Chapter Eight

Portia was in too much of a hurry to bother with stays or stockings so she slipped on the day dress she'd been wearing earlier. She could wear her cloak; nobody would ever guess her shocking state of undress beneath it. Once she was dressed, she scraped back her hair, pulling it into a severe knot to give herself courage.

"Courage!" She snorted at her reflection, disgusted by the sparkle in her eyes. "You are a fool, Portia Stefani."

So I'm a fool. What else is new?

Portia flew down the stairs and down the hall toward the side door before realizing a little decorum would not be amiss. She bit back a laugh. Decorum? While watching horses mate?

When she saw her employer standing outside the stables talking to a stranger she balked; just how many people were going to witness this spectacle?

He turned to her and his pale eyebrows rose above his dark spectacles, as if he was surprised to see her. The man he was talking to glanced at Portia, his weathered face registering no surprise at seeing a female. So, perhaps this wasn't such an uncommon occurrence.

"This is Felix Thompson, Signora. He's come to manage Geist and Snezana."

"A pleasure, ma'am." Felix Thompson tugged his forelock. "I'll get to it, sir." He turned and disappeared into the stables.

Portia looked up at her employer. There was a tantalizing curve to his lips and he held out his arm, just as if he were leading her into dinner.

"Shall we?"

Portia laid her fingers on the sleeve of his coat and he led her past a goodly number of stalls to a small area where several men waited with two horses, one a chestnut and one a magnificent white horse who looked remarkably like Geist, but with more delicate bone structure. The animals had their heads together, as if they were having a private discussion.

Hawkins turned at the sound of their approach and grinned, lifting his hat.

"Why good evenin' ma'am. Beautiful night for it, 'tisn't it?" He was an earthy countryman who clearly saw nothing amiss with Portia's presence.

Hawkins turned to their employer. "Lancelot has calmed her down and she's ready to go, sir. Once he's done I thought I'd take him to where Thompson's man is waitin' with the mare."

Stacy nodded. "Very well, you can bring Geist in whenever you are ready."

Hawkins left two men holding and soothing the beautiful white mare.

"Why does she have a blanket on her back and those hoof coverings?" Portia asked, pleased her voice was steady.

"The blanket is to protect her when Geist covers her and the hoof coverings are to protect both of them. This is the first time for the horses and they will likely be skittish; hooves could do a great deal of damage."

"Who is Lancelot?" Portia asked as they leaned against the wooden railing. When she looked down she realized how close they were, close enough that she caught a faint whiff of his cologne. She inhaled the citrusy, clean scent and stared up at the black disks, as desperate as ever to see his eyes up close.

"Lancelot is a teaser stallion." His dark spectacles lent a menacing look to his face in the dimness of the barn.

"Teaser?"

"A stallion used to test a mare for receptiveness to breed. If the mare requires courtship, the teaser is used only until she proves ready. The breeding stallion is brought in at the last moment to do the actual covering."

By the time he was finished Portia could feel every nerve ending in her body. He, on the other hand, looked as cool as ever.

"That seems rather, er, c-cruel. Um, to Lancelot, that is." Her face was flaming, but she still couldn't keep her mouth shut.

He grinned—actually grinned at her. "Never fear. Thompson brought one of his mares with him so Lancelot will have his own job to do."

Thankfully Hawkins led in the magnificent stallion just then and Portia clamped her jaws shut. She would ask no more questions, perhaps for the rest of her life.

Geist reared when he saw Snezana, but the man holding his halter brought him back down, where he immediately began pawing the wooden floor to splinters, his dark eyes riveted on the beautiful mare.

Snezana's tail had been wrapped in a long cloth and one man's job seemed to be holding the end. Both horses were restless, pacing and side-stepping and keeping a total of six handlers busy. Even to an uninitiated person such as herself it was clear to see the mare was receptive when she squatted and backed up as they brought the stud closer.

What happened next was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

Portia had grown up in Rome, a city notorious for stray dogs, so she'd seen plenty of animals mating. But those had been dogs, while these were massive animals and the power expended in the process was impressive. Even with the men restraining him, Geist mounted the mare with alarming vigor. He heaved his enormous body off his forelegs and dropped heavily onto the mare's back. The reason for Snezana's wrapped tail was immediately evident as the man carefully but firmly held it to the side, out of the stallion's way.

The room filled with whinnying and snorting as Geist clamped his powerful jaws on the blanket and began to thrust. Portia found it difficult to breathe evenly and thought she might melt into a puddle on the barn floor as Geist violently thrust into the snow-white mare, the muscles in the stallion's hindquarters bunching and flexing.

Although the excruciatingly embarrassing encounter seemed to last a year, Portia doubted it was more than a minute before Snezana abruptly twisted her body and dislodged the stallion.

Geist shook his head and sent his white mane flying as two men led him to the opposite end of the room, where Hawkins carefully examined him from head to tail.

Meanwhile, Felix Thompson did something with the mare's hindquarters, which Portia—thankfully—couldn't see before turning toward Mr. Harrington.

"That took well, sir. Excellent for his first time."

What about Snezana? Portia wanted to ask, but wisely did not.

"You'll be back tomorrow, Felix?"

"Aye, sir. I'll come earlier. I'm sorry 'bout bein' so late this evenin' but—"

"I think you had good reason to be late. Good night, Felix."

The older man pulled his forelock and left.

Hawkins turned from the mare, which he'd also checked for injuries. "Everyone is as fit as a fiddle. I'll have the lads give them both a good rub and some extra feed."

"Very good, Hawkins."

The older man left and Portia swiftly dropped her eyes and stared at Eustace Harrington's glossy black boots as he turned to her.

"The reason we started so late was because Felix's daughter just delivered her first child—a son. Felix stayed to make sure she and the child were well before coming tonight. Rather appropriate for a man in his business, wouldn't you say?"

Portia could hear the smile in his voice, even without looking at him. Which she seemed incapable of doing.

"Signora Stefani?"

"Yes?" She did not look up.

"Is aught amiss, Signora?"

She swallowed and forced her head up. His face was expressionless but his nostrils were slightly flared, as if he were suppressing something, probably laughter.

"So, what did you think of Geist and Snezana's first attempt?" Yes, he was most certainly suppressing laughter.

"That was—" Portia stopped. Really, what could she say that wouldn't sound idiotic?

A slow, delicious smile spread across his face. "Yes, it was."

The smile transfixed her more than if he'd produced a pistol. Portia vaguely heard the distant sound of male voices. The men had taken two lanterns but left one behind. There was just enough light that she could see the fine-grained texture of his skin and the pale glints of his night beard. Why did it surprise her that he had facial hair? He was a man, after all. Very much a man. Too much a man.

He cocked his head. "Are you trying to look at my eyes, Signora Stefani?" Before she could answer he lifted one gloved hand to the delicate frames, removed the spectacles, and carefully folded them, his lashes fanning across his cheeks like icicles on fresh snow as he slipped the glasses into a pocket. And then he looked up.

Portia was too awed to be ashamed of the sound that escaped her; his eyes weren't red, but a translucent violet surrounded by thickets of white lashes that seemed to weigh down heavy lids.

"Glorious," she breathed.

His eyes opened wider, as if she'd said something he hadn't expected. "Signora Stefani?"

"Yes, Mr. Harrington?" Her voice was at least two octaves lower than usual.

"I'm going to kiss you."

"Yes," she said, although he hadn't asked a question.

His kid-sheathed hands were cool and smooth on the thin skin of her jaws. He held her face firmly, his eyes heavy and hot as his mouth crushed hers.

Portia shuddered at the touch of his lips: he wasn't cold like marble—he was hot. So very hot that he felt like fire. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him lower, slanting her mouth to take him deeper. Their tongues met and tangled as they probed and tasted, starved for each other like beggars at a banquet.

The voice of reason, so faint she could barely hear it, counseled her to remove her tongue and body from her employer's person and return to her bedchambers with all haste.

It warned of dreadful consequences.

It chastised and pleaded.

And, finally it threatened.

Ultimately, however, the voice of reason buckled beneath the sheer weight of desire and Portia celebrated her body's victory over her mind by rubbing herself along the long, hard length of the man she'd been unable to stop thinking about for weeks.

His hands slid down her sides until they spanned her waist and a low chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Oh, Signora Stefani—no stays." He plunged into her mouth with renewed vigor, as if to consume her. He tasted of port and smoke and heat and she couldn't take him deeply enough. She stood on tiptoes and twisted her fingers into thick white hair, drawing him closer, wrapping her lips around his tongue and sucking him in a vulgar, suggestive fashion.

He groaned and his hands moved lower, his strong fingers digging into her ample bottom and yanking her close. He thrust his powerful hips, grinding his long, hard erection against her soft belly.

The sinuous, rhythmic stroking snapped something inside her and the last remnants of reason dissipated like smoke.

***

A bolt of heat shot from his groin as she not only absorbed his thrusts but rubbed herself against him. Stacy spread his hands over her generous buttocks and thrust against her, chafing the sensitive skin of his hard cock against his leather breeches.

Logic, self-control, decency, and hundreds of other, more nuanced parts of his mind burned away piece by piece, leaving only a fierce, fevered hunger to be inside her.

So much for avoiding her. So much for keeping your relationship strictly business.

The chiding voice was barely a whisper and he shoved it into the corner of his mind.

Instead of backing away and behaving, he lifted her, propping her voluptuous bottom on the middle railing of the fence and nudging her legs apart with his knee. She spread her thighs wide and yanked up her skirts with one hand. The eager motion made him throb so hard it hurt. He ripped off his gloves, flung them to the ground, and reached for his placket.

But her hand was there before his and she tore at the buttons, sending at least one of them bouncing into the darkness.

A choked laugh broke from his throat.

Rather than be offended, she gave an odd, breathy laugh. "I'm sorry," she gasped, but did not stop, her small, hot hand pushing into his breeches. His hips jerked almost out of their sockets as her tight fist moved down his shaft.

"Great. Bloody. Hell." Stacy didn't realize he'd cursed aloud until she gave a low chuckle. And then her deliciously callused thumb swirled over his leaking slit, using the copious moisture to slick his hard length.

She began to work him with firm, confident strokes and all rational thoughts fled. He shoved her thighs wider and ran his hands up smooth, shapely legs unencumbered by stockings, garters, or drawers. He was about to kneel and give thanks—and do something else while he was down there—but she had other plans.

Her strong hand guided his eager member toward her sex, tilting her hips to take him. "Now." It wasn't a request; it was an order.

A savage pulse of desire wracked his body at the single word and he struggled to hold onto a slim thread of control. He would not spill inside her after one stroke like an overeager boy; he'd been dreaming about her for weeks.

He reached between her thighs and grazed a finger over the hot, damp curls that hid her pearl. She bucked against him and cried out as he began to circle her stiff little nub.

"Please, I want—" Her voice was raw with desire as she pumped his primed cock while rubbing her entrance with the sensitive crown, making it clear what she wanted.

"Slowly," he murmured through gritted teeth, his finger still teasing while she rocked against him, harder and harder, until he breached her. "Slowly."

But she had other plans.

Her legs wrapped around his hips and flexed hard, pulling him deep inside her body in one long slide. They both moaned as she clenched around him, wet and tight. Stacy teetered on the brink of control; his crazed, frantic brain was only lucid enough to hold onto one thought: he would not spend until he'd pleasured her—even if it killed him. And he feared it might.

He withdrew slowly, his body trembling with the effort of controlling his thrusts, and then stroked just as slowly back in. This time he held her still and full, sheathing himself to the hilt and reveling in her tight heat.

She squirmed against him. "Stacy."

He smiled at the sound of his name and the way it sounded like a plea.

He lowered his mouth over her throat and flexed his jaws until his teeth marked and held her, sliding his aching cock out of her body with agonizing slowness. She moaned and he covered her throat with kisses and nips while he worked her with deep, vigorous thrusts. The pleasure was overwhelming and he barreled toward the edge far too quickly so he pulled away and stared down to where they were joined.

Good God it was a beautiful sight.

"Look at us," he said in a voice that sounded as if he'd been gargling glass.

They watched in silence as he penetrated her, his stomach clenching at the sight of his shaft disappearing into her body, until all they could see was the stark combination of white skin and curly black hair.

When he pulled out she made an unspeakably erotic sound deep in her throat, grabbed a handful of his hair, and yanked his head up.

Her eyes bored into his, black with need. "Fuck me, Stacy."

His jaw dropped. Had she really said what he thought she said?

"Now," she growled.

Stacy obeyed without thinking and slammed into her hard.

"Yes." The word was a satisfied hiss and her eyelids fluttered closed.

He used her with such unrestrained savagery that some part of him worried he was bruising her. But she met him thrust for violent thrust, her body as hungry as his own. Her climax built quickly and he redoubled his efforts, his hips pounding into her faster, deeper. His vision wavered and he began to come apart inside.

Not yet, not yet, not yet . . .

She made a guttural sound and stiffened for an impossibly long moment before convulsing around him, biting his shoulder hard enough to make him wince, screaming her passion into his coat.

Her shuddering body freed him from his tattered restraint and he thrust home and froze, holding her impaled while he emptied himself deep inside her. Pleasure swamped him, eddying and spiraling from the place where they were joined, rippling out to flood the rest of his body.

But all too soon came a bone-deep lassitude that rendered him almost legless and he staggered, holding her against the railing. The sound of men's voices somewhere in the distance yanked him out of his languor quicker than a bucket of ice-cold water down his back and his eyes flew open. Good God! They were in the bloody stables—with people all around them.

She must have come to the same realization because her body stiffened, and it had nothing to do with sexual pleasure. Neither did her next words.

"Oh no." The words were barely a whisper but they chilled him to his core.

Stacy gritted his teeth and pulled out of her before lowering her to the ground. She swayed against him, her forehead on his chest.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Did I hurt you?" His throat was so tight it was a chore to force the words out.

"No. No, I'm not hurt."

Stacy turned away as memories of the last few moments flickered through his brain with shocking clarity. He'd treated her like a whore—worse. He couldn't recall ever using a woman so hard. Of course never in all his years had a woman used the word fuck in his presence—not that the curse excused his brutality. He swallowed hard, his cock twinging at the memory of her vulgar command.

The next few moments were every bit as excruciating as one would expect after one had intimate relations with a virtual stranger in a horse barn. They busied themselves tucking and straightening. Once he'd reassembled his clothing as best he could, he put on his glasses and turned to her.

She was waiting for him.

"Signora—"

She held up a hand, her eyes no longer hot, but severe. "Please, don't apologize. There were two of us, and I'm no blushing maiden." Yet she blushed all the same. "This was a mistake." Her mouth twisted miserably as her eyes swept the room, landing everywhere except his face. "Just because I'm a woman does not mean I'm not equally responsible." She gave a small, bitter laugh. "You didn't, after all, despoil an innocent virgin." She bit her lower lip and met his eyes. "What I wish to know is whether it will be possible for me to continue working here after . . . this."

Any remaining warmth that had lingered inside him fled at her words. He'd violated a woman in his employ—a person whose very livelihood depended on him—the very thing he'd sworn not to do, and now she feared for her position and future.

"This will change nothing between us, Signora Stefani." He spoke the foolish words with a cool assurance he was far from feeling. How could things not change? He'd been inside her, for God's sake, and he bloody well wanted to be there again, right now, in fact.

Everything had changed.

Everything.

He realized she was still looking up at him, as if waiting for something more—but what?

Reassure her, you dolt.

"I'm certain we can continue to work with each other, ma'am."

Her eyes were veiled, but she nodded, as if his cold, stilted words were satisfactory.

He held out his arm. "Come, I'll take you back to the house." She laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve but did not say a word.

What had he done?

***

What had she done?

Portia ran up the steps after her employer left her in the entry hall. When she reached her room she threw herself onto her bed and took her head in both hands, tugging on it as though she could yank it off and exchange it for another—one that was not so horribly bent on destroying her. She'd all but crawled into the poor man's breeches—after tearing them off his body.

Ivo had been correct; she was no better than a rutting bitch.

Fuck me, Stacy.

Portia groaned at the horrid memory and wished she could hide in a crack in the earth and never come out again. How could she? Had she forgotten so quickly how her vulgar language and behavior had horrified and disgusted the last man she'd bedded? Would she never learn?

She'd been a na?ve and foolish girl of seventeen the first time she'd used such language with Ivo. It had been her wedding night and Portia had not gone to his bed a virgin. If that hadn't been bad enough, she'd used the words her first lover had taught her; doing and saying things no virtuous Catholic girl should have known. Things Benedict had taught her.

Portia fell in love with Benedict Carruthers, one of her father's students, when she was fifteen. He'd been only three years older than Portia but decades older in sin. The youngest son of an English earl, he'd bedded his first woman at thirteen. Blond, blue eyed, and smooth-cheeked, Benedict had looked like an angel but he'd been the devil himself, especially in bed.

It had been Benedict who'd taught Portia dirty English words and then encouraged her to use them liberally when they made love—a habit that was obviously impossible to break. Benedict had been demanding and wicked, but also generous and kind in his own way.

"Never hide your sensual nature," he'd told her not long before he was killed. "Passion is something to be proud of, even though men try to shame women for taking pleasure from their bodies."

Benedict had been English, but he'd had a temper to match any Italian man. His temper had ultimately been his undoing and he'd died in a knife fight a week before Portia's sixteenth birthday: stabbed through the heart with a stiletto and left to bleed to death in an alley.

Portia had been devastated, convinced she would never love again. But then Ivo—a handsome, gifted genius—came to study under her father several months later. Now that she was older Portia knew what she'd felt for Ivo had been hero worship; his talent had blinded her. And then her father had died of a heart attack and she'd been terrified of what the future held. Ivo had been her salvation. Or so she'd believed.

Their marriage was a disaster from the very first night. He never forgave her for not being a virgin and he deplored her sensual nature.

The most recent example of her deplorable sensual nature echoed in her head: Fuck me, Stacy.

Portia groaned, pressing a pillow tightly over her face, as if that could block out the memory of what she'd said and done. The cool, aloof fa?ade she'd cultivated so carefully destroyed in a moment. Well, several glorious moments, actually.

How would she be able to work with him after this?