Page 73 of The Music of Love

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?