Page 54 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

A girl of perhaps six launched herself at Matthew as he climbed down from the carriage. He caught her easily, swinging her up onto his hip.

"Hello, Rosie. You've grown a foot since I saw you last."

"Mama says I'll be tall like Papa." The girl wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. "Did you bring me something?"

"Might have done." He reached into his pocket and produced a small paper packet. "Peppermints. Don't tell your brothers or they'll riot."

The girl stuffed the packet into her pinafore with the efficiency of a seasoned smuggler. "I won't tell."

Florence took Matthew’s extended hand and climbed down from the carriage, and the girl's attention shifted immediately. Dark eyes assessed her with unfiltered curiosity.

"Who's she?"

"Mind your manners, Rosie." But Matthew was smiling. "This is… Mrs Collins. My wife."

The lie rolled off his tongue so easily that Florence almost believed it herself. She'd been his faux wife for ten days now, and she hadn't minded the deception. Had minded it less with each passing night. The use of his family name made her heart full.

"You got married?" Rosie's eyes went wide. "Papa! Uncle Matty got married!"

A man appeared in the doorway: tall, broad shouldered, with an eye socket that had been broken but wasn’t quite set properly. His face split into a grin when he saw Matthew.

"Well, I'll be damned." He crossed the yard in three strides and pulled Matthew into an embrace. "Thought you'd forgotten where we lived."

"Been busy."

"Too busy to visit your oldest friend?" Jack pulled back and clapped Matthew on both shoulders. "Let me look at you. Christ, you're still ugly as sin."

"Says the man whose face stopped a hundred fists."

"Stopped them with style." Jack turned to Florence, and his expression shifted, still warm, but more guarded. Assessing. "And who's this, then?"

"My wife. Florence."

The word wife sent a small thrill through her chest. Ridiculous. It was a cover story. Nothing more.

But the way Matthew said it, the quiet pride in his voice, made it feel like something else entirely.

"Florence." Jack took her hand and bowed over it with surprising grace. "Welcome to our home. Any woman brave enough to marry this stubborn bastard deserves a medal."

"I'm beginning to realise that," she said.

Jack laughed. A big, booming sound that startled the chickens. "Oh, I like her. Nell! Come out here and meet Matty's wife!"

A woman emerged from the cottage, wiping her hands on her apron. She was small and sturdy, with greying hair pulled back in a practical bun and the kind of face that had seen hardship and learned to smile anyway.

"Matthew." She crossed to him and reached up to cup his face in her flour dusted hands. "You look thin. Have you been eating?"

"Yes, Nell."

"Liar." She turned to Florence, and her eyes—sharp and knowing—swept over her in a single glance. Whatever she saw made her expression falter. Concern, quickly masked. "Come inside, love. You look dead on your feet."

Florence was dead on her feet. Ten days of rough travel, little sleep, and constant vigilance had worn her down to the bone. But she hadn't realised it showed until this stranger looked at her with maternal worry.

"Thank you," she managed. "We're grateful for your hospitality."

"None of that." Nell took her arm and steered her towards the cottage. "Any friend of Matthew's is family. And family doesn't stand on ceremony."

The cottage was small but warm, filled with the smell of baking bread and wood smoke. Two boys materialised from somewhere. Younger than Rosie, perhaps four and three, and immediately attached themselves to Matthew's legs.