Page 85 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

"Ready?" he asked.

No. Yes. I don't know.

"Yes."

They walked together to the stone marker. The grass was wet with morning dew, soaking through her worn boots. The sky was grey, heavy with clouds. Not the wedding she'd imagined as a girl, white lace and orange blossoms and a church full of well-wishers.

But she'd stopped imagining that wedding a long time ago.

Brennan positioned them facing each other, the stone marker at their side. Tam and Duff stood a few paces back, silent witnesses.

"Keep it simple," Brennan said. "State your names and intentions. Make it legal."

Matthew cleared his throat. His lips flat, his eyes fixed on her face.

"I, Matthew Munro Carrick—"

Florence blinked. His real name. The one he'd hidden for over a decade. The one that tied him to the brother he hated.

He was claiming her with his true name.

"—take you, Florence Archer, as my wife. From this day forward. Before these witnesses."

His hands were trembling. She felt it where his fingers gripped hers. Nerves? Cold? She couldn't read him. Could never read him.

"Your turn, lass," Brennan said gently.

Florence swallowed past the tightness in her throat.

"I, Florence Elizabeth Archer, take you, Matthew Munro Carrick, as my husband." Her voice wavered. She forced it steady. "From this day forward. Before these witnesses."

"Done," Brennan said. "You're wed."

Wed. Bound by law to a man whose heart she couldn’t understand.

The tears came before she could stop them.

They slipped down her cheeks, hot and silent. She didn't know why. Perhaps relief, exhaustion, the weight of everything finally cracking through. Or maybe it was simpler. Maybe it was knowing she'd just married a man who'd offered strategy and duty but not love.

She turned from him, presenting her back. She was Madam Tansley, by Jove. She never allowed anyone to witness her vulnerability.

Behind her, she heard Brennan murmur something. Footsteps retreating. He was giving them privacy, shooing the others away.

Then Matthew's footsteps. Heavy. Determined.

His hand closed on her arm. Not gentle but firm. He turned her to face him.

His expression was taut, then turned confused as he studied her face, which then turned into fear.

"Tell me what to do." His voice was rough. "Tell me what to say. I don't know how to stop you from crying. I don't know how to make you less angry. I don't know how to make you happy." He swallowed hard. "I've never known the right words. Just tell me, and I'll do it."

She stared at him.

This man. This infuriating, impossible man. Who was standing before her, asking for instructions on how to love her.

A sound escaped her. A laugh—small, watery, almost painful.

His face shifted. Wounded. "I finally say something and you laugh?"