Page 55 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"Uncle Matty, watch me! Watch me do a somersault!"

"No, watch me! I can do a better one!"

Matthew let himself be dragged into the small parlour, where he proceeded to watch approximately seventeen somersaults of varying quality, praising each one with the same grave seriousness.

Florence stood in the doorway and watched.

She'd seen him vigilant. Seen him protective. Seen him take her with such intensity she'd forgotten her own name. But she'd never seen him like this. Patient and gentle, letting a three-year-old climb him like a tree, pretending to be knocked down by a four-year-old's punch.

"He's good with them," Nell said quietly, appearing at her elbow. "Always has been."

"I didn't know."

"Most people don't. They see the size of him, the scars, and they assume." Nell's voice was matter of fact. "But I've known Matthew for fifteen years. He's got gentle hands, that one." She paused. "The gentlest I've ever known."

Florence thought about those hands. The way they'd gripped her hips, her hair, her throat. The way they'd touched her afterward: soft, reverent, like she was a woman to be desired and protected. No more. No less.

"Yes," she said quietly. "He does."

Supper was a loud, chaotic affair. The children squabbled over bread. Jack told increasingly improbable stories about his and Matthew's fighting days. Nell moved between the kitchen and the table while keeping all her children in their chairs which seemed like an impossible feat.

Florence sat beside Matthew on a narrow bench, his thigh pressed against hers, and felt warmth spread in her chest. This was what a family looked like. What a home looked like. She'd almost forgotten.

"So," Jack said, refilling Matthew's cup with ale, "you going to tell me what brings you north? And don't say business. I know that look."

Matthew's hand found Florence's under the table. Squeezed.

"Trouble," he said simply.

"What kind?"

"The kind that follows."

Jack nodded slowly. He didn't ask for details. Perhaps he understood that some things were better left unsaid. "You need to lie low?"

"For a night. Maybe two. Then we push on."

"You're welcome as long as you need." Jack's eyes flickered to Florence, then back to Matthew. "Both of you."

"Thank you." Matthew's voice was rough. "I wouldn't have come if there was anywhere else."

"Don't." Jack held up a hand. "You spared my life twice in the ring. You don't owe me explanations, Matty. You never will."

Something passed between them. The wordless understanding of men who'd bled together. Florence looked away, feeling like an intruder on something private.

"The old dormitory," Matthew said after a moment. "Is it still standing?"

"Aye. Brennan still runs it, though his knees are shot to hell. Most of the lads have moved on. Davies died last winter; his heart, they said. Tam's a trainer now, works with the young ones coming up. Duff..." Jack grinned. "Duff's a bookmaker. Making more money than any of us ever did with our fists."

"Duff?" Matthew laughed, surprised and warm. "That mooncalf?"

"So we thought. Got a head for numbers, turns out. Who knew?"

"Not me. I once watched him lose a week's wages betting on which raindrop would reach the bottom of the window first."

"To be fair, that was a very competitive raindrop."

They dissolved into laughter; the easy, comfortable laughter of old friends. Florence watched Matthew's face transform. The hard lines softened. His eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked like the man he might have been if life had been kinder.