And in truth, she very much wanted him to touch her again. To take her into his arms, to kiss her soundly as he had before, to make love to her. His mere presence in the room set her alight, like a flame ready to ignite.
“You were in a scrape today,” he said coolly. “My foolish sister led you on a merry adventure. You ought to get some rest.”
“You are upset with me,” she guessed. “Is it because of what I said? Perhaps I overstepped my bounds. Forgive me, I was carried away by the moment.”
“No.” He shook his head, turning to meet her eyes again, his countenance strained. “You have done nothing wrong, Em. I am angry with myself.”
“Why?” she ventured nearer, drawn to him as ever.
“Because you could have been hurt today,” he ground out, anguish lacing his tone.
She suspected that was not the only reason, that there was more to the torment she spied raging behind his eyes, but Hart Sutton was very much an enigma. She understood when to allow him his secrets. Now seemed such a time.
Except, she could not stop herself. Perhaps she had made an error earlier, all but asking to become his mistress. He had shown her tenderness and passion, but he had never spoken words of love.
“I was not hurt,” she reminded him. “The worst that happened was that I tripped over my hem in my borrowed boots.”
“You do not belong here.”
His words cut into her heart. But she was stronger now than she had ever been. For the very first time, she was in control of her future, of what she wanted. And she wanted this man. Whatever that entailed.
She tipped up her chin, eying him with defiance. “What if I do belong here?”
“You don’t.” His gaze dipped, clinging to her body like a caress. “You know it, Em, and I know it. You may guard your secrets, but a fool could see you’re a nob. Our worlds don’t mix.”
“I do not belong to that world any longer, Hart,” she countered. “From the moment I stepped onto the dais at The Garden of Flora, I was accepting that my old life as I knew it could be no longer.”
And this new life…it was nothing like what she had supposed. It was so much more. Could it be that he did not feel the depth of the connection between them? She did not believe it possible.
“You’ve been ’ere for mere days, love. You don’t know what this life truly entails.”
She knew Hart well enough by now to understand the dropped h in his speech signified that he was distressed. Emboldened, Emma moved closer to him, not stopping until he was within reach.
“I may not know, but I can learn,” she said. “What I do know is that I have fallen in love with you.”
She had not intended to make a declaration to him. The feelings were too new, too fresh, too raw.
Too frightening.
But she could not shake the instinctive feeling that they were on the precipice of change. He was trying to push her away, to put some distance between them. And she was having none of it.
He said nothing for what seemed an eternity. He stared at her, his gaze inscrutable, expression as harsh as if it had been chiseled from stone.
“You are mistaking lust for love, sweetheart,” he said at last, his voice deep and velvety. “You want the way I make you feel.”
“No,” she corrected gently. “Do not presume to tell me my own mind, Hart Sutton. I can plainly tell the difference between physical desire and stronger, deeper emotion. We share both. Can you truthfully claim you do not feel it as I do?”
He scrubbed at his jaw. “Em…”
He could not.
Vindicated, she closed the distance separating them, ever mindful of his wounded side. She laid her hands on his chest, one above the steady thrum of his heart.
“Tell me you feel nothing for me,” she dared.
His eyes closed, and she tracked the dip in his throat as he swallowed, the protrusion of his Adam’s apple a temptation she had not thought to kiss until now. But she wanted to. Growing bolder, she leaned into him, settling her lips there. His skin was warm and smooth, the musky scent of him mingling with the garden notes of the Winter’s soap he had used in his bath.
She kissed him. “Tell me.”
His hands settled on her waist, not pushing her away, but holding her there, his fingers dipping into her tender flesh in a possessive hold that made delight trill up her spine and pool between her thighs.
She kissed him again, her tongue flicking out to taste him. “Go on, Hart. Say you do not feel the connection we share. Tell me you would feel this way with anyone else.”
He could not, and she knew it. Because neither could she. Perhaps it had been inevitable that their paths had crossed at The Garden of Flora. Whatever the reason fate had brought them together, she would not deny it now.
Hart swallowed again. “Damn it.”
Smiling, Emma rolled to her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his whisker-studded jaw. “I did not hear you.”
He cursed beneath his breath, something dreadfully shocking and rude. “You heard me well enough, wench. You’re determined to torture me.”
She kissed the corner of his unsmiling lips, relishing the freedom to set her mouth there, to touch and caress him and show him her desire without fear of repercussions. “I want my answer.”
“You want your answer?” He tugged her nearer, until her breasts were flush against his chest, one hand sliding up her back to her nape where he caught a fistful of her hair and gently tugged her head so she was forced to meet his gaze. “Here it is.”
His lips were on hers, firm and insistent and hot and hungry.
It was not the answer she had wanted, not precisely, but for now, it was more than enough. He said all the words that he had not spoken with the frenzy of his kiss. His tongue slipped past the seam of her lips and into her mouth. Desire slid through her. One tug from him, and the toweling she had wrapped around herself for modesty’s sake went loose, falling from her body and to the floor. She was Abram, as he had called it, in truth now, acutely aware of every sensation. The friction of his shirt against her hard nipples, his woolen trousers coarse and yet exciting against her belly and lower, too. Their legs entwining, her tongue mating with his. He was breathing harshly into the kiss, as if he had run a great distance, and she was every bit as overcome.
Together, they moved toward his bed, their lips never parting. When her thigh brushed against the mattress, stopping them, she grew impatient. She wanted him as bare as she was. Wanted him naked and atop her, inside her, making love to her. Now that she had unlocked the mysteries of her body, she felt as if she could not get enough. Her longing for him was thrilling and astounding in its insistence.
He was first to end the kiss, straightening to look down at her through eyes glazed with passion. “I’m not the man for you.”
He was wrong about that. But they had time. She would show him.