Page 97 of The Music of Love

And then four hundred years of wood, stone, and metal crashed against unforgiving marble. Plaster, dust, and pulverized wood rose from the floor like a filthy snowstorm. A resilient newel post hit the ground, bounced high into the air, and struck the wall less than a foot from her head, sending chips of plaster flying. Portia and Frances screamed and wrapped their arms around their heads as debris ricocheted around them like artillery.

The room became silent almost as suddenly as it had exploded and Portia forced her eyes open; a thick cloud of fine powder obscured the room, clinging to her eyelashes and plugging her nostrils. She clamped a hand over her mouth and fanned her face with the other, as if that might dissipate the haze.

“Portia? Frances?”

It was Stacy’s voice, or at least Portia thought it was. Her head was ringing so loudly it was a miracle she could hear anything.

“We’re over here,” Frances called in a raw voice.

“Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”

It seemed like a year but was probably closer to a minute before the dust in front of her shifted to reveal a pale and beloved face.

He dropped down beside her and Portia broke, sobbing out his name. “Stacy!”

His arms went around her so tightly he squeezed a squeak out of her. They were still holding each other when the men Rowena went to fetch arrived and began opening doors and windows to clear out the choking dust.

Other than some bruises and shaking so badly she could barely stand, Portia appeared unharmed.

Stacy molded her trembling body to his and stroked her hair. “Shhh, sweetheart, everything will be all right. I’ve got you.”

“Frances,” Portia began, desperate to tell her husband how his sister had saved their child’s life.

“I’m here, Portia.”

Portia broke away from Stacy just enough to grab Frances’s shoulder and pull her toward her brother. And then the three of them collapsed into a shaking huddle while she sobbed, this time with relief.

That night Portia decided to eat dinner in her bedroom, not that Stacy would have allowed anything else. And Robert, who was almost as bad as his brother, insisted on calling the local doctor to check on Portia.

“You are doing remarkably well, Mrs. Harrington, as is your baby. But rest can never hurt, especially for a woman in your condition.”

“How long should she stay in bed?” Stacy’s arms were crossed over his chest.

The doctor looked from Stacy to Portia and frowned, uncertain which of them to please.

“She is physically unharmed and very healthy. So, unless she shows any sign of shock, I think she will be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

Portia could see her husband did not care for that advice. “I still want you to call again tomorrow.”

“But Stacy—” She couldn’t see his eyes, but his jaw tightened and his expression was pitiless. Portia closed her mouth with a snap.

“I think that is an excellent idea,” the doctor agreed nervously.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Stacy escorted him to the door and shut it behind him. When he turned, he shook his head.

“Bloody hell, Portia.”

Portia raised her eyebrows at his language, which was usually gentlemanly and proper—unless they were in bed. Stacy raked his hands through his disheveled hair, the motion dislodging a cloud of dust. He pulled off his dirty spectacles and tossed them onto her nightstand before grasping her shoulders, looming over her, his expression wild. “Are you trying to put me in the madhouse?”

Portia gaped in amazement. “Surely you don’t think I destroyed your family’s minstrel’s gallery on purpose?”

He laughed weakly. “No, but I’m beginning to believe you are cursed, Mrs. Harrington.”

“You aren’t the only one,” she retorted, and then looked into his agonized eyes and relented. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed his dusty palm before placing it against her cheek and leaning into his warm strength. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in his touch. “Maybe I should stay in bed until the baby is born. You could stay with me and make certain I avoided dangerous situations.”

“But then you would be in danger of physical exhaustion.” He leaned down to kiss her soundly. “One of us should make an appearance at dinner and I suppose it shall have to be me. I’d better go and begin the bathing process. I daresay it will take half a dozen tubs before I’m clean.” He slapped his buckskins and made a gray cloud. “Daisy is seeing to your dinner and will sit with you; try not to do anything dangerous.”

“Ha!” Portia threw a pillow at him as he walked toward the connecting doors. After he’d gone she sighed sleepily. She doubted she’d stay awake until her dinner tray arrived.