Page 68 of The Music of Love

Her head pounded from the blow, the vicious shaking, and her own rage. They locked eyes, the air around them thick with violence and a fine, cool mist as the rain struck the feeble roof above them with increasing frequency and force.

He squeezed her shoulders until they ached. “Do what I tell you or pay the price.”

Portia’s stomach churned and her anger slowly drained away until she felt cold and dead inside. “What will it take to make you go away and never, ever come back?”

He grinned and the avarice in his eyes sickened her. “I believe two thousand pounds would set me up quite nicely. Perhaps I will go back home and buy a small villa. Two decades of turmoil has played havoc with the value of land and has created many new opportunities.”

“Two thousand pounds?” Just saying the amount made her dizzy. “Are you mad, Ivo? Where do you expect me to get that?”

The smile slid from his face. “Use that whore’s body, Portia, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

The rain pounded overhead and the spray soaked them. Portia didn’t know how long they’d sat locked in silent argument when a voice floated toward them from the direction of the path.

“Stefani!”

Ivo leapt to his feet and grabbed her arm, yanking her up. “You must get out of here. I cannot be seen talking to you. Go!” He shoved her so hard she stumbled, landing on her knees beside the broken stone wall.

“What is wrong with you?” She shot him a look of pure hatred as she struggled to her feet.

“Go!” he hissed, murder in his eyes.

“With the greatest of pleasure.” She began picking her way over a pile of rubble and heading toward the corner of the cottage.

Ivo grabbed her arm and almost yanked it from the socket. “Not that way, stupida, you will walk right into him! There is a road in that direction.” He gestured vaguely toward the other side of the woods. “You will return to me with the money in a week or—”

“Ten days,” she grated out. “I cannot possibly do it in less.” It was unlikely she could get so much money even in ten years. But she needed as much time to think as she could get.

He let out a string of curse words. “Ten days, no more.” He shoved her and she almost fell again.

Portia knew the road in question but had never crossed through the woods to get to it. She glanced back and saw Ivo glaring.

“Go.” he mouthed.

Beyond him the underbrush rustled as somebody approached the derelict cottage. Portia was tempted to wait and see who it was just to interfere with whatever Ivo had planned. They stood, eyes locked, and his expression turned from ugly to terrified. What was he afraid of?

Portia decided she did not want to know. She turned and ran.

She staggered blindly through the rain for perhaps a quarter of an hour before she accepted that she was lost. The sky was almost black and it was impossible to tell direction by the position of the sun. For all Portia knew she could have gone in a circle and would soon come back to Ivo and whoever it was he was meeting.

The rain began to fall in solid sheets and thunder sounded somewhere in the distance. She pulled up the collar on her drenched cloak and picked a direction. By the time she found the enormous tree she was stumbling more than walking. It was an ancient monster with a large hollow at its base. The depression was filled with weeds and bracken but it was big enough that she could wedge her body out of the rain. Portia was so tired and wet she no longer cared about rain, insects, Ivo, or anything except closing her eyes. The next time she opened them it had been to find herself cradled in Stacy’s arms.

Portia wanted to cry as she looked at her husband asleep in the chair beside her bed. He’d stayed close in case she had need of him. She’d been groggy but she recalled the sick worry she’d heard in his voice as he held her. She’d also heard affection and perhaps even love, or at least the beginnings of that emotion.

Tears were sliding down her cheeks and she was clenching her jaw so tightly her head throbbed. This was a mess, a terrible mess. There was only one way out of it: she would find the money, no matter what she had to do to get it.

For a man who’d refused to stay in his own sickbed after he’d been shot twice Stacy had no sympathy for Portia’s desire to get out of bed. He bullied and browbeat her for three full days before he allowed her to leave her bedroom. Not only that, but he refused to make love to her the entire time.

“I will sleep in your bed, Portia, but that is all we will do. The doctor says you are suffering from extreme exhaustion. You’ve refused his recommended treatment so now you must submit to mine.” The stern expression on his face when he issued his orders made her ache for him.

Of course everything her husband did made her ache for him.

“Are you listening to me, Portia?” His cool, clipped words interrupted the fantasy that had begun to develop in her mind—yet another fantasy of Stacy without any clothing.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, Stacy. I am listening.”

He was wearing his dratted glasses, hiding his thoughts from her along with his beautiful eyes. She was positive he did that to torment her.

His mouth twitched, as though he could read her thoughts. But his humor was short lived. “You will stay in your bed, eat at least three meals per day, and get a full night’s sleep for three days. At the end of that time I shall reevaluate your condition and decide accordingly.”