Page 83 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"Or." Matthew leaned closer. "You tell me what I want to know, and we drop you at a doctor's on our way out. You might live. Depends on how fast we move and how much you tell me."

"I can't. He'll kill me."

"He's not here. I am." Matthew let the knife in his hand catch the faint moonlight. "Talk."

The boy talked.

Carrick had men stationed at every major crossing. He'd been tracking them for days, not sure of their exact location but narrowing the search. Tonight's attack was one of three planned across the region.

"He'll send more," the boy gasped. "Every day until she's caught. He won't stop."

"Why?"

"The wedding. He's had the banns read for three weeks now. Everything's ready. He just needs her."

Ice flooded his veins.

Three weeks. The banns had been read. Carrick was ready to marry her the moment she was in his grasp.

"Does he know who's escorting her?" Matthew asked.

The boy's brow furrowed in confusion. "Some bodyguard. Collins, they said. Prize fighter."

"That's all? Just a prize fighter?"

"That's all I know. I swear."

Carrick didn't know. Didn't realise his own brother was the one standing between him and Florence.

Good. That was an advantage.

Matthew stood. "Brennan. Get him to the wagon. We're dropping him at the first physician we pass."

"You're letting him live?" Duff sounded incredulous.

"He's going to deliver a message for me." Matthew looked down at the boy. "Tell Carrick you heard our men say Mr and Mrs Collins fled east. Be convincing or he’ll kill you himself."

The boy nodded frantically.

"And if you tell him anything else, if you mention the border or anything true, I'll find you. And what's in your gut now will feel like a love tap compared to what I'll do."

The boy believed him. Matthew could see it in his eyes.

Good.

They moved within the hour.

They loaded the injured boy into a closed carriage his friends had brought and set off into the darkness.

Florence sat across from the boy in the cramped interior of the carriage, tending his wound. Her hands were steady as she packed the gash with cloth, applied pressure, checked his breathing.

Matthew watched from the opposite bench, his own wounds freshly bandaged. When she’d first realised he was injured, she'd fussed over him, tended to him with care. For a moment, he'd hoped the cold silence between them had thawed.

Then she'd determined the wound was superficial. A flesh wound, nothing more.

The tenderness had vanished like mist.

She hadn't looked at him since. Hadn't spoken except to report on the boy's condition. The cold shoulder from last night had frozen solid once more.