Had he believed she was going to escape? And if he did, where would she go? She was, for the first time in her life, a woman utterly alone in London.
“What would you have me do?” she asked, keenly aware of his hazel gaze, steady and intense, on her.
He plucked the three buttons at the neck of his shirt from their moorings, holding her stare. “Whatever you like, as long as you don’t leave. I need you where I can see you, milady.”
He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.
And that was when she saw the unmistakable slash in his side, which had been previously obscured by his torn, bloodied, and billowing shirt.
“Hart,” she managed past lips that had gone dry. “You are wounded.”
He glanced down, following her horrified gaze. “Well, bleeding hell. So I am.”