A/N: I'm a little unsure of this, as it's teetering on the border of what I've never come close to writing before – so any thoughts would be appreciated. Please do review; any comments and constructive criticism will be gratefully received!

Where the Heart Is

At night, in the hazy limbo between being awake and asleep, her hand would always slide up over his ribcage to find his heart, and every night she would slip into slumber with the strong, steady rhythm of its beat thrumming beneath her fingers.

'You know I must go,' he said.

At night, even after the expression of their love, she would not draw away from him. She would wrap herself around him, his chest her pillow, his leg trapped between hers, and they both would be a beautiful mess of entangled limbs.

'It is only two weeks,' he added.

At night, her nose would find the hollow where his neck met his chest, and would nestle there as its natural home and resting place. She would breathe in his scent and fall asleep with it filling her nostrils.

'You know I must go, Emma,' he repeated.

She nodded. 'I know, Mr. Knightley,' she said.

At night, she never called him anything but George.

As she waved him off to London where he was to be with John and Isabella as they awaited the arrival of their sixth child, she managed to keep up a tolerable appearance of composure.

She managed to occupy herself in organising the menu for dinner that night, managed to exert herself to be a good hostess to Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard who had been invited to play cards with her father, managed not only to assume the appearance of interest in Miss Bates' news of the Churchills' newborn son, but to actually briefly feel it.

While the day lasted, she could almost be herself. It was as night fell, when her thoughts were finally at liberty to wander, that they inevitably went to him.

What was he doing at this moment? Was he thinking of her?

She had tolerated his absence before, but only for a few hours or at most a day, as he attended to business at the Abbey or at a neighbouring village such as Kingston. After their wedding journey to the seaside, they had both remained in Highbury, for her father's sake.

On this occasion, Mr. Woodhouse had expressed real regret at Mr. Knightley's going to London, having over the past several months developed a reliance on his constant presence at Hartfield. The thought had not even entered his head that Emma might consider journeying with her husband also, and Emma knew she could not in good conscience distress him by bringing up the possibility.

She lay down on their bed, which suddenly seemed far too large. She stretched out an arm to the empty space beside her and, closing her eyes, tried to imagine the steady heartbeat under her fingertips. Trapping the covers between her legs she tried to imagine the warmth of a limb. Burying her face in his pillow, she inhaled deeply.

It was there – faint, but unmistakable. His scent. And then, senseless as it was, she could no longer suppress the sobs that wracked her body.

Two weeks. It was an eternity.

She glanced at the clock for at least the fifth time in as many seconds, and an involuntary sigh escaped her. She could not reasonably expect him until that evening, several hours from now. She had attempted to delude herself that he would not be able to make it until tomorrow evening in order for his arrival to be a pleasantly early surprise, but all the while she secretly hoped for him twenty-four hours sooner.

The news of the uncomplicated birth of another niece had reached Hartfield late yesterday evening, along with the news that Mr. Knightley would soon be back home. At night, Emma had slept with this letter on the pillow beside her.

The sound of a horse's hooves beating down on the gravel path the next moment was entirely unexpected. Heart leaping, Emma finally abandoned all the appearance of composure which she had been adopting for the past thirteen days and all but ran to the door.

He had just dismounted from his horse; the dark circles under his eyes and the spatters of mud on his clothes told their own tale of a sleepless night and a rough journey.

Emma observed all this in a single glance, and understood at once that he had ridden through the night, through a storm so that he might be back with her sooner. Her mind reproached him for taking the risk when he might have met with an accident, but her heart sung to have him back early.

It was all she could do to restrain herself as Mr. Woodhouse, who really had missed his son-in-law exceedingly, overcame his fears of catching cold enough to actually come greet him outside. Emma was usually all patience with her father, but as she waited through his kind inquiries and fears that Mr. Knightley might have been taken ill from riding through the rain, she came as close to feeling impatient towards him as she had ever felt.

At last though, he returned to the house after instructing the two of them to return the horse to the stables quickly and come inside again before they caught cold.

In two quick strides she was before him, and she bestowed upon him the brightest smile he had ever seen despite the fact that her eyes were brimming with tears. Before he had time to react, her hand snaked around behind his neck, pulling his head down to crush their lips together. For a moment he hesitated, mindful of the presence of the groom who had come up to take the horse back to the stables, but then she brought her body flush to his and deepened the kiss and he found himself returning it with equal ardour.

'Mmmm,' he sighed, and then he laughed into the darkness with just a tinge of smugness.

She poked his side and he squirmed, ticklish. 'What?'

His hand caught her much smaller one, partly to stop the poking. 'If this is what my reception will be, perhaps I should go away more often.'

Ordinarily, Emma would have laughed and made some saucy remark, but tonight she found herself unequal to it. Instead she responded by burying her nose deeper into its resting place and wrapping her legs tighter around his. 'Don't even joke about that,' she mumbled into his collar bone.

He said nothing more, but simply tightened the hold of his arms around her.

'Next time you have to travel anywhere,' continued Emma, 'I'm coming with you.' Her hand slid up his ribcage to its usual place over his heart, where she could feel its comforting rhythm, steady and strong.

The hands which were absentmindedly stroking her hair stopped their movements. 'But what about–'

'I don't care what Father says,' she interjected. 'I will persuade him to let me go, or to come with us, but I will not stay behind again without you.'

His hands resumed their activity, and his voice when he next spoke was particularly tender. 'Times like these, I can hardly believe that you're here, with me, loving me.' His hands lowered from her hair to snake around her once more. 'It's like a dream.'

'Don't say that,' she murmured, kissing his neck and feeling his pulse suddenly rocket under her lips. She could not help smiling, and she shifted against him. 'I've never felt anything more real.'

He inhaled sharply. 'And I'm thankful everyday for that,' he said a little breathlessly. And then, lingeringly, he brought his lips to hers once more.