Page 102 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"The Tansley woman." Matthew's voice was grim. Humiliated. "What man can resist a woman's mouth? She got me distracted. Then she bit down." He shifted again, wincing. "Would've bitten it clean off if I hadn't kicked her in the face."

Carrick's mouth opened. Closed. His hand drifted unconsciously towards his own lap.

"She..." He swallowed. "She bit..."

"Aye."

Horror spread across Carrick's features. The visceral, primal kind.

"I see," he said faintly.

"So." Matthew reached for his whisky. "I'll pass on the harem. For now."

Carrick nodded. He still looked slightly pale.

Silence stretched between them. When Carrick spoke again, his voice had changed. Thoughtful. Disturbed.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "marriage to the Tansley woman is... ill advised."

Matthew said nothing.

"Perhaps," Carrick continued, "it's best to deal with her from a distance. A long distance." He shuddered slightly. "There are other ways to destroy someone."

"Your choice."

Carrick drained his whisky in one long swallow. Poured another.

"To dealing with enemies from a distance," he said, raising his glass.

Matthew clinked his glass against his brother's, keeping his expression grim. Inside, warm satisfaction spread through his chest. Two birds, one stone.

"I have a job for you tomorrow night," Carrick said. "A delivery arriving at Leith. Fourteen girls from the Continent. I need someone I can trust to oversee the transfer."

Fourteen girls. Matthew's hand tightened on the glass.

"To the usual location?"

"The warehouse on Water Street, yes. You remember it." Carrick's smile held old cruelty. "You’ve been there plenty of times before you developed a conscience."

"I was young."

"You were useful. You could be useful again." Carrick waved a hand. "Tomorrow night. Midnight. Don't be late."

Matthew nodded and left before his face could betray him.

The rational part of his mind, the part that had kept him alive for thirty years, screamed that this was suicide.

Carrick had men watching the roads. Had informants in every village between Edinburgh and Glasgow. If Matthew was spotted heading west, towards the Hollow, his cover would be blown. The mission would be over.

He made it three miles before he almost turned back.

The moon was high and bright, offering little cover. Every shadow seemed to hold watching eyes. Every distant sound of hoofbeats made his hand go to his knife.

This was reckless. This was stupid. This was exactly the kind of emotional decision he'd spent his life avoiding.

But three weeks.

Three weeks of playing the loyal brother. Three weeks of watching Carrick's cruelty and pretending to approve. Three weeks of sleeping alone in a narrow bed, reaching for a woman who wasn't there, waking with her name on his lips and her absence like a wound in his chest.