Page 77 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"Carrick," Brennan said eventually, his voice hardening. "Saw him at the fights last month. Ringside, as always. Likes watching men bleed. Too much of a coward to step in the ring himself."

Matthew's expression shuttered. "He's still coming around?"

"Regular as clockwork. Brings his men. Makes bets. Throws money around like it'll buy him respect." Brennan spat into the fire. "It won't."

"He's asked after you," the young man with the crooked nose said. Connell, Florence thought she'd heard. "More than once."

"And?"

"We told him what we always tell him. That Matthew Collins isn't welcome here." Connell's lip curled. "That we don't harbour men who ruin women."

The air around the fire shifted. Florence felt it. A sudden tension, a stiffening of shoulders.

"Easy," Brennan warned.

"What? It's the story, isn't it?" Connell glanced at Florence, then away. "Carrick asks about Collins, we tell him Collins ran off after ruining some poor girl. Keeps him off the scent."

"It's not all lies, though, is it?" Duff said with a laugh.

"She was already ruined when—" Connell stopped abruptly, seeming to realise he was about to say too much.

A heavy silence fell. The fire crackled.

"There was a woman," Brennan said gruffly, as if compelled to explain. "Isabelle. She and Collins had an arrangement. On and off, like. Nothing serious. But Carrick's men came sniffing around a few years back, and we needed a story that would explain why Collins wasn't welcome. So we used it. Made it sound worse than it was."

"It's just a tale," Tam said quietly. His first full sentence of the evening. "To throw off wolves."

Florence nodded slowly, absorbing this. She knew the cover story must be built on a kernel of truth. Matthew had a woman. Isabelle. An arrangement.

She kept her face neutral. She was practiced at this.

"We should turn in," Matthew said, rising. "Long ride tomorrow."

Brennan gestured towards a tent at the edge of the camp. "That one's yours. Not much, but it'll keep the wind off."

"It's enough."

Florence rose, brushing hay from her skirts. Exhaustion was pulling at her, the bone deep weariness of too many miles and too many revelations.

She turned towards the men and dipped her head in thanks.

She then followed Matthew to the tent.

The interior was cramped, barely room for two people to lie side by side. A rough blanket had been spread over packed earth. It smelled of canvas and woodsmoke.

Matthew ducked inside first, then turned to help her through the flap. His hands were careful. Distant.

They settled onto the blanket without speaking. He lay on his back, staring up at the canvas ceiling. She lay beside him, her back to his side, only her bottom touching him.

The silence stretched. She closed her eyes and coaxed sleep, but her mind returned repeatedly to Isabelle.

"Tell me about Isabelle."

The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

Matthew didn't move.

"What do you want to know?"