Page 113 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Carrick stumbled over an overturned chair, went down hard. Matthew was on him in an instant, pinning him to the ground, his fist drawn back.

"Matthew." Florence's voice cut through the chaos. "Matthew, stop."

He didn't seem to hear her. His fist connected with Carrick's face. Once. Twice.

"Matthew!"

He froze. His chest heaved. Blood dripped from his split knuckles onto Carrick's ruined face.

His brother was breathing but was barely conscious.

"Let him go," Florence said quietly. She'd pushed past Tam, was standing ten feet away. "He's finished. Let the law have him."

For what seemed like long time, Matthew didn't move. She could see the war in his eyes, the rage demanding he finish what he'd started, the hatred screaming for blood.

His hand trembled.

Then, slowly, his fingers unclenched.

He rose. Stepped back. His boots left bloody prints on the marble.

"He's yours," he said to the magistrate, his voice hoarse.

The constables moved in, hauling Carrick's limp form from the floor, securing his wrists in irons. His head lolled. Blood bubbled from his shattered nose.

But his eyes found Matthew's. Even now, even beaten and broken, hatred burned in them.

"This isn't over," he slurred. "Brother."

Matthew stared down at him.

"Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

They dragged Carrick away. The gilded doors closed behind him.

And it was done.

In the aftermath, as the crowd milled in shock and servants began to clean the blood from the marble floor, Julian Cassidy wheeled himself back to the piano.

He began to play.

A jaunty melody. Bright and mocking. The "Galop Infernal" from Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld—the can-can, the music of chaos and comeuppance.

The absurdity of it, the cheerful tune against the bloodstains, the constables escorting a ruined lord through gilded doors, was perfect.

Someone laughed. Then someone else.

The tension shattered.

Florence went to Matthew, his bloodied hand cradled against his chest. She crossed to him, not caring who watched.

"Let me see."

He held out his hand. His knuckles were split, already swelling. She examined them carefully, turning his hand in hers.

"Let me get ice," she said.

"Later."