Chapter 10

“Damn, damn, damn.” Maddy cursed under her breath as she took stock of the broken crockery at her feet. She bent down and started picking up the larger pieces, gathering them in her apron.

So much for a quiet morning. Now that the house was mostly to rights, she’d hoped she could focus on the tasks she was actually looking forward to: unpacking her books and tidying up the overgrown kitchen garden. Perhaps there would be a cutting or two she could take back to her own garden at Everwell before it was plowed under for a school for boys with an overabundance of privilege.

What could I do with a garden like this?

If only she’d had the money her parents had set aside for her dowry. Patrick Murphy was a very wealthy man—not as rich as the da Silvas, but still respectable. Of course, it was never meant for her. Malcolm would have married her, taken her money and she would have been left in a loveless marriage with a man who’d thought her abhorrent.

She swallowed the ugly memory as she gathered the shards at her feet. She had a garden at Everwell, and Mr. da Silva was in the business of making money. Her dowry, while substantial, would not have been enough to compete with an exclusive school like George’s College. He wouldn’t just give this all away.

To her surprise, he’d worked hard and without too much complaint since their arrival at The Grove. And—though she would rather die than confess it aloud—it was no hardship to watch him. His long, lean muscles had glistened in the sun as he and Daniel put up the poles for the clothesline. And when he’d taken a moment to splash a bit of clean water on his face after several hours of helping Teddy chop wood and clean out the chimney, Maddy had stopped to watch. It was unfair that he resembled a slightly soiled Adonis after all that work while she’d been on her knees with water-soaked hands, hair that had all the appeal of a rusted steel brush, and cheeks as red as an overripe tomato.

The exercise at least helped to distract her from the fact that Nelson Taylor had crossed her path. Any faint hope she’d had that he’d been a distant relation of that hateful man had evaporated. The name had landed on Maddy’s ears like an exploding keg of black powder. Nelson Taylor had been a rival suitor of Malcom Ferguson—Maddy’s fiancée.

Former fiancée.

Malcolm was dead, and Maddy had run as far as she could from the rumours that she’d killed him. Dread descended on her like a fast moving storm. If Nelson had recognized her, there would be more than just Beau da Silva’s neck on the line. That awful story in the Chronicle would be nothing compared to the devastation Everwell would face if it came to light that they’d had a woman accused of murder living under their roof. Maddy had no defense against the power of story told by man like Nelson Taylor. Even her parents had believed it. If it weren’t for Phillipa Hartley, she would never have found a second chance at life. Everwell had protected her when no one else would. She owed Phillipa and the society everything.

“Should I be happy this found the floor before you threw it at my head?”

Mr. da Silva’s casual sarcasm interrupted Maddy’s worries. He stood in the door, his hands in his pockets smiling at her with a look that seemed to be equal parts humour and concern.

Maddy tried to ignore him as she resumed collecting the broken pieces of pottery. Her entire body was dangerously aware of him, making the task far more difficult than it should have been. The sting from a sharp piece of smashed crockery slicing through one of her fingers was the price of her inattention. Instinctively she dropped the shard, which landed with an unceremonious clink in her apron, and put her finger to her mouth.

Mr. da Silva approached, undisguised concern crinkling his brow as he crouched down opposite her. It stirred Maddy in a way that, if she’d cared to think about it, she’d never quite experienced. And she did not care to think about it.

“Let me see,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she replied, pulling her finger away, betrayed by the blood flowing freely over it. It was only a small gash, but the cut was ragged, and deeper than she’d realized. Still, between her time in the garden and the occasional job for the Scandalous Spinsters that had been a little too close for comfort, Maddy was hardly bothered by a cut.

“I have no doubt,” he replied, even as he took her hand, unbidden, and wrapped it in a clean handkerchief he produced from his pocket. He applied gentle pressure to the wound. “But let’s make sure.”

A pause settled over them, dulling every other sensation. The sounds of the birds fell away, as did the smell of the coffee beans and every other thing except the heady presence of Beau da Silva, crouched next to her, his hand wrapped around hers. Even the gentle throb from the cut faded, unable to compete with the thrumming of her heart.

What was this feeling? Maddy had no words for it. Whatever it was, she was certain it was dangerous. It softened her, when she needed to be hard and on alert.

Eager to break this curious spell, she straightened, pulling her wounded hand away while using her other to hold onto her apron, full of pieces of pottery.

“I said I was fine,” she grumbled.

“I never said you weren’t,” he replied, his tone warm and strangely comforting, like the crackle of the hearth on a November day. He pulled out a chair from the heavy wood table, and with only a nod, bade her to sit. To Maddy’s surprise, she did.

He found a broom and cleaned up the mess. Beau da Silva’s normally suave demeanour and reputation as a shrewd man of business seemed at odds with the man in his shirtsleeves sweeping a kitchen floor. His natural elegance while doing the most mundane tasks commanded her attention.

“You’re surprised I can hold a broom,” he said, giving her a sly smile.

“I might be,” she conceded.

“When I was younger, I ran a fishing camp for American industrialists,” he said. “I did a little bit of everything, especially in the beginning.”

“Do you still have it?” she asked. She’d heard of businesses like these, particularly along the Miramichi River, where there were fishing lodges that mixed rustic simplicity with a certain genteel luxury that provided a retreat for wealthy men looking for an escape and some of the best salmon fishing in the region.

He shook his head. “I sold it years ago.”

“Why?”

“Silver Lumber,” he said, a rare tightness appearing along his jaw. “The lodge was taking my focus away from the family business.”

His answer left her wanting to know more, which, given her aversion to small talk in general and Beau da Silva in particular, surprised her. But there was something in the way his movements had become more rigid, as if he were sweeping away a ghost along with the broken crockery that had piqued her curiousity. Instead of giving into it, she rose, prepared to get on with the business of grinding coffee beans. He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a look that made her insides flip.

“I didn’t say you could get up,” he said, his playful tone and arched brow a counterpoint to his commanding words.

“I don’t recall any reason why I have to listen to you,” she replied, even though she sat down again. “On the contrary, you are to follow my orders.”

“As enthralling as that sounds,” he said, filling the kettle with water from the pump, “I am not particularly good at following orders.”

He flashed her a smile, then turned away and carefully placed the vessel over the fire, then stoked the coals. The act provided Maddy an opportune moment to appreciate his backside, which, she could not help but notice for the eighth or ninth time since they arrived, was exceptionally well formed. All of him was well formed, and picking the most alluring part of him seemed an impossible task. Still, if anyone asked her opinion—which she would not give under any circumstances—she would have said that his forearms commanded her particular attention. Roped with lean muscle, they hinted at a physicality that was more about flexibility and speed rather than brute strength.

“Let’s see that hand,” he said, returning to her, his movements more efficient and businesslike now, though still edged with a bit of the softness he’d displayed earlier.

“You don’t have to bother with me,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “But you should know I am a selfish man, Miss Murray, and I like to get my money’s worth out of my investments. After all, if someone does come to the door trying to haul me back to Saint John for their two hundred dollars, you can’t defend me if your hand is festering. I’ll be out my payment to Everwell.”

Before she had the chance to answer, he gently pulled the cloth away from her cut, the white cloth now marred by blots of dark red. She held her breath as the air found the tear in her skin.

He frowned as he examined the cut. “Did we pack any sort of medical supplies?”

“Tilda wouldn’t have sent me fifty miles from home without any,” she replied.

“Right. Stay put.”

He disappeared into the dairy room behind the kitchen, then reappeared moments later, looking triumphant. He set the box down on the table near her, picking through the contents and eyeing labels, before pulling out a roll of clean bandages. He set it down, then noticed the book sitting on one corner of the table. She’d put it aside for this morning, hoping to finish the last few pages while the water was warming for the coffee.

“A little early morning reading?” He opened the front cover. “The Scarlet Pimpernel. I’ve not read this one.”

A well of embarrassment rose inside her, and on impulse, she pulled the book away, wincing slightly as the fabric cover pulled at the cut in her finger, bringing a fresh well of blood.

“Let me take that before you bleed all over it,” he said, gently taking the book from her hands and setting it beside her. “I’m not going to hurt your book.”

He gave her a wink, then examined a few of the bottles, some of which were common elements like iodine and alcohol, along with a few of Tilda’s special tinctures she’d mastered over a lifetime of learning and practicing her art as a doctoress. Beau found the alcohol and a few bandages, dabbed a clean bit of linen with the clear liquid and without ceremony, held it to Maddy’s finger. The sharp cold sting was expected, and while she was able to swallow an intake of breath, he caught her flexing to pull her hand away.

“Now now,” he said, tsking at her in mock admonishment. “Just keep still like a good girl.”

Almost against her will, Maddy laughed out loud, surprising them both.

“I haven’t been a girl in a very long time,” she said. “And I don’t know if I’ve ever been good.”

“Well,” he said, pulling away the swab gently, examining the wound once more before wrapping it up, “that’s something a man likes to hear.”

“Are you deliberately trying to vex me?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But people who are good all the time are boring, don’t you think?”

“And people who are bad are a lot of work,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with good. It just depends on whose definition of good. I’ve just never been particularly adept at being whatever type of good women are supposed to be good at.”

“This seems like far too in-depth a conversation before breakfast, don’t you think?” he asked.

“But— “

“Do not try and distract me with those pretty eyes of yours.” He playfully waved a finger at her, then pressed her book into her uninjured hand. “For heaven’s sake, Miss Murray, take your novel and go sit somewhere you won’t be overcome by a need to clean something.”

Unwilling to betray herself, Maddy practically ran upstairs to the parlour, stopping at the bookcase in front of her, desperate to grab a single thread of her control. Her finger throbbed from the gash, but the rest of her hummed with warmth from the echo of Beau da Silva’s touch. There was something about his manner—playful and soft and yet demanding—that was traitorously compelling.

Those pretty eyes of yours. He’d said it as casually as if he’d noted that the grass was green, or that hens laid eggs. The phrase sent a cascade of emotion rushing through her veins—confusion, then a fleeting sense of delight, chased away by panic. His smiles, his warmth, his pretty words—those were the tactics of a man who was trying to make the best of his situation by treating her with common civility, or at worst, condescension.

That wasn’t the worst. The worst had been learning she’d been at the centre of a devastating game that had men fighting over her with romantic gestures and pretty words in order to win her father’s fortune. Even now, she could recall Malcolm’s face when he coolly told her the deal had been done, and they would in fact be wed. The moment he’d tried to ensure she couldn’t go back on the agreement. He’d forced himself, and she, in a moment, forced back. And now Nelson Taylor—who’d eagerly participated in those games—had reappeared.

For that much money, I would kiss a hog in a skirt.

Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked quickly as she cursed the memories and the power they still had over her, nearly two decades later. She put the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing the emotion to stop.

“I thought you might want some breakfast.”

Maddy pulled her hands away, then whipped around, chiding herself for allowing the unwanted memory to distract her to the point she’d been taken off guard.

He paused, his casual smile broken a second time by a look she was coming to learn was concern.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” he asked.

“Of course you are,” she grumbled, turning back to the shelf to shield herself from his gaze. “I should be in Halifax, looking after my blighted roses.”

Her abruptness had done its usual work. He set down the tray on a nearby table, and turned to leave without any further attempt at conversation. She’d wounded him for no good reason but to protect herself. Shadows of a darker moment, long ago, edged into her thoughts. The night she’d learned the truth about her engagement. The night that led to Maddy being wanted for the same crime Beau was about to be tried for.

Murder.

Inexplicable panic rose in her chest, then settled, weighed down by regret. She held her hands to her belly in a pale attempt at calming her fear he might go. What was this sudden and inexplicable desire for his presence? She should just tell him to go and spare her the rejection she was certain was coming.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, overcome by another emotion she didn’t want to name. “I’m in a foul mood this morning and it’s not your fault. Please stay.”

Beau paused, struck by the tremor in her voice. Despite the lushness of her body, Madeline Murray presented hard angles and bristles, like a porcupine ready to strike if anyone got too close. He’d known from the moment he’d walked in the room that she was nursing a wound much deeper than the one on her finger. That he’d been stung by her response was another matter he’d bury under a mound of other, supposedly more important concerns. Right now, he found himself absolutely bewitched by the pink rising in her cheeks, and the subtle, but unmistakable plea in her dark green eyes. Madeline Murray had no idea what effect those eyes of hers had on him.

He pulled out a faded, red chair and she wordlessly accepted the invitation to sit. Beau picked up one of two plates of simple breakfast he’d prepared and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t think you could cook.”

“Fishing camp,” he reminded her. “Breakfast was my specialty.”

He smiled as he caught the flash of surprise in her expression.

“Handsome and handy,” she said. “We could use you at Everwell.”

In spite of himself, Beau found himself momentarily taken with the idea. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Besides, you’re wounded.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “It’s a cut.”

“I’ve seen men die from cuts.” Beau said, knowing full well he was deliberately stretching the truth. That cut was to one of the foremen at a lumber yard, and the ‘cut’ was so large and of such a grisly nature the poor fellow had bled to death.

“This is twice I am hearing about a man dying in your proximity,” she said. “Maybe I should turn you in and get the reward myself.”

“And then you would deprive yourself of my company,” he said. To his utter and inexplicable delight, he managed to coax a smile from her that she tried to hide behind her coffee cup.

Beau gestured to the chest full of books she’d brought for a trip they’d both hoped would be as short as possible. She was going to run out of shelf space long before the trunk was emptied.

“You must be an incredibly fast reader.”

“Actually no.” She paused, as if carefully considering her answer. “I like to take my time with a book. To savour it.”

Beau swallowed a groan. Did she have even the slightest idea what she was doing to him?

“Why Miss Murray, you really are a romantic,” he said.

“I am not,” she protested, a familiar edge creeping back into her voice. Her armour was coming back into place, and Beau was overcome with the absolute necessity of figuring out how to pry it loose.

“There is nothing wrong with that, you know,” he said. “Not everything has to be logic and hard angles all the time. The world is better with some softness.”

He set down his cup, rose and walked over to the small trunk she’d carted from Everwell. Inside was a tidy line of books that had been packed with great care. He scanned the spines, some of which appeared absolutely ancient. The mix of titles were eclectic. Poetry, two novels, a book of philosophy, and?—

He paused, and looked again, partially because the title was in a complex blackletter script, and partially because it was in German.

Vollstandiges Ring-Buch.

“Your tastes are quite eclectic,” he said, carefully pulling the book out of its place, and opening the cover. He flipped through the pages, which were full of illustrations demonstrating different stances and techniques for disarming an opponent. How many times had she had to employ these stances to keep herself and the people of Everwell safe?

“Didn’t your parents teach you to ask before you help yourself to someone else’s things?” she asked, setting her plate aside.

“Come now,” he said, lowering his voice in that way he did when he wanted to draw in a potential client to close the deal. “You can’t deny me a book, can you?”

“I hardly think a man in your position has been denied anything.”

Beau couldn’t argue the point. Though he’d been denied the one thing he’d worked his entire life to earn—his father’s respect—he’d long given up on that dream. With Frank dead, it was gone forever.

Unable to shrug off the discomfort, he thumbed through the pages, looking over the top of the book at Miss Murray. He was goading her—a deliberate move to distract himself from the old wound.

“How about your good opinion?”

She rose to her feet, crossed the room, and reached for the book, but he pulled it away. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, knowing full well he was playing a dangerous game. And just as he was about to congratulate himself on his tactics at playing it, Beau felt himself temporarily discombobulated owing to the fact he’d been spun around, his arms pinned to his side and temporarily unable to see thanks to his shirt being yanked over his head and pulled tight across his mid-chest. By the time he’d righted himself, the book was back in Miss Murray’s hands, and the only salve to his ego was the unmistakable hint of smug victory on her face.

“Miss Murray, if you wished to undress me, simply ask,” he said, brushing off his wounded male pride with his most reliable weapon—sarcasm. He tucked in his shirt and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to put it back to some semblance of style. “You may find that I am most agreeable to the question.”

“You seemed determined to make this arrangement of ours as unpleasant as possible,” she said.

“And you seemed determined to hate me,” he said. “I cannot help but rise to that challenge.”

“Does a man of your fortune and circumstance require the good opinion of an old maid whose entire worth can be found in a few trunks at her feet?” she asked.

“Those closest to me that I believed knew my character now deem me capable of murdering my father, Miss Murray,” he said. “So perhaps I am more invested in your opinion that you might think.”

The room stilled as a note of tension wound between them, like the calm before a gathering storm. Why did her estimation suddenly mean so much to him? Was it simply that she was here? He hadn’t experienced this level of urgency with Dominic Ashe—the man he’d actually hired to help him—or even his aunt and uncle. Why did Madeline Murray matter at all? She was here because she was being paid, not out of some urgent need to help him.

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were guilty,” she said at last. “The Everwell Society wouldn’t be jeopardizing our reputation otherwise.”

“And that is important to you.”

“It is everything.”

Her words hit Beau like a blow to the chest, robbing him of his ability to speak for a moment. How must it be to have such a sense of belonging? Envy, ridiculous as it was, crept inside him, twisting at his insides. How could he be jealous of a charity? But there it was. That conviction in her voice, that quiet fury driven by an absolute love and devotion to a people and place that she loved. For all his wealth and status, no one seemed as interested in protecting Beau as much as Madeline Murray was determined to protect Everwell and everyone in it.

To her, Beau was a job. To Frank, he’d been a tool for making money.

Beau couldn’t help but wonder if his gravestone would have the words “A means to an end” engraved under his name.

Beau nodded, then flashed a smile, the same smile he used to cover over a thousand hurts. And Christ, he didn’t even know why it pained him so. Of course she was here to help the people she knew, trusted, and quite probably loved. He didn’t know why, but for just a moment, he didn’t want Madeline Murray to be here for her duty to Everwell. He wanted a scrap of that devotion. It was ridiculous, given they were barely acquaintances, and certainly not friends. He didn’t deserve it.

But how he longed to have it.