Page 66 of The Music of Love

Her eyes closed and she sagged against him. “Thank you, Stacy. Thank you. You will not regret it. I’ll be good—I promise.”

Stacy turned to the doctor. “No bleeding, doctor.”

“It is the accepted treatment in such cases, Mr. Harrington.”

Stacy knew it was and he hoped to God he was doing the right thing—for Portia and their child. “Come again in the morning. If she is not better, we can discuss the matter then.”

“This isn’t wise,” Frances said. “I’m afraid you will regret indulging her. Please—”

Stacy ignored her. “I shall see you in the morning,” he said to the doctor.

Gates’s expression said he believed Stacy to be another idiotic new husband, but he shrugged and put his implements back in his bag.

“See the doctor out, Frances.” Stacy wanted to be alone with his wife. He waited for his sister to move from the bed so he could sit beside Portia. When the door shut he took her hand.

“You’ve made me a promise and you may start obeying me now,” he scolded quietly. “You will rest, do you hear me? You will only leave this bed when I say you may.”

She gave him a tremulous smile that squeezed his heart. “I will stay in bed as long as you say. Thank you so much. Thank you, Stacy.” Her eyes fluttered closed before she’d even finished speaking.

Stacy waited until she was breathing evenly before releasing her hand and pulling up her blankets. The door open and Daisy entered. “Mr. Soames sent me up to sit with Mrs. Harrington if you want to get ready for dinner.”

Stacy blinked: dinner?

The girl gave him a gentle smile. “Viscount Pendleton is still here, Mr. Harrington.”

Blast! Stacy had completely forgotten he had a peer of the realm in his house.

He gave an abrupt nod. “If she wakes, send for me.”

“Aye, sir.”

Stacy opened the connecting door to his room and found Powell waiting with hot water.

He submitted to his valet’s ministrations in a trance. And when he was clean, shaved, and dressed he went downstairs to dine with his brother and sister.

Portia ran through a forest that went on forever. Thorns and limbs tore at her skirt and wicked, grasping branches scratched her face. Everywhere fallen trees, rotting logs, and hidden stumps tried to stop her. She tripped, stumbled, and pitched headlong into a bottomless tangle of brambles. The footsteps behind her got louder and louder and she burrowed into the tearing, gouging thorns to hide. The briars turned into hundreds of hands, pulling and grasping.

Portia! Portia come back, you can’t hide from me!

Portia tried to scream but no sound came out. She struggled against the iron grip that held her, kicking and thrashing until she tore free and her eyes flew open. She gasped for breath and her eyes slowly focused.

She wasn’t in the woods but back in her very own bed. She felt the bed next to her and found it empty. Where was Stacy? She sat up and squinted through the gloom; he was sitting in the over-stuffed chair beside the bed, the dull glow of the fire bathing him with warm, red light. His head rested against the chair back, his eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply. He was still wearing his evening clothes but had unbuttoned his coat and removed his cravat. His shirt was loose and open, exposing the white, muscular column of his throat; he looked like an angel at rest.

She squinted at her bedside clock; it was three twenty-two in the morning—the witching hour and the loneliest time of the night. Yet she was not alone; he must have fallen asleep watching her. He looked delicious and she wanted him—needed his quiet strength and his powerful, sheltering body. She opened her mouth to wake him when it all came crashing down on her.

Ivo. He was back.

Chapter Nineteen

It had been Ivo who’d been camping in the old falling-down cottage. Ivo, who was very much alive. Ivo who had come back for her.

Portia screamed when she saw his face and he’d grabbed her with rough, cold hands, clamping the bent fingers of his damaged hand over her mouth.

“Sh, mia cara!” He was not much bigger than Portia, but he was wiry and strong and held her in an unbreakable grasp while uttering a string of placating endearments in Italian—not something he’d done for many years. When he felt the struggle go out of her body he loosened his grip. “I’ll remove my hand from your mouth if you will promise not to scream.”

Portia nodded and he took away his hand, still keeping an iron grip on her wrist. She stared, shocked by how haggard and gaunt he looked.

“The ship you were on—it went down with you and your w-wife on it—I read it in the paper.” Portia spoke Italian, the only language adequate to express her anger, loathing, and shock.