Chapter Eighteen

It was dark when they finally found her.

She'd burrowed into the hollow of a big tree not far from the road to Bude—nowhere near the trail to Nanny's.

Surprisingly, it was Pendleton who saw her. Their lanterns barely cut the dark, not to mention the torrential rain. The storm broke for half an hour near dusk and then returned with a vengeance. They'd looked for two hours when Pendleton spotted the edge of her cloak, a miracle really, as the garment was rain-darkened and brown. She was unconscious and shivering and Stacy held her in his lap, swaddled in his greatcoat while Pendleton went back to fetch the carriage. He wiped water from her face with his handkerchief. Her lips moved but Stacy couldn't hear what she said. He held her close, keeping her warm with his body and murmuring in her ear.

"Say something if you can hear me, Portia."

She remained silent and he leaned back to look at her face. She was pale and her skin was so cold.

"Ivo, no!" The words were a harsh, weak croak and her eyes flew open.

"Portia, it's Stacy." He pulled her closer.

"Stacy?" Her eyes were wide but unfocused.

Relief screamed through him and he forced himself to loosen his crushing hold. The beads of moisture on her long black lashes glinted like diamonds in the lantern light.

"I was so lost; I couldn't get home. I couldn't see the sky." She shivered violently and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Portia?" He gave her shoulders a light squeeze. Nothing. He lowered his ear to her mouth. She was breathing deeply, as though she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep. If she'd left Whitethorn when Soames believed she had, then she'd been in the rain for hours. Damn stubborn female. This never would have happened if Daisy had been with her—all the locals knew the woods like the backs of their hands. Stacy pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm. She'd bloody well obey him in the future or she wouldn't leave the house.

The minutes crawled past and he kissed the bridge of her proud, Roman nose, her freckle ominously dark against her unnaturally pale skin. He wasn't sure how long he'd been waiting when he heard the wheels of the carriage even over the rain.

"Thank God!" he whispered, closing his eyes and kissing her too-cold mouth.

The rain on his lips tasted of salt.

***

When they reached the house his aunt—or sister, he mentally corrected—insisted the first thing they must do was warm her while they waited for the doctor.

"The sooner the better, Stacy."

He ignored her chiding tone, kissed his wife on her pale, clammy brow, and reluctantly left her in the women's hands. By the time Doctor Gates showed up Portia was dry, swathed in a fluffy blanket, and lying in bed drinking from a cup of tea which Frances had to hold for her.

When the doctor finished his examination he turned to Stacy, frowning. "The child is fine, but I would like to cup her."

"No!" Portia sat bolt upright, her hair wild and her dark eyes feverish. "No!"

"Shh, Portia." Frances gently pushed her back against the pillow. "Doctor Gates only wants to do what is best for you and your baby."

Portia paid her no attention, her imploring eyes on Stacy. Stacy went to her and laid a hand on her brow. She was no longer cold, nor was she particularly feverish. Still, if the doctor recommended cupping, that is what he believed was necessary.

He stroked her sweet, rounded jaw. "It will make you feel better, Portia."

She grabbed his wrist, her eyes wide with terror. "No, please, Stacy."

"Hush, darling," he soothed. "You are becoming overwrought. Doctor Gates believes this is for the best, so I really must insist. I will be here with you."

"Please, no!" She sobbed as if her heart were breaking, madly kissing his hand and fingers, begging in a slurred, frightening way.

Stacy glanced up at the doctor. "This is necessary?"

Gates's mouth was compressed in a grim line. "Yes, absolutely. It will help settle her hysteria and—"

"They killed my mother that way." Portia's hands squeezed his forearm hard enough to shift bones. "They bled her until there was nothing left. Please, I beg of you. If you keep him away from me I will do whatever you say. I promise to obey, just don't let him touch me, I'll never argue with you again. I'll obey you." The last words were more of a moan and tears poured from her huge, dark eyes.

Her vehemence was shocking and Stacy realized she'd never spoken of how either of her parents died. But whatever had happened, he could see she had a fear of cupping that verged on phobic. His kissed her brow and held her face close to his.

"Shh, darling, don't make yourself ill. There will be no cupping tonight. But tomorrow, if you're still—"

"I'll be better, I promise. I promise, Stacy."

He stroked her cheek and forced a smile. "I'm going to hold you to this sudden vow of obedience."

Her eyes closed and she sagged against him. "Thank you, Stacy. Thank you. You will not regret it. I'll be good—I promise."

Stacy turned to the doctor. "No bleeding, doctor."

"It is the accepted treatment in such cases, Mr. Harrington."

Stacy knew it was and he hoped to God he was doing the right thing—for Portia and their child. "Come again in the morning. If she is not better, we can discuss the matter then."

"This isn't wise," Frances said. "I'm afraid you will regret indulging her. Please—"

Stacy ignored her. "I shall see you in the morning," he said to the doctor.

Gates's expression said he believed Stacy to be another idiotic new husband, but he shrugged and put his implements back in his bag.

"See the doctor out, Frances." Stacy wanted to be alone with his wife. He waited for his sister to move from the bed so he could sit beside Portia. When the door shut he took her hand.

"You've made me a promise and you may start obeying me now," he scolded quietly. "You will rest, do you hear me? You will only leave this bed when I say you may."

She gave him a tremulous smile that squeezed his heart. "I will stay in bed as long as you say. Thank you so much. Thank you, Stacy." Her eyes fluttered closed before she'd even finished speaking.

Stacy waited until she was breathing evenly before releasing her hand and pulling up her blankets. The door opened and Daisy entered. "Mr. Soames sent me up to sit with Mrs. Harrington if you want to get ready for dinner."

Stacy blinked: dinner?

The girl gave him a gentle smile. "Viscount Pendleton is still here, Mr. Harrington."

Blast! Stacy had completely forgotten he had a peer of the realm in his house.

He gave an abrupt nod. "If she wakes, send for me."

"Aye, sir."

Stacy opened the connecting door to his room and found Powell waiting with hot water.

He submitted to his valet's ministrations in a trance. And when he was clean, shaved, and dressed he went downstairs to dine with his brother and sister.

***

Portia ran through a forest that went on forever. Thorns and limbs tore at her skirt and wicked, grasping branches scratched her face. Everywhere fallen trees, rotting logs, and hidden stumps tried to stop her. She tripped, stumbled, and pitched headlong into a bottomless tangle of brambles. The footsteps behind her got louder and louder and she burrowed into the tearing, gouging thorns to hide. The briars turned into hundreds of hands, pulling and grasping.

Portia! Portia come back, you can't hide from me!

Portia tried to scream but no sound came out. She struggled against the iron grip that held her, kicking and thrashing until she tore free and her eyes flew open. She gasped for breath and her eyes slowly focused.

She wasn't in the woods but back in her very own bed. She felt the bed next to her and found it empty. Where was Stacy? She sat up and squinted through the gloom; he was sitting in the over-stuffed chair beside the bed, the dull glow of the fire bathing him with warm, red light. His head rested against the chair back, his eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply. He was still wearing his evening clothes but had unbuttoned his coat and removed his cravat. His shirt was loose and open, exposing the white, muscular column of his throat; he looked like an angel at rest.

She squinted at her bedside clock; it was three twenty-two in the morning—the witching hour and the loneliest time of the night. Yet she was not alone; he must have fallen asleep watching her. He looked delicious and she wanted him—needed his quiet strength and his powerful, sheltering body. She opened her mouth to wake him when it all came crashing down on her.

Ivo. He was back.