler had traveled. Then he reached up and snatched a golden fruit from the highest branch. “All to see Neil Donovan, the firstborn son of an Irish clan, off to Harvard. Truly, miracles do happen.”

  Children’s laughter swelled through the trees from up ahead. A man shouted something, more weary repetition than sharp warning.

  Gareth offered the token to his darling, the lady who’d given him joy and warmth beyond measure. Her fingers wrapped his wrist in an unbreakable bond.

  “Yes, truly miracles do happen,” she agreed and trailed her fingers down the side of his face. “You are finally mine.”

  “We are both at home in each other’s arms.” He kissed her, h
eedless of the clock or their proximity to dozens of family members. Only her sweetness mattered to him now—until the four Donovan boys ran past, hurling their usual insults at each other.

  “Marlowe Donovan, where do you think you’re going?” Neil Donovan shouted, his voice as effortlessly loud as his father’s. At nineteen, he was already a fine man whose eyes were older than his years.

  “To pick some grapes!” The younger boy’s response faded along the path toward the orchards.

  Gareth lifted his head to watch, his arms still locked around his wife.

  “Dammit, Brian, why did you teach a ten year old how to make wine?” Neil snarled. Due to some trick of the landscape, almost any word said close to the working sheds could be heard by the stables and the railroad siding.

  “I didn’t—he stole the book,” snapped the second son and redoubled his pace. Slimmer than his older brother with laughter tempering his eyes’ alertness, Brian soon passed Neil on the lane but still lost the two younger devils, who’d disappeared into the packing shed.

  “Do you think any of Marlowe’s efforts will be drinkable?” Portia asked softly, her voice pitched in the husky croon which wouldn’t carry to the sheds—but always traveled straight to her husband’s groin.

  His blood immediately answered her, as always, and Gareth cursed silently. Still, they’d be alone together again soon enough in their own private car on Donovan’s private train.

  He tried for a joke to cover his response.

  “Perhaps we should let him make it and then taste the results. After that, he’ll probably look for different mischief.”

  “Unlike us, who found the best during childhood.” Portia drew a heart on the back of Gareth’s hand.

  He caught her fingers and stared down into her eyes, eternally amazed by the miracle of her love. Surely there was time for a quick detour into the house.

  “Ahem.” A man coughed softly and Gareth reluctantly looked up.

  William and Viola strolled through the garden from the railroad siding to join them. Thank God Viola’s eyes twinkled with laughter over her sons’ antics. It was far better to see that than the coughing spasms which could attack her when she was anxious.

  “How long do you think it will be until Neil rounds them up?” Portia asked, her tone light and jocular.

  “Less than five minutes.”

  Gareth had never dared to disbelieve William Donovan before. But such a flat statement certainly begged to be contradicted.

  The Irishman glanced at him, his arm locked around his wife’s waist the same way Gareth held his lady.

  “All of them know the chef has a fresh batch of raisin cookies in the oven.”

  “They won’t miss those,” Gareth agreed, awed by his friend’s foresight.

  “Every husband and father learns what bribes work and when to have them ready.” William winked at him. “It’s part of leading a family.”

  “Thank you for the advice—and for welcoming me into your clan.”

  “You always were a member of my family, from the minute you joined up in Kansas City.”

  Gareth’s breath stopped in his throat, while all too many things became clear. His friend’s casual but vital teachings, the protectiveness, the willingness to let him go his own way while always making sure he had friends and resources to back him. And, most of all, the unquestioning support whenever he needed it.

  William held out his hand to him and they gripped strongly, while their wives beamed.

  Author’s Note

  The Al-Muqattam newspaper of Cairo reported (in no. 1964, 7 September 1895) the imprisonment of a newcomer to Constantinople, whose only “crime” was having the same name as the current Sultan and staying at a hotel named similarly to the Sultan’s palace. Poignantly, that gentleman had come to take up a job in the Justice Ministry. He was insane and penniless when he was finally released.

  Thanks to Steven Maffeo for clarifying details of the Immortal Memory toast at Trafalgar Day banquets in British naval etiquette, and to the Weapons-Info group at Yahoo! for providing the perfect nineteenth-century blades.

  Much of this book is set in Cairo and Constantinople during the twilight years of the Ottoman Empire. As if matters weren’t complicated enough for an English-speaking author, the great Turkish leader Mustafa Kemal, known as Ataturk, led the conversion of Turkey’s writing system and its language from Ottoman (i.e., extended Arabic) script to Roman. In other words, the names for the same characters and places have frequently changed over time and have multiple possible spellings in the Roman alphabet. I have therefore followed the examples of experts on translating them, while striving to maintain clarity and consistency.

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  Bo shot through the goal crease and slammed the puck into the net.

  “Morning!”

  That voice cut through his focus and, without breaking his stride, Bo changed direction and skated over to the rink entrance. He stopped hard, ice spraying out from his skates, and stood in front of the wolfdog.

  He stared down at her and she stared up at him. She kept smiling even when he didn’t. Finally he asked, “What time did we agree on?”

  “Seven,” she replied with a cheery note that put his teeth on edge.

  “And what time is it?”

  “Uh…” She dug into her jeans and pulled out a cell phone. The fact that she still had on that damn, useless watch made his head want to explode. How did one function—as an adult anyway—without a goddamn watch?

  Grinning so that he could see all those perfectly aligned teeth, she said, “Six-forty-five!”

  “And what time did we agree on?”

  She blinked and her smile faded. After a moment, “Seven.”

  “Is it seven?”

  “No.” When he only continued to stare at her, she softly asked, “Want to meet me at the track at seven?”

  He continued to stare at her until she nodded and said, “Okay.”

  She walked out and Bo went back to work.

  Fifteen minutes later, Bo walked into the small arena at seven a.m. Blayne, looking comfortable in dark blue leggings, sweatshirt, and skates, turned to face him. He expected her to be mad at him or, even worse, for her to get that wounded look he often got from people when he was blatantly direct. But having to deal with either of those scenarios was a price Bo was always willing to pay to ensure that the people in his life understood how he worked from the beginning. This way, there were no surprises later. It was called “boundaries” and he read about it in a book.

  Yet when Blayne saw him, she grinned and held up a Starbucks cup. “Coffee,” she said when he got close. “I got you the house brand because I had no idea what you would like. And they had cinnamon twists, so I got you a few of those.”

  He took the coffee, watching her close. Where was it? The anger? The resentment? Was she plotting something?

  Blayne held the bag of sweets out for him and Bo took them. “Thank you,” he said, still suspicious even as he sipped his perfectly brewed coffee.

  “You’re welcome.” And there went that grin again. Big and brighter than the damn sun. “And I get it. Seven means seven. Eight means eight, etc., etc. Got it and I’m on it. It won’t happen again.” She said all that without a trace of bitterness and annoyance, dazzling Bo with her understanding more than she’d dazzled him with those legs.

  “So,” she put her hands on her hips, “what do you want me to do first?”

  Marry me? Wait. No, no. Incorrect response. It’ll just weird her out and make her run again. Normal. Be normal. You can do this. You’re not just a great skater. You’re a normal great skater.

  When Bo knew he had his shit together, he said, “Let’s work on your focus first. And, um, should I ask what happened to your face?” She had a bunch of cuts on her cheeks. Gouges. Like something small had pawed at her.

  “Nope!” she chirped, pulling
off her sweatshirt. She wore a worn blue T-shirt underneath with B&G Plumbing scrawled across it. With sweatshirt in hand, Blayne skated over to the bleachers, stopped, shook her head, skated over to another section of bleachers, stopped, looked at the sweatshirt, turned around, and skated over to the railing. “I should leave it here,” she explained, “In case I get chilly.”

  It occurred to Bo he’d just lost two minutes of his life watching her try and figure out where to place a damn sweatshirt. Two minutes that he’d never get back.

  “Woo-hoo!” she called out once she hit the track. “Let’s go!”

  She was skating backward as she urged him to join her with both hands.

  He pointed behind her. “Watch the—”

  “Ow!”

  “—pole.”

  Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

  Christ almighty, what had she gotten herself into?

  Twenty minutes in and she wanted to smash the man’s head against a wall. She wanted to go back in time and kick the shit out of Genghis Khan before turning on his brothers, Larry and Moe. Okay. That wasn’t their names but she could barley remember Genghis’s name on a good day, how the hell was she supposed to remember his brothers’. But whatever the Khan kin’s names may be, Blayne wanted to hurt them all for cursing her world with this…this…Visigoth!

  Even worse, she knew he didn’t even take what she did seriously. He insisted on calling it a chick sport. If he were a sexist pig across the board, Blayne could overlook it as a mere flaw in his upbringing. But, she soon discovered, Novikov had a very high degree of respect for female athletes…as long as they were athletes and not just “hot chicks in cute outfits, roughing each other up. All you guys need is some hot oil or mud and you’d have a real moneymaker on your hands.”

  And yet, even while he didn’t respect her sport as a sport, he still worked her like he was getting her ready for the Olympics.