Page 11 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

What the hell is in those trunks?

Sylvia had told him Mrs Archer was in danger. Had told him someone wanted to stop her reaching Bath. She'd been vague about who and why, and Matthew hadn't pressed. Wasn't his job to press. His job was protection, not interrogation.

But watching Mrs Archer count her trunks like a miser counts gold, watching her disguise herself with the ease of someone who'd done it before, watching her handle a crisis with the cold efficiency of a general managing a retreat.

He was beginning to suspect Sylvia had told him a fraction of the truth. That whatever Mrs Archer was running from, and whatever she was running towards, was bigger than a widow fleeing an unwanted suitor or a family scandal.

Those trunks weren't full of gowns and jewelry. Or if they were, they were also full of something else. Something worth killing for.

Something worth dying to protect.

Mrs Archer glanced back at him, and for an instant their eyes met. Hers were calm, questioning—coming?—as though she hadn't just been cataloguing her possessions like they contained state secrets.

Matthew followed her inside.

The inn's interior was clean and warm, smelling of roasted meat and fresh bread. The innkeeper appeared, gesturing towards a corridor. "The trunks are being taken up now, sir. Might I show you and your wife to a private parlour while the room is prepared? Bit of supper, perhaps?"

"That would be welcome," Matthew said.

Mrs Archer had already drifted towards the stairs, watching the last trunk ascend. Only when it disappeared around the landing did her shoulders ease, a minute relaxation that told him more than any words could.

Whatever's in those trunks, she's more afraid of losing them than she is of the men chasing her.

He filed that away with everything else.

The private parlour was small but comfortable, with a fire crackling in the grate and curtains drawn against the gathering dusk. Mrs Archer sank into a chair near the hearth, and for a moment the performance slipped. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her. It was then that Matthew saw the exhaustion beneath the mask, the bone-deep weariness of someone who'd been running on fear for too long.

Then her eyes opened, and she was watching him again.

Matthew didn't sit. He moved to the window, drawing back the curtain to scan the street outside. Quiet. A few locals heading home. No black carriages. No watching figures.

He let the curtain fall.

"How much did Mrs Raines tell you?" Mrs Archer asked.

"That you need safe escort to Bath. That you can't trust anyone close to you. That someone wants to stop you from getting there."

"That's all?"

"That's enough."

She studied him. He could feel the weight of her gaze even with his back half-turned. Measuring. Deciding how much to reveal.

"And what do you know about me?" she asked.

"Mrs Archer. Widow. Sister to a marquess." He turned to face her. "Running from something you won't name."

"That's accurate enough." She paused. "For now."

For now. As if the truth were something to be dispensed in careful doses, when she decided he'd earned it.

A serving girl arrived with potted meat, bannock, and ale. Matthew watched Mrs Archer fall on the food without delicacy—tearing bread, eating with the focused efficiency of someone who'd learned not to waste opportunities for fuel.

Not how a marquess's sister ate. Not how any lady he'd ever seen ate.

He filed that away too. The list was getting long.

"Sit down," she said between bites. "You make me nervous, looming like that."