Page 60 of The Music of Love

Portia made a frustrated growling noise as they waved to the beaming couple and rode away.

Stacy laughed.

“You are wicked, Mr. Harrington. I spent a good half hour listening to the most blood-curdling stories I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.”

His smile drained away in an instant. “Childbirth tales? I’m sorry, Portia, I did not think.”

“Oh, hush. I am only teasing. I am starving again, however. I ate three tea cakes but feel hollow. I shall be the size of a cow soon.”

He chuckled. “There is a lovely spot about half an hour ahead if you can wait?”

“Barely.” But she was very glad that she did when she saw the tiny glade in the woods Stacy found for them. “Why Mr. Harrington, if I didn’t know better I’d think you had ideas in mind.”

He lifted her from her horse, kissed her hard on the mouth, and went to untie the hamper. “I have lots of ideas, Mrs. Harrington. But you’d better eat first. What I have in mind will require energy.”

Three-quarters of an hour later, as she gasped for breath, Portia realized he hadn’t been exaggerating.

“That was divine.” She lay on her back and stared up at the cloudless sky as the last tremors of her climax rolled through her. Stacy slowly emerged from beneath her skirt, straightening her clothing as he came up alongside her.

“I believe I’ve found my new favorite way to stay out of the sun, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, collapsing by her side with a happy sigh.

“I’m a wickedly lazy wife, Stacy. I can barely keep my eyes open. How selfish of me.” A huge yawn stopped her speech.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll get what I want from you tonight. Take a nap while I pack our belongings.”

Portia was asleep before he’d even finished speaking. Stacy put the remains of their picnic into the basket and went to the edge of the clearing to enjoy one of his cigars, far enough away that the smoke would not disturb her.

He’d just taken the first puffs when he saw George Fant and another man approaching on the road that led toward Bude. He was about to step out from under the trees and greet them when their raised voices drifted toward him. It sounded like the two men were having a disagreement, so he stayed where he was. The road followed the woods where Stacy was standing and soon he could hear them clearly.

“You talk to her ladyship. I’m not here to discuss matters with the likes of you,” the stranger yelled. His accent was heavy—perhaps French or Spanish—and he was gesticulating in a wild, jerky way that made his mount jumpy.

“You’ll bloody well do as I say or you’ll get nowt,” Fant shouted in his own heavily accented voice.

The other man let out a long string of something that could only have been curse words and Stacy realized he’d heard something very similar from his wife the night he’d been shot; the man was speaking Italian. Or at least he was cursing in Italian.

“I want half now,” he demanded, breathless from his yelling.

“You’ll get paid when the woman is gone and not a second before—just as you promised. And if both of you ain’t gone by the end of—” the rest of whatever Fant said was cut off when the men disappeared around the bend.

Stacy stared at the empty road, tendrils of unease snaking through his body. What the bloody hell was that all about? It hadn’t sounded like anything good. He puffed on his cigar and considered the odd scene he’d just witnessed. First thing tomorrow he would go to Nanny’s and see if Fant had brought the man back to her cottage. If he had, it would be a perfect time to discharge the pair and move Nanny back to Whitethorn as Portia had suggested.

Portia was still sleeping when he returned to the blanket. Stacy never should have taken her on such a long ride. In fact, he would have to curtail her riding altogether, soon. It was far too dangerous for a woman in her condition. She looked so peaceful he hated to wake her but they needed to leave if they were going to make it back to Whitethorn by dinner.

It took a while for Portia to shake off her grogginess, but he was willing to wait; he didn’t want her in the saddle without all her faculties sharp.

As they left the glade Stacy recalled Fant’s foreign guest and considered asking if she’d ever met the man at Nanny’s. But he shrugged the thought away; after all, Portia would have mentioned a stranger—especially an Italian one.

Stacy escorted Portia to her room directly after dinner. “You need rest,” he said, pulling the bell for Daisy. For once, she didn’t argue.

“Come to me tonight, Stacy,” she murmured into his chest, her soft, voluptuous body pressed against his.

“You need sleep, darling.” He stroked her hair, unable to resist plucking out the pins and releasing the black, glossy coils.

“Mm. Come to me anyhow.”

He lightly massaged her temples and she purred, rubbing herself against his quickly stiffening cock in a way designed to destroy his best intentions.

“Very well, I will sleep with you. But don’t think for a minute that you will entice me into doing anything else.”