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The threat was gone, and it had had nothing to do with Emma. She held Bess while she cried and wished that she could cry too.
Chapter 10
"She'll be all right," Emma whispered as she closed Bess's door and faced Hart. His brow was pulled into a dark frown, his eyes as sharp as ever.
"And you, Emma?"
"I'm fine," she insisted, though she raised a hand to the crown of her head. Hart reached for her and his hands cradled her face, fingers spread to ease into her hair. He pressed a soft kiss to her head, a lingering touch of his lips. A strange sensation overcame her at this tenderness, a feeling like melted wax flowing down through her body.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, brushing a hand over her head as if searching for bumps or bruises. "I'm sorry I didn't stop him, sorry I brought him here."
Emma wasn't sure she could speak. She shook her head and drew a shallow breath. "It wasn't. . . You needn't apologize, Hart." His fingers trailed over her temples, gentle and perfect. Her eyes closed as she murmured, "It wasn't your concern."
The soft stroking stopped. His hands stiffened. "Not my concern? Your life? Your safety?"
Oh, she did not want to do this now. She wanted to keep her eyes closed and keep his hands moving, but the hands had stopped; the strange warmth was beginning to fade. Emma sighed and opened her eyes as Hart's arms fell back to his sides.
"No," she said simply. "It's not your concern."
"I disagree."
"You often do." She suddenly found it impossible to believe he'd touched her so tenderly not seconds before. His eyes glinted ice and judgment.
"Who did you think he was, Emma?"
"Who?"
"Burl Smythe," he bit out. "Who did you think he was?"
She wasn't in a frightened state anymore, and if he thought he could corner
her into a confession, he was sadly mistaken. Emma gave him innocent eyes. "I thought he was the thief. Then I thought he was a madman after my person. Or some dockworker with no position and a vengeance against his betters."
"Liar," Hart said very clearly.
"You do love to insult me."
"I saw your face," he insisted. His features grew harder still. Not only did he not believe her, he resented her self-defense.
Emma steeled her heart and moved toward the kitchen. She strolled past him, offering an arched brow and a pout. "I was terrified, Somerhart. I feared for my life. Are you determined to sit in judgment of my reactions? 'This was not genuine enough. That was condemning.'?"
"You say that you—"
Emma spun around, stopping his path through the narrow kitchen. "Why don't you explain something to me, Somerhart? How is it that you know Stimp, hmm?"
Silence.
"Spying on me, Your Grace? Paying local children to watch my home? Or perhaps he follows me around and reports back to you on who I've been with, who I've talked to?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Emma turned and continued into the hallway that led to the larder and then on to the stairs that climbed to the front door. "You have no right to spy on me. You have no claim and no cause."
"I was concerned."
She glanced over her shoulder to see him below her, following up the stairs. "Oh, I don't think so. I think you are suspicious. You were betrayed by a woman in your past. A lover. A scandalous woman."
"That's nothing to—"
