Page 41 of A Touch Wicked
Emma should have been relieved, but stood in the middle of her first class state room with a growing emptiness inside her. Her heart had always ached a little — it had always yearned for more — but those nights with James were the few in which she was content. Happy.
As she had waited for the ship to leave Liverpool and begin its journey to Boston, a part of her wished she had seen him one last time. Kissed him one last time. That their parting had not been angry words spoken in a foyer, but goodbyes whispered beneath a willow tree in the rain. Goodbyes breathed against his wet skin. Goodbyes sighed as he slid inside her one last time, and kissed her lips, and worshipped her.
But parting words were not gentle. They were not easy. They were always too soon, and they always made your heart ache. That was their nature.
Emma sipped the tea a servant had brought her when she settled into her state room. It was cold now, bitter. She drank it anyway and set the saucer down with a clatter that made her wince.
Outside the room, she could hear the chatter of other passengers, but it was all filtered through the unbearable silence of her four walls.
She needed the sea air. She couldn’t breathe.
Emma rose and strode toward the door, but a knock sounded before she got there. Straightening her clothes and smoothing back her hair — she must look frayed at the edges — she called out, “Come.”
A porter came into the room, carrying two heavy trunks. “Morning, ma’am,” the young man said brightly. “I’ve brought ye these trunks after port, as requested.”
“Oh, there must be some mistake. These trunks aren’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as James strode through the suite door. “. . . Mine,” she finished in a whisper.
“That will be all,” James said to the porter, passing him a coin.
The porter quit the room, closing the door behind him with a discreet click that made Emma’s heart leap. She was alone with James. He was here. And he’d brought these bloodytrunks.
He cleared his throat. “You’d forgotten some things in your room, and Alexandra wanted you to have some of her dresses to wear in Boston. The weather will be warmer there, I believe. She left you some books, as well.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Alexandra thinks of everything.”
They were speaking to each other in formal tones, but Emma was trembling. When she glanced at his hands, she noticed they shook with some restrained emotion. She didn’t know what. Was it passion? Anger? She was afraid to ask.
Then, finally, his ragged voice whispered her name, and she knew it wasn’t anger. No, not anger. Longing. She knew it well.
She wanted to more closely examine his beseeching expression, but she didn’t dare. Men like him were used to getting what they want, weren’t they? They were born knowing that one day, they would have an entire fortune and title at their disposal, and all the power that came with it.
She was just some illegitimate nobody who had told him no. Perhaps it chafed. After all, he’d never told her he loved her back.
Emma looked away first. “Mr. Grey gave me his word he wouldn’t tell you I was leaving.”
“It was conditional.”
“On what?”
James approached, but didn’t touch her. Still, she felt the heat of him, of that body she knew so well. She wished she didn’t respond to him so, that she could pretend she didn’t desire him, even now.
How could he stand there and look so immaculate, so finely coiffed, when she was coming apart?
She wanted to rip off his coat, his cravat, his waistcoat, muss his hair and watch his eyes glaze with pleasure. Their lovemaking would be desperate, as urgent as last time. Always urgent, always left wanting, because each time Emma told herself it would be the last. She couldn’t be his mistress. Shewouldn’tbe. She was used to longing now; it was a part of her.
“Emma,” he murmured, grazing his fingers across her jawline. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
“No,” she whispered. “I told you I needed to leave, James. I’m not yours.”
That’s all she could say:I’m not yours, I’m not yours, I’m not yours.
Her heart belonged to him, but she didn’t have to give him her life. What were hearts, anyway? Fragile things, easily given; easily broken. But her life was her own.
“I know.” He sounded patient, if a bit resigned. “I know you’re not. If you ask me to, I’ll return to my suite and say goodbye to you in Boston. But I need to apologize first.”
Emma shook her head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I expected nothing of you.”
“And I expected too much of you.” Their bodies were almost touching now, his fingers still light on her face. “I wasn’t just asking you to be my mistress, was I? I was asking you to risk everything while I risked nothing. To watch me marry, have children, pledge myself to another. I was asking if you would allow me to hide you away and come to you at my whim.” As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward, his lips ghosting over her brow. “Unforgivable.”
