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Now she stood at the window, concentrating fiercely on the fastening of her gown as if aligning each button in its appropriate hole could somehow restore her to her proper guise as mistress of mathematics at Miss Hallsey’s School for Girls.
Useless.
Absurd.
She sat on the edge of the bed to roll on her stockings. She would not regret what Griff had done—what they had done together.
She had been numb, closed in on herself like a hand curled to protect the wound at its palm. Now every inch of her felt open and aching and alive. Her collar chafed the faint abrasions on her neck. The linen shift teased her sensitive breasts. And every rasp of fabric against her skin, every shiver along her nerves, reminded her of Griff.
Emma sighed.
He had lavished her with patience and with wicked skill, healing and transforming her. She was grateful for his care. Everything had changed…and nothing had.
Emma yanked on her other stocking. She was no longer so naive as to equate sex with marriage, or even tenderness with love.
Griff had not said he loved her. She would not have believed him if he did. Why, they barely knew each other.
The memory of his deep voice rolled through her. “I know you, lass. In one day I have seen the spirit and the spine and the heart of you…”
Her heart shook. Her hands trembled. She folded them together in her lap.
She had given him more than her body last night. But she could not, did not, expect any more from him. Men, Emma assumed, did not feel these things as women did.
The daylight had returned, and with it, reason. She would not make the mistake of relying on someone else to care for her. She was responsible for her own choices. Her own feelings. Her own future.
Dismally, she wondered when the next boat departed for Canada.
FIVE
“Canada?” Griff relieved Una of the tray and nodded for the girl to depart. “You do not want to go there.”
Emma stared at him, broad and rough and male, and wished the sight of him balancing her breakfast tray in his big hands didn’t make her heart stumble. She did not want to go anywhere. But neither could she stay in his bedchamber, blushing every time a child came to the door.
“I signed a contract,” she said. “A year’s service for passage on the ship.”
His thick brows rose. “The ship sank.”
He set the tray on the chest. More apples, Emma noted, and a thin gray porridge that shamed the silver bowl it came in. What kind of household couldn’t produce porridge?
She dragged her mind back to their discussion. “Nevertheless, there are people expecting me.”
“Not any longer.”
He was probably right. By now, she would be considered lost at sea. And yet—
“My parents should not have to read about my death in the newspaper.”
“You are close to them.” It was not a question.
She shook her head. “Before I left, my father informed me I was already dead to them.” Impossible to keep the bitterness from her voice.
“I am sorry, lass.” His voice was deep and sincere.
His sympathy eased the hurt at her heart.
“It doesn’t matter.” But of course it did. “I planned to write to them when I reached Halifax.”
“You cannot go.”
