Emma would risk his anger if she must.
Her hand was on the latch when the door opened, and she leapt back, startled by the sight of Hart standing on the threshold, bloodied and bruised. Her heart stuttered with shock.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“Nothing to concern yourself over,” he said, as if his shirt were not spattered with the undeniable evidence of violence.
In a panic, she closed the door and turned to examine him for evidence of further injuries. “You are bloody.”
He glanced down at himself and then back to her, flashing a crooked grin. “It ain’t all mine, milady.”
Milady.
He dared to use his insult for her now, when he had reappeared after yet another lengthy disappearance, and this time to investigate the matter of a dead body? Now, when she had spent the last two hours awaiting news, dreading what harm could have befallen him? Now, when he was apparently covered in the blood of others in addition to his own?
She lurched forward, feeling like a catapult formed of frustration and anger and dread. He opened his arms, and she landed in them, throwing her arms around his neck and holding him tight. The strength of her emotions astounded Emma. And yet, she could not seem to control them. He was safe, and he was here, and he was so solid and warm and…reassuring.
Hart did not appear to mind, for his arms wrapped around her waist in kind, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling as though he wanted to fill his lungs with her scent. “What is wrong, love?”
Love.
It was stupid and foolish, but oh, how she wished, for just a fleeting moment, that his endearment had been intended. Which was utterly nonsensical. She dismissed it the moment it arrived, thoroughly unwanted, in her mind. She scarcely even knew this man. He was a stranger who had paid the highest price for her. It was merely fear and upset mingling, making her mind into a jumbled hodgepodge.
“I was worried,” she admitted. “The man at the door said there was a dead body outside, and then you did not return for ever so long…”
“Here now.” He raised his head, looking down at her with an intense expression she could not define. “Who said anything about a dead man?”
“I am not stupid, Hart. I understood what was being said, even if you have a rather descriptive way of phrasing things here in the East End.”
Suddenly, it occurred to her how very finite her time here with him was. Mere days, and she would be gone. But where would she be?
She stared at him, committing each nuance of his face to memory.
Strangely, the blood and bruising on his cheek did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. If anything, they lent him a brutal aura that had her pulse pounding faster. She was still wrapped in his arms, and she could not deny how much she adored being held close by this man. Bloodied and beastly, he was still hers.
For now.
“There’s no danger for you,” he assured her, “if that’s what you fear.”
“It is not myself I fear for,” she explained. “It is you. What happened? Why are you injured and bleeding?”
“As I said, you needn’t concern yourself. It was a matter of business, and it’s been settled now.”
“With violence.”
He inclined his head. “Aye, with fists and blades. But it needed to be done.”
What manner of world did he live in, that he considered dead bodies, blood, and brutality commonplace? Her heart hurt for him, the worry and fear supplanted instead by an unexpected tenderness. Little wonder he was so aloof and harsh most of the time. There was not enough softness in his life.
“I will call for some hot water,” she decided, overcome by the need to tend to him.
“I’ve already seen to it,” he told her, flashing a grim hint of a smile. “I’ve been looking after myself for years now. I do just fine.”
But did he?
And why did she want to be the one to take care of him now? Where was this absurd need emerging from? The thought of something terrible happening to him made her ill. He was so vital, so necessary, so strong and alive. But knives were dangerous, and so, apparently, were the cutthroat villains with whom he associated. It was a reminder of how disparate their places in society truly were.
A reminder that she had never been meant to inhabit this new role, a lady who had somehow stepped into the slippers of a courtesan.
“You could have been badly hurt,” she said. “Or worse.”
“I could’ve been born a prince.” His grin deepened. “But I wasn’t. I could’ve been a lot of things, milady. But all I am is plain Hart Sutton.”
He was still making light of what had happened. She supposed she must allow him his sangfroid. Perhaps he was indeed so inured to the violence that he scarcely took note of it.
There was one matter on which she dared disagree, however. “There is nothing plain about you, Mr. Sutton.”
“Especially not now that I’m decorated in gore, eh?” His grin faded as he glanced down at his besmirched shirt and trousers. “I reckon I’m hardly the sort of sight you’re accustomed to.”
No, he was not, but she was spared from having to answer by the arrival of his warm water and a hip bath, placed at the hearth and promptly filled. When the lads who had muscled the buckets of water upstairs departed, Emma watched the door closing at their backs, keenly aware not that she was alone once again with Hart, but that he was going to disrobe so that he could wash the blood from himself.
“Perhaps I should leave you to your privacy,” she suggested, hardly knowing what he would wish from her, what she should expect.
“You’ll not be getting away from me that easily, milady,” he said, raising a brow.