Page 70 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Florence drew her cloak around her shoulders and lay back in the hay. The warmth of him still lingered on her skin. The taste of him still coated her tongue. But he was already gone. Not physically but in every other way that mattered.

She watched his silhouette against the starlit gap in the wall. Broad shoulders. Rigid spine. A man standing guard, as he always did.

I think I'm falling in love with you.

The words pressed against her teeth, desperate to be spoken. But what good would they do?

He wanted her body. That much was clear. He'd protected her, pleasured her, made her feel things she'd never imagined possible.

But want wasn't love. Desire wasn't devotion.

She closed her eyes and listened to the wind whisper through the gaps in the planks. The horse shifted in its corner, settling for the night. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.

Ask him, something whispered. Just ask.

But she couldn't. Because if she asked and he said nothing… if he shrugged and looked away and changed the subject as he always did…

She wasn't sure she could bear it.

Better to wonder. Better to hope. Better to hold onto the possibility that his silence meant something other than indifference.

Sleep pulled at her, heavy and insistent. She let it come, sinking into darkness with the image of Matthew's back burned into her mind.

Guarding her. Protecting her.

Never quite reaching for her.

She woke to grey light and the smell of rain.

Matthew was crouched by the barn's entrance, peering through a crack in the rotting wood. His coat was damp. Water dripped from his hair onto his collar.

"It's raining," she said. Stupid. Obvious. But her mind was still foggy with sleep.

"Has been for an hour." He didn't turn. "Roads will be mud. Slower going."

She sat up, wincing at the ache in her muscles. The hay had not been a kind bed. Neither had the activities of the night before, though she couldn't bring herself to regret those.

"Is it safe to move?"

"Safe enough. No one's passed on the road since before dawn." He stood and finally looked at her. His face was unreadable. "We should go. The border's still a day and a half out, and this weather will slow us."

She rose, brushing hay from her clothes, and gathered their satchels.

Matthew led the horse from the barn. The wagon, still covered in its camouflage of branches, sat where he'd left it, battered but functional.

"I'll clear the branches," he said. "You check the satchels. Make sure nothing got wet."

She did as he suggested. The documents were dry, protected by the oilcloth wrapping she'd insisted on back in London. A lifetime ago, it seemed now.

When she looked up, Matthew was hauling branches from the wagon and tossing them into the underbrush. His movements were quick, efficient, utterly focused on the task.

He hadn't mentioned last night. Hadn't touched her this morning. Hadn't even looked at her longer than necessary.

This is how it will be, she realised. He gives himself in the dark and takes it back in the light.

She should be grateful. He'd kept her safe. Kept her sane. Given her pleasure she'd never known existed.

But gratitude felt hollow when what she wanted was so much more.