Page 31 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

The Sleeping Arrangement

Florence

The fire had burned low. The rain had settled into a steady rhythm, no longer hammering but persistent, a constant whisper against the glass.

Florence rose from the chair and stretched, feeling the pull in her shoulders, the ache of a body that had been tense for too long. Days. Weeks. Months, really, if she was honest. She couldn't remember the last time she'd truly relaxed.

She caught Matthew looking at her. Caught him looking away.

Interesting.

She'd noticed his awareness of her. Had been noticing it since the carriage. The way his eyes tracked her movements. The way he positioned himself between her and any potential threat, even when there was none. The way he'd tensed when she'd changed clothes, his back rigid, his breathing carefully controlled.

He wanted her. She'd spent a decade around courtesans; she knew the signs. The dilation of pupils. The slight flush along the neck. The way a man held himself still, as if movement might betray him.

Matthew Collins wanted her, and he was fighting it with every ounce of discipline he possessed.

She should leave it alone. Maintain the distance, keep the walls up, focus on the mission. But another thought crept in. Quieter. More dangerous.

She shut it down. She wouldn't think about what came after. The ultimatum Carrick had delivered, the marriage he'd demanded, the cage he was building for her.

Three weeks of running. Three weeks of fear. And then what? A forced marriage to a monster if her plan failed? Death, if she was lucky enough to escape that fate? She'd been living on borrowed time for years, always one step ahead of the men who wanted to silence her. Eventually, her luck would run out.

And she'd never let herself have anything. Not since Alex. Not since those few fumbling, disappointing nights and the devastation that followed. She'd closed that door, locked it, thrown away the key. Easier not to want. Easier not to risk.

But she was tired of easier.

She looked at Matthew. At his broad shoulders, his scarred hands, the stubborn set of his jaw. She'd known him for six years on paper. Had read Sylvia's reports, reviewed his history, approved his placement. She knew about his imprisonment, the gallows, the rescue. The moment Sylvia had found him and offered him something better.

She knew he was honourable. Disciplined. That he would never take something that wasn't freely given.

And she knew, had known since she'd climbed into that carriage and seen him in the flesh, that she wanted him.

Not because he was protective, though he was. Not because he was strong, though that too. But because he was dangerous. Intimidating. The kind of man who should have repulsed her after a decade spent running from men just like him. Instead, she found herself drawn to him precisely because of it.

Because he was her dangerous man. Because he'd do anything to protect her. Because he thought her beautiful and stayed away.

Danger and honour in the same man. It was a powerful aphrodisiac.

Three weeks to Scotland. And then she'd either be free or she'd be Carrick's wife. No middle ground.

If she was going to have something for herself—something real, something chosen—it had to be now.

"We need to address the bed," she said.

Matthew's expression flickered. Wariness. Awareness. The same battle she'd been watching him fight for two days.

"I'll take the floor," he said.

"There is no floor." She gestured at the cramped space: the trunk against one wall, the chest against another, the narrow strip between them barely wide enough to stand. "Unless you plan to sleep on top of the luggage."

"I've slept in worse places."

"So have I." She had. Barns and ditches and one memorable night in a coffin, hiding from men who wanted her dead. "That doesn't mean we should when there's a perfectly good bed."

She folded her arms and watched him struggle. He was going to refuse. Going to insist on the floor, on the distance, on the professional boundary he'd been clinging to like a lifeline.

She could let him. Could accept his refusal, retreat to the bed alone, spend the night listening to him shift on the cold floor while she stared at the ceiling and thought about everything she couldn't have.