"Staithes is to the north. A little farther than that last village, but larger, I believe."
She gave no answer, so Hart held her tighter and urged the horse to a run.
Chapter 24
"I didn't want to leave you alone," Hart explained, as if Emma cared that he'd taken only one room. She did not care if he was here, didn't care that he knew she was curled naked beneath the quilts. She had no clothing, no belongings, no home.
"You did not eat."
"I was bathing," she muttered as she turned away from him.
"Shall I bring you something now?" "No."
"Emma, you must be hungry and thirsty. Please, eat something."
Well, she'd been wrong. She did care that he was in the room, wished he would go away. The man was hovering, showing sympathy and worry and that damned softness she'd never wanted from him.
"Have some wine at least."
She scooted up and reached a hand from beneath the blankets.
Hart muttered, "I should've known," as he pressed the goblet into her hand. Yes, he should have known. She liked wine almost as well as gaming, and both so much more than honest emotion.
She drank deep of the rich red liquid, but she lowered the glass when she caught the direction of Hart's gaze. He was staring at her arm, at the bruises left by Matthew's hands, the bloody rawness of her wrists. Emma set the wine down and curled back beneath the covers.
"I'm sorry I left you," he whispered. "I should never have left you alone."
"I didn't want you there. Didn't need you."
"Yes, you were insulting and hurtful. And I was stupid enough to fall for it, as I always do."
Emma shook her head. "There was nothing to fall for. I simply made clear how I felt. How I still feel. I do not want you."
She felt his weight dip the bed when he sat next to her. His thigh pressed against her back, and she wanted him to move, because his weight and heat only made her want more. Emma curled tighter into herself.
"Why did you come to my home that night?"
"What night?"
He sighed. Loudly. But his fingers stroked over her hair, rubbed her scalp. "You've only been to my home once, Emma."
She snuck deeper into her nest, "I don't want to talk. Please leave me alone."
"No, I won't.
I need to know why you came to my house that night. If I disgust you, if you think I'm no different from your father's friends . . . I need to know."
Her eyes, wide open, focused on a fold of cream linen, but she could see Hart clearly: his beautiful face, full of fear for her, full of caring and passion. He hadn't looked like a duke today, with his two days' worth of stubble and tired eyes; today he looked like a man.
Emma swallowed. "Why?"
His thumb touched her temple, traced her hairline. "You came to me when you didn't have to, made love to me when you had every reason not to. Emma . . ."
The linen blurred to nothing before her eyes.
"I was falling in love with you. Did you know it then?"
"No," she whispered. No, because it was impossible. He was Winterhart and she was . . . she was as empty as a shell.