Page 63 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Florence squinted through the gloom. The structure was more ruin than building. Half the roof had collapsed, and gaps showed between the weathered planks like missing teeth. But the remaining walls still stood, and the portion with intact roofing would provide some shelter.

"Will it do?" she asked.

She followed Matthew’s lead and studied the sky. Clear. Bright moon. Stars beginning to prick through the darkness. No clouds, no threat of rain.

"It'll have to."

He climbed down from the wagon and stood motionless for a long moment, scanning the horizon in every direction. Nothing moved. No lights flickered in the distance. They were alone in a sea of empty moorland.

"Problem," he said quietly.

"What?"

"A wagon and horse sitting in the middle of a field. Come morning, anyone passing on the road will see it. Ask questions."

"What do we do?"

"Hide them."

Matthew unhitched the horse and led it towards the barn. Florence followed, the leather satchel heavy against her hip, watching as he settled the animal in the most sheltered corner of the structure.

"Stay here," he said. "Keep quiet. I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"To make our wagon disappear."

He vanished into the darkness before she could respond.

Florence stood in the ruined barn, one hand on the horse's neck for comfort, and listened. At first, she heard nothing other than the wind whispering through the gaps in the planks, the horse's soft breathing, the thud of her own heart.

Then, the crack of branches. A rustle of leaves. Sounds of movement from twenty yards distant.

She peered through a gap in the wall, straining to see.

A shadow moved among the trees, Matthew's broad silhouette, barely visible against the deeper darkness. As she watched, he reached up and wrapped his arms around the tree trunk.

And climbed.

Florence's breath stalled.

She'd known he was strong. Had felt that strength in his hands, his arms, the way he'd lifted her like she weighed nothing. But watching him scale the tree was something else entirely. He moved with a fluidity that seemed impossible. No wasted motion, no hesitation. One branch to the next, higher and higher, until he was fifteen feet off the ground.

Then the flash of his knife in the starlight. The crack and groan of a severed limb. The branch crashed to the ground below.

He descended as quickly as he'd climbed, gathered the fallen branches, and disappeared towards where they'd left the wagon.

Florence watched, transfixed, as he repeated the process. Tree after tree. Branch after branch. His movements were efficient, almost mechanical, but there was a grace to them that made her mouth go dry.

By the time he returned to the barn, sweating despite the cool night air, bits of leaves caught in his beard, she'd lost count of how many trips he'd made.

"Wagon's covered," he said, slightly breathless. "Won't be invisible come daylight, but it should pass for deadfall to anyone not looking too closely."

"That was..." She searched for the right word. "Impressive."

He shrugged, brushing debris from his coat. "Climbing trees. Not exactly a gentleman's skill."

"You moved like a cat. A very large, very lethal cat."