Page 39 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"Bloody hell, woman! Have you forgotten why we’re here?"

She stopped in her tracks. She didn't look hurt, exactly. Just perplexed. The heat in her eyes banked slightly. Not gone, just tempered. "No. I haven't forgotten. But I've learned that fear is a poor companion for long journeys."

She crossed her arms, pushing her full breasts together. Matthew swore under his breath as he looked away.

"You are quite remarkable in your discipline." It didn't sound like a compliment.

"Not remarkable enough or I wouldn’t have touched you last night."

She tapped a slender finger on her cheek. That’s when he noticed her dimple. Of all things, she had to have the prettiest dimple to boot. "What do you want to do now?"

"I just want to do my job." His voice was still hoarse.

"And we can’t have any fun while you are doing your job?"

"No."

Her eyes fixed on his. He held her gaze, willing himself not to look at the bare curve of her shoulder where the blanket had slipped. Not to stare down at her legs through the thin chemise. It didn’t matter. He could see them in his mind’s eye. His rod stirred again, straining against his trousers, and he knew he had seconds before his body made the decision for him.

He marched past her. "We should get moving."

"Of course." She turned towards where her clothes were neatly piled. "I'll need a few minutes to dress."

"I'll wait outside."

He grabbed his coat and boots and fled.

Fled. There was no other word for it. He knew if he stayed in the room while she dressed, he would absolutely, undoubtedly, kiss her. At minimum.

He leaned against the wall outside the door and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The hallway was cold, the floorboards rough under his stockinged feet. He could hear her moving inside: the rustle of fabric, the click of the trunk opening, the soft sounds of a woman putting herself together.

He remembered taking her apart.

Stop it.

He couldn't stop it. That was the problem.

Chapter twelve

The Carriage

Matthew

The rain had stopped overnight, but the sky remained grey, heavy with the promise of more. The inn's yard was a churned mess of mud and puddles, and Matthew had to steady Florence—no, Mrs Archer—twice as they made their way to the carriage.

Each touch was agony. Brief contact—his hand on her elbow, her fingers gripping his arm—that had his muscles coiling with restrained energy. He released her as quickly as possible each time, and if she noticed his haste, she didn't comment.

Cobb had the horses ready, the trunk secured, the other luggage accounted for. Matthew checked everything twice, more to distract himself than out of any real concern.

He handed Mrs Archer into the carriage and climbed in after her, settling into the seat across from hers. The same arrangement as yesterday. The same small space, the same proximity, the same awareness of every breath she took.

Except everything had changed.

The carriage lurched into motion. Mrs Archer turned to look out the window, her profile sharp against the grey light. She was quiet. Composed. Giving no indication that anything was different.

Matthew opened his book and tried to read but the words swam incomprehensibly.

The silence stretched. A mile passed. Two.