Page 6 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Matthew's body recognised the sound before his mind caught up. An axle snapping under impossible strain. The horses' screams pierced the air, high and terrible, as leather harnesses groaned and snapped like whips. The driver's panicked shout—"Christ! Hold on!"—cut off mid word.

The carriage's right wheels lifted entirely off the ground.

The world tilted. Trunks slid and crashed against the walls like cannonballs below deck in a storm. Mrs Archer's face went white, her mouth opening on a scream that hadn't yet found voice.

Matthew moved on instinct.

He launched himself across the carriage as it began its inevitable topple, catching her around the waist and hauling her against his chest. The bench she'd been sitting on exploded into splinters as a trunk smashed through it, right where her spine had been a heartbeat before.

The world inverted. Breaking glass. Screaming metal. The terrible groan of wood twisting beyond its limits. Her scream finally came, muffled against his shirt, her fingers clawing into his shoulders as he curled his body around hers. He braced them both, tucking her head beneath his chin, and took the full brutal impact across his back as they crashed into what had been the side wall.

Pain detonated along his spine, the old gunshot wound shrieking in protest, but he held on.

The carriage settled with a final shudder. Wood creaked ominously. Dust and splinters rained down on them in the sudden, ringing silence.

For a moment, neither moved. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps against his throat. She was shaking.

"You hurt?" His voice came out rough and urgent.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, violet eyes huge in her pale face. A smear of dust marked one perfect cheekbone. "I... no."

He released her and kicked open what remained of the door. Daylight flooded in, blinding after the chaos. He lifted her out, his hands spanning her waist, and set her on the grass gently before turning immediately to the wreckage.

Chapter two

The Brute

Florence

Florence pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammering against the rigid stays of her corset. Too fast. Still too fast. She forced herself to breathe. Slow, measured, the way she'd taught herself.

She looked up at the sky and her stomach dropped. Dark clouds massed on the horizon, rolling towards them with the promise of a downpour.

"Hey, you!" She rounded on her burly escort. "Stack my trunks under this tree! If it rains, everything will be destroyed!"

The man didn't even glance at her. He squinted up at the sky, maddeningly unhurried, then walked towards the wreckage.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed against it, only then realising the driver was trapped under the box seat, groaning. One footman was helping the other upright, but both appeared uninjured.

Matthew Collins was already moving.

"Easy," he said to the driver, his voice low and calm as he crouched to examine the pinned legs. "Don't try to shift. Tell me what happened."

"Other carriage." The driver's face was grey, his voice thready with shock. "Came round the bend too fast, too wide. Ran us clean off the road."

"Get a look at it?"

"Black. Unmarked. Four horses." He winced as Matthew tested the weight of the beam. "Happened too fast to see more."

Florence stood a few paces back, her hand pressed to her throat in a picture of feminine distress. But her eyes moved over the scene with quiet efficiency: the angle of the overturned carriage, the direction the other vehicle must have gone, the fact that it hadn't stopped to offer aid.

It could be coincidence. A reckless driver fleeing the scene of his own mistake.

Or it could be him.

"Oh, this is dreadful," she said, her voice climbing just slightly. "Simply dreadful. Is he badly hurt? Will he be alright?"

Matthew said nothing and began shifting the debris pinning his legs.