Page 129 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"I suggested. Firmly."

"You took my pen."

"It was a strategic intervention."

She laughed. That free, joyful sound he'd first heard on their wedding day and had been addicted to ever since.

The baby stirred, one tiny fist waving in the air. Matthew crossed the room and caught it, marvelling as he always did at the miniature fingers, the perfect nails, the impossible smallness of new life.

"He's got your grip," Florence said.

"He'll need it. If he's going to keep up with you."

Later, after the baby had been fed and settled and handed back to the nurse, they stood together at the nursery window. The Edinburgh skyline stretched before them, grey stone and church spires and the distant gleam of the sea.

"Rochford sent a letter this morning," Florence said quietly. "The newspapers are ready to run the next series of articles. Exposing three more operations in London."

"Good."

"It's not enough."

"It's never enough for you."

"It shouldn't be enough for anyone." She turned to face him. "Carrick was one man. One operation. For every one we shut down, two more spring up."

"Then we shut down two more. And two more after that."

"It's endless."

"Aye. It is." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "But you're not fighting alone anymore."

She leaned into his touch. "I know."

"Do you?" He cupped her face in his hands. "Because you still act like you're the only one who can fix things."

"Old habits."

"Bad habits. You built an army. Let them fight."

"Says the man who still sleeps with a knife under his pillow."

"That's prudence, not habit."

"It's paranoia."

"It's kept you safe for three years."

She smiled despite herself. "I suppose it has."

That evening, they hosted dinner.

The dining room was crowded. More crowded than any respectable Edinburgh household would consider proper. But then, nothing about their household was proper.

Viscount Rochford sat at one end of the table, deep in conversation with the Marquess of Ashworth about parliamentary strategy. Adeline and Dahlia had their heads together, plotting something that would probably give their husbands grey hairs. Mr Lockwood was teaching Tam a series of signs, the scarred fighter's massive hands surprisingly delicate as he mimicked the gestures.

Brennan had claimed the seat nearest the kitchen door, the better to intercept additional servings before they reached the table. Duff was regaling Clair with a story that was almost certainly inappropriate, but the former courtesan was laughing so hard she had to dab her eyes with her napkin. Julian had positioned his wheeled chair near the piano and was playing softly, providing background music that somehow made the chaos feel orchestrated.

Sylvia and Albert sat together, as they always did, her hand resting on his arm, his head inclined towards hers. The disgrace that had once defined him had been replaced by respect, a physician who'd dedicated his practice to women's health, whose testimony had helped convict a dozen traffickers.