Chapter Thirty-One #2
“Sweet bleedin’ arseholes!” Tilly exclaimed. “What…” Her voice trailed off and she paled as she turned to Portia. “Oh, beggin’ yer pardon for cursin’, Lady Portia.”
“Sweet bleeding arseholes, eh?” Portia said, smiling. “I’ll have to try that one on my brother.”
“Oh no, please!” Tilly cried. “He’d be ever so cross.”
“With me, not you,” Portia said. “My brother has always despaired of my propensity to curse.”
“Oh, lawks!” Tilly said. “Hear he comes. Do you think he heard me?”
Portia glanced about, wincing at the sunlight in her eyes, and caught sight of a lone figure approaching from the far end of the meadow, striding through the grasses.
“That can’t be my brother,” she said. “He’s coming from the wrong direction.”
“It could be the duke,” Nerissa said, shielding her eyes. “The shooting’s stopped.”
Portia paused, straining to hear the gunshots, but other than the wind through the trees, she could only discern shouting in the distance. Most likely the beaters calling to each other to flush out the unfortunate birds destined to grace the dining table.
Then another gunshot rang out, and the figure paused, seeming to cringe, before resuming.
Tilly held up her hand to her eyes. “Oh my!”
“Can you see who it is from where you’re standing, Tilly?” Nerissa asked.
“It’s him!” came the reply. “What’s he doing here? Mr. Reeve said—” Tilly broke off.
“What did Mr. Reeve say?” Nerissa asked.
“It’s not my place to say. Mr. Reeve said I wasn’t to—”
“Tell me what he said, Tilly,” Portia said, looking up at the maid.
“He’s the one who visited His Grace in London. He spoke to me.”
“My brother spoke to you?”
“No, the gentleman. He seemed kind enough, but when I next saw the duke, his face…”
“Help me up, Nerissa,” Portia said, struggling to her feet, drawing in a sharp breath at the rush of lightheadedness. Her maid took her arm and steadied her while the figure continued toward them, the blurred silhouette morphing into the shape of a man—a man carrying something in his arms.
Then a high-pitched wail came from the figure, resonating through Portia’s bones. She caught her breath and her legs gave way. Two arms caught her and Nerissa whispered in her ear, “I’ve got you, Lady Portia.”
“B-but it’s…” Portia began to shake. “It’s…”
“Who is it?”
The cry came again, and there was no mistaking it. The bond that had formed between them, though weakened by their separation, could never be fully broken.
Stephania…
Clinging to her maid, Portia took a step forward.
“Stephania!”
She took another step, and her maid pulled her back.
“Have a care, Lady Portia. You’re not well.”
“What are you doing with her?” Portia cried. “Who are you to torment me so?”
The figure paused, then resumed his approach.
Portia blinked, and tears splashed onto her cheeks.
She wiped her eyes, and her vision cleared as the shape morphed into a familiar form: the solid, steady gait she’d have known anywhere—the broad shoulders she had clung to as he’d declared his love, and…
…and the golden head of hair that caught the sunlight like a halo—hair she’d buried her hands in as he’d buried himself inside her to claim her as his.
“Dear Lord…Stephen!”
His features swam into view, and she winced in anticipation of the face that haunted her dreams, its features twisted with anger, dark eyes filled with accusation.
But instead, she saw penitence, regret, and a sorrow to match hers. His eyes glistened with moisture as he lowered his gaze to the precious little bundle in his arms—the soft blanket that contained a piece of her soul.
Then another gunshot sounded in the distance. He stiffened and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she saw a flicker of fear that turned into determination—a determination to protect the child in his arms.
“Wh-what are you…” She gestured toward him, blinking in the sunlight lest he were a mirage sent to torment her.
“I’m here for you,” he said softly. “And for her.”
He dipped his head and placed a kiss on the blanket. Then a small pink hand appeared, reaching up, fingers extended, until it grasped a tendril of his hair, tiny fingers curling around the ends. He let out a soft laugh.
“My sweet one,” he breathed, kissing the little hand. Then he glanced up at Portia, his eyes red-rimmed and shining.
“Stephen, I…” Portia’s voice caught as her throat tightened and she took a step toward him.
“No loving mother should be parted from her child,” he said, his voice wavering. “Not for propriety—not for anything.”
“But she’s…” Portia said. “I’ve already…”
“Was it your choice to give her up?” he said, his voice tightening.
Ignoring the chasm of loss in her heart, she nodded.
“Say it, Portia,” he said. “If that’s what you truly believe, then say it.”
“Stephen, I cannot…”
“Listen to your heart, Portia,” Stephen said, “your soul. If it weren’t for Society, propriety, or your brother’s wishes, would you have willingly given her up?”
He moved closer, and a whimper escaped Portia’s lips as she caught sight of the child’s face—rounded and pink, with deep-set eyes that mirrored her own, gazing at her from beneath a furrowed brow.
The ache in her soul shattered her denial.
“No!” she cried. “Of course I wouldn’t have given her up! She’s everything—my soul, my whole world… I’m nothing without her!”
She shuddered with sobs as she stumbled forward, and her soul slid into place as Stephen lifted the little bundle into her arms.
“Oh, my darling!” she cried. “My sweet baby—can you ever forgive me?”
“Lady Portia, please don’t distress yourself,” Nerissa said. “You’re not strong.”
But as Portia held her child in her arms, the strength that had eluded her for so many weeks seemed to flow through her veins, and she stood, erect and firm—a mother tigress willing to defend her cub from those who would take her away.
“Lady Por—”
“Leave her, Nerissa,” Stephen said. “She’s strong for her child. Can you not see that?”
“But my lady’s been ill.”
“Aye—and she now holds in her arms the one thing that will make her well again.”
The voices in the distance seemed to grow louder, while Portia closed her eyes and breathed in the beautiful aroma of her child, then a single voice roared in anger.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
Portia glanced up to see her brother, red-faced, eyes dark with fury, striding toward them, a shotgun over his arm.
Behind him, two figures followed: Earl Thorpe and Lord Devereaux, the taciturn gentleman who’d been in hiding in Whitcombe’s study the night of the house party—the man who carried an air of brooding menace about him.
“Adam, I—”
“Be quiet, sister!” her brother roared. “I’m talking to you.”
He waved his gun at Stephen, who stepped back, raising his hands.
“Foxton, I—”
“You address me as Your Grace,” Adam said, his strides lengthening. Then he grasped the shotgun and snapped the barrel in place.
“No!” Portia stepped toward her brother, but Stephen leaped in front of her, shielding her with his body.
“Shoot me if you like, Your Grace,” he snarled, “but you’ll not harm a hair on Portia’s head—or our daughter’s.”
Adam drew in a sharp breath, and his companions exchanged glances.
“Reid, you’ve lost your wits. That child is not—”
“Yes, she is!” Stephen cried. “Portia’s a mother, and you separated her from her child! What sort of man does that to his sister?”
“What about you?” Adam said. “You ruined her, abandoned her, then shot her, leaving her for dead, while she carried your child! What sort of a brother would I be if I let that pass?”
“Adam, please!” Portia said. “Put the gun down—you know how Stephen fears…” She hesitated. “F-forgive me, Stephen. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, say it,” Stephen said. “I care not if your brother knows that I have relived the war every night, such that the sound of gunfire returns me to the nightmare of the battlefield, the cries of pain, the stench of bodies of the men I failed to save. But I would willingly endure a thousand gunshots to protect the woman I love—and the child she bore me.”
“Well, stap me,” Earl Thorpe said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “When you insisted we accompany you after you received your message, Foxton, you didn’t say it would lead us to such an interesting experience.”
“Speak one word about this and I’ll shoot you down,” Adam said, swiveling round and aiming the shotgun at Thorpe.
“I asked you to come with me to rid my land of vermin. At least there are those among my staff are loyal to their master.” He glared at Nerissa.
“Unlike some. I suppose you’ve been encouraging my sister to fraternize with the child after I expressly forbade you. ”
“You never forbade me outright,” Portia said.
“But I did tell you that if you continued to visit the child, it would end in heartbreak.”
“She’s not the child, Adam. She’s your niece—my daughter!”
Adam turned to Stephen. “Did you come to expose my sister? Not content with shooting her, are you here to spread gossip about her ruination?”
“No, Your Grace,” Stephen said. “I come to claim the woman I love—and the daughter she bore me.”
Adam gritted his teeth, his eyes darkening until they were almost black. “You’ll have to tear me down first.”
“With pleasure.”
Stephen strode toward Adam, into the line of fire.
“No!” Portia cried. “Stephen, don’t! Please!”
He curled his hand around the barrel and wrenched the gun from Adam’s grip. He uncocked it and expelled the cartridge, then dropped the gun on the ground.
“How’s your eye, Foxton?” he said. “Care for a matching pair?” He gestured toward Thorpe and Devereaux. “Or have you brought your friends to throw me off your land as you threatened to do in London? Well, I’ll not be thrown off your estate so easily this time—not now I’ve found your sister.”
“Y-you came her before, looking for me?” Portia said.
“Aye, I did.”
“And again, in London?”