Page 119 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

She let him lead her to the centre of the room, where the fighters had cleared a space. Julian shifted to something slower.

Matthew took her in his arms.

He was right. He wasn't a good dancer. His steps were uncertain, his rhythm slightly off. But his hands were sure on her waist, and his eyes never left her face.

"I meant what I said," he murmured as they turned. "Every word."

"I know."

"I'll probably still make mistakes."

"Probably."

"But I'll try. Every day."

Florence stopped dancing. Reached up to cup his face in her hands.

"You already are," she said softly. "You always were. I was just too blind to see it."

His eyes closed. He leaned into her touch.

"I don't deserve you."

"You are right."

He laughed. That rough, rusty sound she loved.

"Aye. I won’t forget."

He kissed her again, soft and sweet, while Julian played and their mismatched guests celebrated around them.

Outside, night had fallen over Edinburgh. Gas lamps flickered along the Royal Mile, casting yellow pools on wet cobblestones that held the day's rain and the city's ancient smell of damp stone and chimney soot. Somewhere, Carrick sat in a cell, awaiting trial. Somewhere, the newspapers were printing more headlines, exposing his crimes to the world. Somewhere, the women he'd hurt were beginning to rebuild their lives.

But in this room, in this moment, there was only Florence and Matthew, dancing badly to Julian's cheerful piano and the hiss of gaslight, surrounded by fighters and aristocrats and everyone they loved.

It wasn't the wedding she'd imagined as a girl.

It was better.

Chapter thirty-one

The Good Thing About Making Love

Florence

The room Sylvia had prepared for them was small and simple. A brass bed with a white counterpane. A washstand in the corner. A single window overlooking the back garden, where moonlight silvered the bare branches of a rowan tree.

A fire crackled in the hearth, filling the space with warmth.

Florence stood near the window, her back to the door, listening to the sounds of the celebration fading below. The fiddle had stopped. The laughter had dimmed to murmurs.

Her heart was racing. Which was absurd. She'd had this man inside her, had taken him in her mouth, had made him beg.

But this was different.

Before, there had been walls. Things unspoken. Now there was nothing between them but air and firelight and the rest of their lives.

The door opened. Closed.