Page 17 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

She was out before he could argue, her footsteps quick on the stairs.

Matthew tucked the purse into his coat and looked around the room one last time.

What the hell have you gotten me into, Sylvia?

The question followed him down the stairs, unanswered.

Chapter six

The Journey

Matthew

The carriage was smaller than yesterday's, a hired vehicle with worn seats and a persistent rattle that suggested at least one wheel was on its last legs. Matthew had inspected it before agreeing, checking the axles, the horses, the driver's hands and eyes for signs of drink or dishonesty.

The driver was a weathered man named Cobb who asked no questions and quoted a fair price. Good enough.

Mrs Archer supervised the loading of her trunks with the same quiet intensity as yesterday, scrutinising each one as it went up. The three with the brass fittings went last, positioned where she could see them through the rear window if she craned her neck.

She would crane her neck. He was certain of it.

They set off as the church bells struck eight, the road stretching north through farmland still silver with morning frost. Matthew sat across from her, back to the horses, where he could watch the road behind them and her face at the same time.

She'd pulled her shawl up again, shadowing her features. The merchant's wife, traveling north. Unremarkable.

Except he kept noticing things.

The way her fingers pleated the fabric of her skirt when she was thinking. The small furrow between her brows as she watched the countryside pass. The fact that she hadn't complained once about the inferior carriage, the hard seats, the cold.

The spoiled woman from yesterday would have complained. Would have demanded better.

Mrs Archer just sat quietly, watching the road.

"You're different," he said.

She glanced at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yesterday you couldn't stop talking. Couldn't sit still for ten minutes. Now you've been quiet for an hour."

"Perhaps I'm tired."

"Perhaps." He let the silence stretch. "Or perhaps yesterday was a performance."

Wariness or amusement flickered in her expression. Hard to tell which.

"Everyone performs, Mr Collins. You're performing right now. The stoic bodyguard, all grunts and glowers. I'm quite sure there's more to you than that."

"Not much."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you like."

She smiled. A small, private smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You see? A performance. You're pretending to be simpler than you are. I'm pretending to be sillier than I am. We're both liars."

"I haven't lied to you."

"Omission is a form of lying." She tilted her head, studying him. "What aren't you telling me, Mr Collins? What secrets are you keeping behind that impressive scowl?"