“I do say so, damn it. She means nothing to me. Less than nothing.”
That was a lie. A bold, blatant lie. And he knew it the way he knew Lady Emma had a tiny birthmark on her inner right thigh. Because she somehow, inexplicably, had come to mean something far more to him than he had ever wanted. Far more than he had ever supposed possible. The notion she awaited him in his chamber was a strangely comforting one. Her smile made his chest feel oddly light. Her lips beneath his felt like bleeding heaven.
“Nothing, you say?” Wolf was still grinning at him, as if he didn’t believe a damned word Hart had said.
His brother knew him far too well.
Which meant it was time to get his arse out of here.
He rose to his feet, the bottle in hand, and the room tilted a bit at the edges as if he were on a ship. “Nothing is what I said, and that’s what I meant. Thanks for the stitches, brother. Next time, I’ll thank you to practice first so they’re neater.”
“Aye.” Wolf rose and sauntered around the desk, plucking the bottle from Hart’s grasp. “I’ll be practicing, you daft arsehole. On your face.”
“Touch my face, and I’ll darken your day lights,” he warned without bite.
“I’d like to see you try, stripling,” Wolf returned, raising the bottle of gin to him in mock salute.
Stripling indeed. Hart longed to deliver a jab right in his smug brother’s nose, but he would save it for another occasion. He was in no shape for further fighting. Hell, one look at his brother’s bruised face and split lip, and it was clear Wolf was not either. They were all of them in rather rough condition, thanks to the fists and the blades of the Bradleys.
But unlike Abe Bradley, they would all live to see the sun rise on the East End’s filthy streets once more.
* * *
Emma was aboutto fly out of her skin with pent-up worry and frustration when the door to the room opened and Hart stepped over the threshold. Relief swept over her, sudden and furious, and her legs were flying, carrying her over the carpets to him.
She stopped herself before she barreled into him. Ever since he had left her earlier after returning bloodied and battered, she had not been able to quell the worry swirling through her.
“Hart,” she said, wanting to throw herself into his arms and yet fearful she would jostle him and hurt his wound. “I was beginning to fear you would not return.”
He gave her a half grin and sauntered into the room, carrying himself in a different fashion than he had when he had left to have his wound stitched. It was as if his limbs were looser, and he possessed a slight swagger which had been absent before. He kicked the door closed behind him, his hazel gaze intense as it swept over her as if he had missed the sight of her every bit as much as she had longed for him.
“Sorry to disappoint, love. I ain’t dead yet.”
He was wearing a fresh, flowing white shirt, untucked and shielding the sight of his wound from her. He looked, from head to toe, the part of rogue. Handsome, charming, dangerous.
Mine, she thought for a moment, before chasing the thought.
For their relationship was finite. It could not go on forever. In mere days, she would never see him again. The notion made an ache slice straight through her.
“Are you in much pain?” she asked, thinking of his wound, which had appeared quite sinister to her.
“Not a bit.” He flashed her a grin. “Merely a scratch, nothing more.”
She felt rather lightheaded at the memory of the gaping, bloodied slash which had marred his side. “I am glad. How may I be of help?”
“I reckon I need to wash the rest of the blood off this hide of mine,” he said grimly.
It was true that he was still covered in the remnants of whatever battle he had endured beyond the protective walls of The Sinner’s Palace. The reminder of what he must have endured and how near he had come to something far worse befalling him sent a shiver through her.
“Cold, love?”
Hart’s observation startled her. Now that she was in proximity to him, the scent of spirits mingled with the earthy musk of him and the tang of masculine sweat. The almost lazy manner in which he moved made sense. He must have imbibed something to aid him with the pain.
“I am pleasantly warm.” She attempted a smile that felt forced. It was a wonder to her that he could be so nonchalant about having been stabbed. About the depth of violence which must have unfolded.
About a dead man.
This world of Hart Sutton’s was a dangerous one, and she must not forget. She had thought to inhabit it only momentarily and then return to the life she had once known. But the longer she was gone from Mayfair, the farther removed she had become from her home, her sisters, her father, and the lady she had been before her arrival in The Garden of Flora. And the longer she remained, the more likely it became that this was the world in which she would stay, voluntarily or not.
“You don’t look pleasant or particularly warm at the moment.” Hart’s tone was wry as he plucked at the three buttons which fastened at the neck of his fresh shirt.
“As I said, I was worried about you.” She took note of the grimace of pain marring his handsome face as he made to remove the shirt and stepped forward. “Here, let me help you.”
Part of her had expected him to resist. To argue. For his customary stubborn, slightly aloof nature to restore itself. But whether it was the result of the street battle in which he had engaged or the spirits he had consumed, the man before her was a gentler version of himself. He stood still, allowing her to tend to him.