He saw by her flushed face that he had guessed correctly. “Good God! Did Stefani strike you?”
She yanked at the ribbon, which was already hopelessly knotted. Her fingers pulled so hard her knuckles were white and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Portia?” Stacy could barely hear his voice over the claxons screaming in his skull. Somebody had hit her. By God he would find whoever it was and thrash them to within an inch of their life, he’d bloody—
Stacy realized his hands were clenching with rage and his heart was thumping like a marching drum. He exhaled slowly.
Once he’d regained control of himself, he removed the mangled ribbon from her unresisting fingers. She watched without speaking as he eased the knot apart, her eyes huge in her pale face. When he’d untied the ribbon, he lifted the hat from her head. Next, he unfastened her cloak. When he went to take her reticule she clutched it to her chest, as if for safety. He let her keep it and led her to a chair.
She stared up at him, her expression oddly blank. “Are you angry I’ve come shopping?”
Stacy ignored the question and crouched down beside her, his hand on her knee. “Did he hit you?”
She frowned and her face went from afraid to ashamed to angry in the blink of an eye. “What does it matter? You would never hit me. I know that, Stacy.”
He wasn’t certain if the last part was a statement or a question and the thought left him nauseated. He took her hand in his and held it gently but firmly. “I would never strike a woman, a child, a servant, an animal, or anyone who is weaker than me—physically or otherwise.”
“I know.” She cupped his jaw with her free hand and he leaned into her palm and closed his eyes.
“To answer your question, Portia, yes, I was angry—an anger born of fear. The route you took to Plymouth was the same one I was on when I was shot. You were two women with only two young, inexperienced men to protect you.”
Stacy heard her sharp inhalation of breath and opened his eyes. He could see from her stunned expression she’d never considered the possibility of highwaymen. The anger drained from him and left him weak. He released her hand and stood, taking the chair across from her.
“I am so sorry, Stacy, I never thought.”
Her expression made him feel even worse. Now she would know the gut-wrenching worry that had eaten at him during that horrible drive from Whitethorn to Plymouth. Stacy removed his glasses and massaged his temples. He had a colossal headache. He’d gone from Barnstaple to Whitethorn at a reckless pace, eager to get home, only to find Portia had left for Plymouth that very morning. It had been too dark to leave again so he’d needed to wait until just before dawn.
He’d come on Geist, hatted, gloved, scarved, and bespectacled until nothing of him was visible. Powell was irritable and tired after the breakneck journey from Barnstaple and hauling him along had been very much like hauling a large sack of stones. Even with his reluctant valet they’d made miraculous time. He’d treated his horse abominably to do it, which had made him even angrier.
The entire time he’d flagellated himself for behaving like a mother hen. And then he’d remember, yet again, that he’d been shot twice on the same bloody road. He felt hands in his hair and opened his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She massaged his temples, unerringly compressing the very spot that was pounding.
He groaned. “Mmmm, that feels good.”
“I didn’t mean to cause you anxiety. It just seemed like a convenient time to leave as you were away.” Her hands moved to where his jaws hinged and he was in too much bliss to speak as she worked his tense muscles all the way down his neck to his shoulders. She kneaded and probed, the pressure of her fingers strong even through the layers of clothing. He was nearly asleep when her fingers stopped. He opened his eyes.
She took his hands and tried to pull him from the chair. “You’re too heavy for me to lift.”
He gave her a drowsy smile and stood. “Where are you taking me?” he asked even though he knew exactly where she was headed.
She dragged him into the adjacent bedchamber where her bag now sat beside his. She led him to the bed and shoved him hard in the chest. He fell onto the soft bedding and propped himself up on his elbows while she locked both doors and came to stand before him. She gave him a wanton smile and began plucking hairpins from her hair, one black eyebrow arched high.
“You are depraved.” He was hard and his breathing had roughened; this woman was his wife and he could have her whenever he wanted. The thought made him dizzy with joy.
She pulled the last pin from her hair and shook it loose before leaning over him and unbuttoning his coat and waistcoat, continuing south to his fall and peeling open his buckskins.
He lifted his hips. “I’m filthy, darling.”
“I like you filthy.” She slid a cool hand around his throbbing cock and stroked him with erotic efficiency. Somewhere in the back of his mind—the very back—he knew he was being manipulated away from their discussion but he didn’t care.
Portia stopped as suddenly as she’d started, leaving him hard and wanting. He opened his eyes a crack. She’d hiked her skirt and petticoat and tucked them into the front of her bodice before clambering onto the bed and straddling him. She stared at him as she guided him to her entrance, lowering herself onto him with a violence that robbed his lungs of air. Daylight streamed through the windows and it was brighter than any room they’d ever made love in. Stacy could not keep his eyes from consuming her.
Her lips parted as she rode him. “Tell me what you want, Mr. Harrington.” Her head tipped back until he could only see the long white column of her throat. She dropped a hand to where they were joined and circled the base of his shaft with strong, hot fingers while she undulated, taking him deeper with each languorous thrust.
He placed his palms beneath his head and then flexed his aching hips until he was angled for her pleasure, thrusting upward as she came down on him.
She gasped and he thrust again, harder this time.
“I want you to come with me, Portia.”
She shuddered at his words and her muscles tightened around him. And then she commenced to ride him harder than he’d ridden Geist.
“Does your head hurt?” Portia asked.
Stacy rolled onto his side and faced her, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. “Not anymore. You are a miracle headache cure. But I shan’t be bottling and selling you.” He lifted the curtain of hair that covered her face and wound it around his fist, holding her head up when she would have lowered her eyes to his chest. “We were having a conversation before you so skillfully distracted me.”
She pursed her mouth and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling with a petulant expression, as though she were preparing to be catechized on Latin conjugations.
Stacy considered his question and her angry response. Did he really have the right to pry into her last marriage? Would he appreciate similar prying into his past?
You’ve never told her about Kitty, have you . . . ?
He opened his mouth to tell her it was none of his concern but her voice stopped him.
“He struck me when we argued and he found himself on the losing side, which was frequently, I’m afraid. He pushed me down a short flight of stairs and I had my miscarriage soon afterward.” She turned on her side, as if she wanted to see his reaction to her heartbreaking revelation. “Our marriage began badly. I did not come to his bed intact.” She ran one finger slowly around his nipple.
Anger, shock, and arousal roiled in his gut and Stacy was more than a little uneasy that she would tell him such dreadful things while stroking him. But he could not find it in himself to stop her. He kept his eyes on her face while her distracting finger danced across his body.
“My first lover is the one who . . .” She stopped and gave him a shy smile. “Well, he taught me about bed sport.” She blushed wildly, which made his cock twitch. She glanced down at his half-hard shaft and smiled before continuing he
r story.
“He was uninhibited and passionate and I thought that is how all men were in bed. On my wedding night I learned differently.” She cut him a quick glance. “I was not promiscuous—I loved Benedict, my first lover, but he died and I thought my heart would break. Then I met Ivo. I was swept away by his talent, just like everyone who heard him play. He singled me out among all the girls who were trying to capture his attention. After my father died, I was lonely and Ivo’s future was so bright I was blinded by what I thought was love. He showed the same passion for me as he did his playing, at least until he made me his wife. He believed me to be a chaste virgin and did no more than kiss my hand before we wed. When he learned otherwise, on our wedding night, he never forgave me.”
A serpent wended its way from his stomach to his chest, tightening around his heart. Stacy fought no small amount of jealousy—for two dead men. The thought of Portia with another man made him want to break something or hurt someone. A reaction that was both foreign and distasteful.
“It was not a happy marriage. Ivo took lovers from the beginning and he made no effort to conceal it. He believed it was his right because I had dishonored and tricked him. There were many fights, a few instances of tempestuous rapprochement, and ever-increasing estrangement.” Her hand moved across his chest until she held the side of his waist, her fingers digging into the corded muscles hard enough to hurt. “I’ve never been this happy before, Stacy. Ever.”
Her words sucked the air from his lungs, from the room, even. He stared into her eyes as her hand slipped lower.
“I want to be with you all the time. I want you on top of me, around me, inside me.” She rolled onto her back and spread her thighs for him, opening like a butterfly.
Stacy knelt between her open legs and slid into her eager, welcoming body. She was heaven to him and she became more important every day. He thought of his child growing inside her body and plunged into her harder, deeper, faster. She shuddered beneath him again and again and again. And still he rode her, like a man pursued by demons. Like a man who was desperately trying to outrun the nagging fear that nothing this good could ever last.
The Plymouth trip taught Portia two things. First, she was in love with Stacy. Second, she would do anything to protect their marriage.
The first realization left her both joyous and terrified. He was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her and she refused to lose him. She knew he cared for her and might even come to love her if they had enough time. But that could only happen if Ivo was out of their lives forever.
After the Plymouth trip Stacy was more adamant than ever that Daisy accompany Portia wherever she went. The only time she could get away was at night and there were precious few nights left to get the money to Ivo before he came looking for it.
Two days after they returned from Plymouth she feigned a headache. Portia hated to rouse Stacy’s concern but it was the only way she could think of to be alone. She waited until after dinner, when they were both sitting in the library reading.
She put her book down on the table beside her and reached up to massage her temples. “I am developing something of a headache.”
He took off his spectacles. “I know a woman who has a cure for that very thing.” His suggestive half-smile caused a pulsing between her thighs.
God, how she loved everything about him.
The realization crushed her like a brutal, relentless fist and the pained smile Portia gave him was not contrived. “I’m afraid even that cure won’t work tonight. I’ve had this type of headache in the past. The only relief comes from quiet, darkness, and rest.”
His smile disappeared, replaced by concern. “Is there nothing you can take for it?”
“I’ve never found any draughts helpful and I don’t care for laudanum.”
He took her hands in his and lifted them to his mouth, his beautiful eyes worried.
“You needn’t look so troubled; it is not a serious malady. I shall be right as rain in the morning, I promise.”
Yes. Tomorrow everything would be better; it had to be.
Shortly after two o’clock Portia donned a dark brown gown, heavy cloak, and black gloves before wrapping a dark scarf around her head. She took the pouch of money and jewels from where she’d hidden them inside an old pillowcase and put a candle and flint into the bag. She was tempted to see if Stacy was sleeping but didn’t want to risk waking him. The house was as quiet as a tomb when she opened the door to the hall.
First, she would take Ivo his money. If she ran out of time she could always return the jewels to the safe tomorrow night. Portia left the bag of jewelry just inside the sunroom door and took only the money and candleholder with her.
When she could no longer see the house, she lit the candle. It cast abundant light for the path and she could only hope it would be sufficient to find the place where she would need to cut into the woods.
It turned out she needn’t have worried. The trail from the path toward the old cottage looked as if a herd of cattle had been trampling it. She cursed Ivo’s stupidity under her breath. He might as well have erected a sign with an arrow. People were bound to notice such a well-trod pathway if they hadn’t already. Portia picked her way through the woods, resisting the urge to hurry. She could just imagine the fix she’d be in if she twisted her ankle.
She was almost to the cottage when something touched her shoulder. She shrieked, jumped, and flung the candleholder.
“Sh, cara, it’s only me.” A small flare of light illuminated the darkness as he lighted his own candle.
“Stupido! Why would you sneak up behind me in such a manner?” Portia dropped to her knees and groped in the weeds for her candle and holder. She found both and stood, stepping back when she realized how close he’d come.
“I knew you would come tonight. I could sense it.” His voice was caressing and smug and Portia wanted to slap him.
“I’ve brought your money.”
He crouched to dribble wax on a rotting log and fix the candle stub in it. When he stood, the light was far dimmer but she caught a flash of teeth as he stepped closer. “I’ve learned a lot about you while I’ve been living in my little hovel.”
Portia refused to think about what he’d learned or who he’d learned it from. “When are you leaving?”
“So hasty!”
Portia dearly wished she had something to hit him with.
He chuckled. “As soon as I receive the money, I will pack my few possessions and be gone.”
“You will leave tomorrow?”
There was a pause and then, “I will leave tomorrow.”
His finger grazed her cheek and she jumped, swatting at his hand. “Stop it.”
Again he laughed.
“I did not come here to play foolish games with you. This is the only money you shall ever get from me—I give you my word on that.”
“Calm yourself, cara. You can trust me. I will take my money and be gone from your life forever.”
“How will you leave the woods without drawing notice? You have no horse.” She paused. “How did you get here to begin with?” She raised her hand palm out. “Never mind, I do not wish to know.”
He reached for her hand, touching her lightly before she could snatch it away. “Do not vex yourself, my dove. I shall be gone with nobody the wiser.” He could not hide the thread of weariness beneath his soothing tone. His life in the woods would not have been pleasant. She took the leather bag from her voluminous cloak pocket and shoved it at him. “It’s all there. You must take notes as anything else would have been prohibitively heavy.”
“Oh, banknotes shall do very well indeed, mia bella.” He paused. “I think—” he stopped and she squinted through the gloom at his face; his full lips were strangely flat.
“You think what, Ivo?” she asked, not bothering to hide her own weariness. Weary of him, weary of this deception, weary of lying to her husband.
He shook his head. “It is nothing, cara. I was only going to
caution you to take care of yourself. People are not always who you think they are and you’ve always been far too trusting. Watch out for those who would take advantage of you.”
Portia snorted. “People like you?” She turned away before he could answer and pushed a foot ahead of her before fishing around in her cloak pocket for the flint. “I never want to see you again, Ivo,” she called over her shoulder.
The only answer was the rustle of trees. Portia sighed and took a moment to light her candle before picking her way through the woods. When she got to the path she ran until she was breathless. She extinguished the flame before she reached the edge of the trees and slowed her pace. Now there was only the jewelry to replace and her nightmare would be over.
Stacy reached out for Portia and found the bed beside him empty. He sighed and turned onto his back, blinking into the darkness. It was difficult to sleep without her. He threw back the blankets, pulled on his robe, and went toward the connecting door to check on her—but not disturb her. He opened the door and squinted into the darkness. The covers had been thrown back and Portia was not in her bed.
Perhaps she had gone to the kitchen for something to eat, not wishing to disturb the servants. She’d barely eaten anything for dinner. He would go find her and they could have a late-night feast—he smiled, his body stirring—and perhaps some dessert after.
He pulled open the drapes, preferring to get dressed by starlight rather than light a candle. He was about to turn away from the window when a flicker of light caught his attention: somebody was coming from the woods. Stacy leaned closer to the glass and squinted; he knew who it was even before he saw her face.
What the devil was she doing? He stared without breathing, as if the sound might frighten her. As she got closer, he saw she was moving at a brisk pace, her head down. She went around the corner of the house and he lost sight of her. She must be heading toward the sunroom, an entrance she favored.
Stacy snatched up his robe, but donned no slippers, moving silently on bare feet. He reached the bottom of the stairs just in time to see her walk past the music room and open the library door, not bothering to close it behind her. He went toward the library, fully intending to let her know he was there without frightening the wits out of her. But when he looked inside, he saw she’d gone directly to the painting that hid the wall safe. He paused and something sour twisted in his stomach as he watched her stealthy movements.
The Music of Love Page 20
