Page 52 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard
He lifted his head. She was crying, silent tears sliding into her hair.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing." She laughed, a watery sound. "Nothing's wrong."
He understood. He felt the same.
He kissed her softly. Briefly. Then he rolled off her and onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His body hummed.
She shifted beside him, and he felt her hesitate. Waiting, perhaps, for him to pull her close. To say something.
He should. He knew he should. But the words tangled in his throat, caught behind walls he didn't know how to tear down.
"Seventeen days," he said instead.
A pause.
"Seventeen days."
"We should sleep. Long ride tomorrow."
"Yes."
He heard the crack in her voice, but before he could examine it, she turned onto her side, facing away from him.
He stared at the ceiling. His hand twitched towards her, wanting to pull her back, to wrap himself around her, to say the things lodged in his throat.
He didn't.
Instead, he listened to her breathing slow, felt the warmth of her body inches from his, and wondered why doing the right thing felt so much like a mistake.
Chapter fourteen
Before Everything
Florence
Ten days on the road had changed everything.
They'd abandoned the main thoroughfares after the third day, taking farm tracks and drovers' paths that wound through countryside most travellers never saw. Matthew chose their routes with the instinct of a man who'd spent years moving through shadows: avoiding toll roads, skirting market towns, doubling back when something felt wrong.
They changed drivers, when they could locate one, with each new horse. They paid well for silence, never giving the same name twice. Mr and Mrs Brown. Mr and Mrs Smith. Mr and Mrs Jones. The lies came easily now.
Perhaps because they didn't feel like lies anymore.
Florence watched the grey green hills roll past the carriage window and felt Matthew's hand settle on her thigh beneath her skirts. Warm. Possessive. So natural now that she didn't startle at the touch.
"You're thinking," he said.
"I'm always thinking."
"You're thinking loudly. I can hear it from here."
She turned to look at him. His legs stretched out, his coat discarded, his shirt open at the collar. He looked younger when he wasn't on guard. Softer.
"I'm thinking about how much has changed," she admitted.
"Since when?"
