The Devil She Knows

by Diane Whiteside

  Surely she was satisfied at seeing only his face, hands, and feet, rather than the male beauty of a few minutes earlier.

  Still, would he be comfortable there? His battered body deserved better.

  “Can you sleep there? You should definitely get your rest.” She tried to tuck her toes a little farther under her knees to give him more space on the other side. A cool breeze teased her arms.

  “I’ve been colder. I’ll stay here and let you breathe easy.”

  “Me?”

  “Aren’t you doing better now than when you first woke up this morning?” he countered.

  Neither St. Arles nor her father had ever put her comfort first. Portia’s chest loosened and warmed. Her fingers stretched, longing to reach out to him.

  “But you’re my friend and you’re uncomfortable. How can I relax when you’re uneasy?”

  His eyes searched hers with the same intensity he’d given the room’s hidden nooks.

  “Please?” she added and bit her lip. He needed to believe she wanted him beside her for more than marital appearances. He needed comfort, the same way his scars should be healed. “Please come back to bed, Gareth.”

  “If you’re sure, Portia.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He came swiftly, probably so she’d have no opportunity to view him. He was on the other side of the bed, to her surprising disappointment, before he spoke again. “When is St. Arles expected in town, Portia?”

  “Today perhaps, if he pretended to be an indolent tourist and came by train.” She shivered, chilled by more than the air. “Or he could already be here, if he commandeered a fast warship.”

  “Do you want to lie down again, too, honey? Do you need another coverlet?”

  “I, ah…” Did she want to flee? Or did she want to dive into the comfort of his arms and try to forget St. Arles’ looming presence?

  Gareth truly hadn’t taken advantage of her the night before. She was certain of that, since she wasn’t chafed and raw between her legs the way St. Arles had always left her.

  “We’ve only been in bed a couple of hours,” Gareth coaxed. “You must be exhausted. You still have time to sleep before we say goodbye to your maid.”

  “True.” The Orient Express didn’t leave until early afternoon, even though it arrived in the morning of the same day.

  She stroked the inviting hollow she’d made in the pillow just above the perfect niche in the mattress. Both of them seemed to beg for her to return, to forget the coming day’s cares.

  Her hair swung forward onto her breast, tickling her cold shoulders. It had been only loosely tied with a hair ribbon, rather than sternly repressed in braids.

  “How late were we up?” she asked, without looking at Gareth. Her fingers ached, half from the morning chill but far too much from the surprising need to touch him.

  “Past three. Don’t you remember?”

  “Mostly as music and dancing, not hours and minutes.”

  “It was a fine wedding party, all laughter and friendship.” He flipped the embroidered quilt invitingly out toward her. “Come closer, honey, and let me warm you up.”

  Another brisk breeze down the nape of her neck decided her. This was Gareth, her most reliable friend who’d always told her the truth without regard to his own betterment. He’d slept with her without taking advantage of her. Surely she could trust him—and him alone.

  She dived back under the covers, straight for the most reliable heat source in the room.

  “Argh!” Gareth grunted then clasped her close to his chest. She wrapped her arms around him, careful to keep her cold hands on his waist, and buried her nose against his chest.

  “My poor darling,” he crooned and smoothed a blanket up around her ears. “It can be a mite chilly around here in spring.”

  She sniffled and held onto him.

  He was safe and solid—and hairy, too, above all that muscle clothed in silky skin. His body was a miracle of curves and planes, sculpted in three dimensions like one of Michelangelo’s mighty masterworks ready to dare great powers. Not an animated watercolor maintained to be a living, breathing showcase for fine clothing, like so many men she’d met.

  Clothing. Where was her dress?

  “Since Sidonie isn’t here, who put me to bed?” she queried. Warmth was slipping back into her bones, together with the most delicious lassitude.

  “I did, best as I could,” he admitted. For the first time, a little caution snuck into his voice.

  “You did?”

  “You were so sleepy, you started stumbling on the way in from the garden. You told me not to summon any of the maids.”

  “You must have thought I’d had too much to drink.” She untangled her hands from under his ribs but remained tucked up against him, where her feet could get warm. Her nipples had somehow become aching little spikes, pressed deep into her breasts by his chest. But she couldn’t pull away.

  “Two glasses of wine?” His snicker quickly put her conscience to rest. “But your eyes were shut before I had finished undoing all those buttons.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her ankle slipped between his, as if holding onto him.

  “You were charming.” He kissed the top of her head. “You wore my watch.”

  She flushed at the realization he knew she still thought of him and sidestepped that issue without considering the alter-native’s risks.

  “How could I be charming, if you didn’t have your wedding night?”

  “Who says I didn’t like the outcome?” he retorted, triumph rippling through his voice, as subtle and final as a Colt entering its holster.

  Their gazes locked.

  “But you haven’t…” She stopped. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, a move which he regarded with considerable interest.

  “Yes, honey?” he drawled.

  “You haven’t had me,” she whispered and blushed, wishing she could disappear under the bed.

  “I’ve slept with you, haven’t I? Maybe not in the Biblical sense but that doesn’t matter, not when you spent hours wrapped in my arms.”

  “I wish I remembered it.” She nibbled on her fingernail and wondered how he could be so calm, when she wanted to either run or grab him. But his body was hardly relaxed, given that his heart was drumming under her palm.

  “You don’t need to. Your body’s happy, right? So why worry?”

  “But I’d like to remember enjoying you, so I wouldn’t have all the horrid thoughts of St. Arles when I think about sleeping with a man.”

  “Of course we can make another memory for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything you want.” His eyes were very blue under their heavy lids. “All you have to do is ask.”

  “Kiss?”

  “Of course.”

  “Or,”—she hesitated, impulses she’d never dared voice to anyone tumbling through her mind—“touch?”

  “Anything.” The syllables rasped his throat like the most heart-felt promise. He delicately stroked her hair back from her face. “And everything.”

  She smiled, relaxing in the surety of his promise, and traced the long muscle of his cheek, under his beard stubble. It was uncompromising, just like him, yet it seemed to have potential for more.

  Surely she could safely handle Gareth. All the things she’d never wanted, never dared with St. Arles.

  He turned his head and caught her fingertips in his mouth. She squeaked and shivered at the slow, steady caress. The gentle pull of his lips on her softer flesh seemed to ricochet straight through her arm and circle her breasts, tightening them as it went until she could barely breathe.

  He did it again and her eyelids drooped, closing out the world so she could better savor the magic of this simple gesture. And when he kissed her other hand, and the palms of her hands, her heart lurched into a deeper, stronger beat that consumed her lungs.

  She moaned softly, as much a plea for more as expressing bewilderment at her own reaction. She’d enj
oyed playing with herself before but that had nothing to do with finding pleasure with a man. Didn’t it?

  “Ah, sweet Portia, you’re so tempting with your lips parted. Will you mind if I steal a single kiss?” Gareth crooned against her cheek.

  She shook her head, blindly seeking the source of the warm breath which ruffled her hair.

  “That’s my Portia.” Gareth’s mouth met hers.

  She opened willingly but a little shyly, fascinated by the contrast between his lips’ supple curve and his beard’s roughness. Gentleness and strength, both aspects of protection all in one.

  He kissed her a little more and she snuggled closer. Somehow her hand slipped up his shoulder and into his hair, entrapped in the heavy strands like a sorcerer’s web.

  Time mattered little, compared to the delights of tasting and touching him so intimately, tongue to tongue, lip to lip. Even their teeth gave texture and meaning, adding emphasis and depth—while her breath sighed in and out, sending his warmth down her throat and into her veins. It pulsed through her blood and tightened her breasts, stealing her wits.

  He kissed her eyes and cheeks, then nuzzled her throat.

  “Gareth, please,” she whispered, although she couldn’t have clearly defined what she wanted.

  “Of course, Portia darling.” His mouth came back to hers and she caught his head in her hands. He chuckled and she kissed him fiercely, certain now she could do this much at least.

  He swept his hand down her back and pulled her close. Their legs tangled and her day chemise, far shorter than a nightgown, slipped up to her hip. But who cared when his magical mouth sent the stars spinning so fast that only he existed?

  When he moved away, she could only gasp for air, dazed yet ecstatic. The hot tide of lust riding her veins was throbbing between her legs.

  When he ran his finger along her jaw, his eyes were the blue of truth. He caressed her throat and her collarbone as delicately as a kiss—and she arched to meet him. “Ah, Gareth.”

  She ran her hands down his back and impatiently gripped the fine muscles of his ass to pull him closer.

  “Portia, honey, you’re a delight.” A jolt of laughter and answering hunger ran through him.

  He slipped his hand inside her chemise and cupped her breast. His big hand was shockingly hot, yet her hard little nipple craved his palm, stabbed at it, and shot surges of lust down to her toes.

  Yet he stayed perfectly still—and Portia moaned, frustration adding a startlingly harsh edge to her wordless plea. A fine sheen of sweat helped her wriggle under him.

  But nothing brought her needy, dripping core the final stimulation it craved. Just a touch from her hand or his, soft or harsh, fast or slow, she didn’t care, not with this madness firing her blood. But she was blocked, condemned to climb higher and higher toward a pinnacle of pure need she’d never known before where nothing existed except the blurring of body and desire.

  The only reality was the man in her arms, the one she’d craved for so very long. Gareth’s shoulders filled her hands and his thigh was between her legs.

  She rocked against him, unconsciously circling her hips. There was no place here for fear.

  He slid her chemise aside and sucked her nipple deep into his mouth.

  Portia cried out. Hot, wet—and teeth?

  “Didn’t expect that, did you, darling?” he muttered and set about driving her mad with tongue and teeth and fingers.

  Vision faded first. Sound existed only for his voice urging her on and her own broken cries, begging for more, and her body writhing against his echoed by fine linen’s susurration. The rich aroma of sex mixed with the salt water’s tang to perfume the air, driving lust deeper into her veins.

  And hunger, desperate and achingly sharp for the man above her. Hot and heavy as the slap of the waves on the pilings below the house, sharp as the bite of lust every time he suckled her. Deep and strong as the pulse building in her loins for the man beside her, his shaft blazingly hard against her knee.

  “Gareth, please.” She tossed her head from side to side and groped for him again, desperate, uncertain how to spur him on.

  “Take it, Portia, take it for me—and for yourself,” he purred like a tiger, that creature of shadows, offering to play in the sunlight.

  His hand slipped between her thighs and found her most intimate flesh. He stroked her pearl—and Portia bucked, hard, and tumbled into orgasm. Fireworks exploded through her body, stealing breath and melting every bit of flesh and bone like magma.

  She cried out, a long wordless, joyful sound like an unknown bird.

  An instant later, Gareth grunted and jerked. Hot liquor splattered onto her thigh and her chemise’s hem, just above her knee.

  For a moment, his heartbeat drummed between his palm and her thigh, vital and demanding as the Arizona noontime sun. Then he shifted his arm and his pulse faded into the distance, leaving her to face emotions she’d never thought to manage.

  Chapter Twenty

  Moving as clumsily as if she’d run across the Arizona desert, Portia laid her head against her husband’s shoulder.

  He rumbled approval, lifted his arm, and gathered her against him. At least he didn’t seem to be angry with her.

  A single hot tear gathered on her cheek.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” He cleaned her delicately with the sheet’s edge then smoothed her chemise down.

  “N-nothing.”

  He tucked the covers up around her. She sniffled and burrowed closer, insensibly comforted by his heart’s steady beat under her cheek and his arm’s solid strength around her.

  “Did I hurt you?” He spun the question out with the same idle intent he used to lure trout to his fishing line.

  Like them, she couldn’t resist responding, even though sweet lassitude was melting her body into his hold.

  “I enjoyed myself but,”—she sought for the most tactful phrase then settled on the truth—“you didn’t.”

  “Of course I did.” He stroked her head, unerringly finding the spot where her headaches gathered. “Couldn’t you tell? I had an orgasm, too.”

  If she could have sunk through the house, from their top floor bedroom, through the main floor to the boat house and the ocean, she would have done so. No matter how bluntly Aunt Viola had spoken of intimate matters, Portia had never expected to do so with a man.

  She closed her eyes and tried to be brave. Curiosity came to her aid. “But didn’t you need to do something, anything to amuse yourself?”

  He chuckled deep and soft, like a well-fed cat. His belly was so close to her elbow that she could tell his shaft was relaxed and quiescent between his thighs.

  “I enjoyed myself very well, sweet Portia.” He petted the small of her back under the covers.

  “How? You never touched yourself,” she blurted and blushed again at probing further into his most intimate needs.

  He huffed in surprise and leaned back slightly to look at her face. She managed to meet his gaze, startled to find his gray eyes crystalline now with no veils raised against her probe.

  “Why should I? You gave me more than I expected when you fell asleep in my arms. I didn’t know you still trusted me after so many years.”

  “I didn’t plan that,” she protested.

  “Exactly; every part of your body was utterly relaxed, which your brain could not have commanded. Thank you.”

  She shrugged, wondering a little uneasily why she was so comfortable in his arms now. Could it have been how well he made love to her? Or was that truly making love?

  “And when you woke up all amazed at being in bed with a man, I knew you’d never slept the night through with St. Arles.” Gareth’s lips curved into a fiercely predatory line.

  Portia gaped at him, caught by a barely leashed triumph she’d only glimpsed in the most high stakes power struggles among diplomats. “Is that so important?” she whispered.

  “Oh yes, sweetheart. It was far more exciting than a dozen caresses.” His eyelids sw
ept down for an instant, granting him privacy for remembrance.

  “But, even so,” she stammered, returning to her original argument, “when I climaxed, you didn’t even touch yourself. How could that satisfy you?”

  “Well now, honey,” Gareth’s gray eyes flashed open to embrace her, “I reckon that every time I hear you take your pleasure, it’s something St. Arles never heard. That makes me the winner.”

  “You’re crazy!” She sat up to stare at him, heedless of her chemise falling off her shoulder.

  “Are you telling me that you ever had an orgasm with that man?”

  “No,” she admitted warily. Were there any etiquette manuals which addressed discussing first husbands with the second one, especially regarding life’s more intimate aspects?

  “Then every time I hear you sing in pleasure, I win—and he loses.” Her old playmate grinned at her, full of lazy, confident anticipation. “There’s nothing I won’t do to make you holler like that again.”

  Her jaw dropped. Her breath seemed suspended, together with her thoughts, somewhere she couldn’t reach.

  “Now relax and come back to bed, honey.” Gareth stroked her wrist and forearm. “We have plenty of time and no need to rush. You must still be exhausted after last night.”

  “Exhausted?” Did he refer to the attack at the hotel or—

  “Or relaxed, maybe—and sated from this morning?”

  “Gareth!”

  He swept her arms out from under her and tugged her down on top of him in a wrestler’s move. He held her like that, close and warm, and petted her very gently.

  Every inch of her met its match in his intimate flesh. Warm skin, smooth curve, crisp hair. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel—and know herself utterly content.

  “So tell me—why the dickens did you stand up in court and lie about having committed adultery?” His soft drawl made the question all the more lethally placed, like a well thrown knife.

  Portia’s jaw dropped like the shell cracking around her heart. Nobody, not even Uncle William or Aunt Viola, had ever disbelieved she’d been unfaithful to St. Arles. They’d all tactfully refused to discuss the matter, thus confirming that they thought her guilty or at least wouldn’t care if she had cuckolded her obnoxious husband.