Page 26 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"You tensed."

"I’m always tense."

She glanced back at him, water dripping from her hair. "Must be exhausting."

"Keeps me alive."

"Keeps you wound like a watch spring, more like."

They reached the top of the stairs. The hallway was narrow, the ceiling low. He had to duck to avoid the beams the innkeeper had warned about. The door at the end was small and plain.

Matthew set down the trunk to unlock the door, then stepped inside first.

The room was tiny. A sloped ceiling that followed the roof line, a single window rattling with rain, a washstand in the corner, a small chest for belongings.

And a bed.

One bed, barely wide enough for two, pushed against the wall beneath the window.

Mrs Archer stepped in behind him. He heard her stop. Heard the small intake of breath as she took in the space.

"Cozy," she said. Her voice was carefully neutral.

Matthew looked at the bed. Looked at the floor. There was perhaps four feet of clear space between the bed and the door, most of it taken up by the chest and now her trunk.

Not enough room to sleep without being pressed against the bed frame. Not enough room to maintain any distance at all.

"I'll manage," he said.

"On what? The ceiling?" She was shivering again, her arms wrapped around herself. "There's barely room to stand."

"I said I'll manage."

She looked at him then moved towards her trunk, the one that held everything, and rested her hand on its lid. Checking. Always checking.

"We need dry clothes," she said. "And warmth. Everything else can wait."

She was right. They were both soaked, both cold, both running on fumes. Logistics first. Arguments later.

Matthew closed the door and tried not to think about how small the bed looked.

Or how long the night would be.

Mrs Archer stood by the window, still in her wet clothes, watching the rain stream down the glass. She'd unpinned her hair, and it hung in dark, sodden ropes down her back.

She was shivering.

"You need to change," Matthew said.

"So do you."

"You first."

She turned, and he saw how pale she'd become. Her lips had a bluish tinge. The cold had settled into her deeper than he'd realised.

"I'll turn around," he said. "Be quick."

He faced the door, listening to her move towards the trunks. The click of a lock. The rustle of wet fabric being peeled away.