Chapter 18

Maddy stepped back, mortification driving away the sensual pleasure of the kiss like a heavy April rain could drive away the warmth of a spring sun. She turned away, unable to bear his reaction. His disgust. What he must be thinking of her.

Maddy had fought bodyguards and drunken husbands hell bent on dragging their wives and children back home. She’d faced them all, even when she was scared, channeling that same fury she’d conjured that night Malcolm Ferguson had come for her.

But there was no fury now. This was something else—and it scared her to death.

Who knew what a proper kiss was? Apparently, Maddy didn’t. Beyond the chaste brushing of lips on her hands from Malcolm, Nelson, and a handful of other suitors her parents had lined up for her, she’d never been kissed before. And once upon a time she’d been so grateful for those kisses, for that small bit of attention, because she’d thought it genuine, instead of a cruel game to win her hand and her dowry.

But this... this was something outside all experience. And like a child given her first taste of toffee, she’d wanted more. She wanted to devour him. That desire, that need—so fiery and hot—scared her like nothing had for a very long time. Putting the full force of her shame into her feet, she turned on her heel, eager to put this entire thing behind them. She’d taken only a step when his hand caught her arm.

“Madeline.”

His voice was warm and disarming.

Why was she so scared? Maddy had lived with fear of one sort or another for so long, she’d thought she could manage it all. But this—this magical feeling that had swept over her and pushed aside, for even a single moment, that old wound? This was beyond her experience. The taste of him was still on her lips. The subtle feeling of his whiskers stung her skin. It had all been so new. So strange. So wonderful. And so terrifying.

“I should go,” she said, carefully erecting the walls that she’d foolishly allowed to fall. Her brain groped through the haze of pleasure his kiss evoked, searching for some flimsy excuse for why she had to leave this magical garden and the soothing warmth of his touch as fast as her legs could carry her.

After she’d fled from home, Maddy had sneered at the women who swooned over a bouquet of flowers. Like the syrupy bits of flattery and chaste kisses, the only flowers she’d received were those given to her by men who’d been desperate to win not her favour, but her father’s. The first time she’d been gifted flowers in any genuine way was when Jeremy Webber, Gemma’s husband, had given her African violets from a local hot house as a thank you for giving his daughter Ivy boxing lessons. But that wasn’t romantic—that was a gesture between friends. Beau da Silva, a man she was contractually obligated to watch and who she’d told herself more than once that she didn’t particularly like, had just offered her an entire garden. He wasn’t even giving it to her—he was simply showing it to her. And in response, she’d thrown herself at him like some kind of doe-eyed maiden being swept off her feet by an errant knight.

Emphasis on errant.

“Don’t go,” he said. His grip was firm, but not hurtful. “I enjoyed it.”

She turned slightly, casting her glance past him to a mass of calendula that had managed to self-seed, no doubt encouraged by the warmth of the half wall they had been growing next to. It took her a moment, but at last, she steeled herself to look him in the eye.

“You’re just being kind.”

“I’m not that kind, Madeline,” he said, his gaze darkening. “I’m rather selfish. I’ve made myself rich—and Frank da Silva even richer—by seeing the value others overlook.”

Maddy frowned, fighting her body’s desire. Though his fingertips barely touched her, they brushed up against the light cotton fabric of her blouse, the sensation tethering her as surely as if he’d held her tightly. She shouldn’t let him touch her. Shouldn’t allow him to soften her like this.

“You were prepared to sell The Grove sight unseen,” she challenged, needing to recover.

“George’s College was offering a substantial amount of money for this land,” he said, then leaned in close, as if he was sharing a secret meant only for her ears. “I just said I was selfish. I want what I want, Madeline Murray.”

Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest she was certain he could hear it. Did he want her? It seemed impossible—just like this garden. Yet, he’d made his pleasure plain. He wanted her. And she wanted him.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to worship you, Madeline Murray,” he said, with such deliberation and confidence it shocked any protest she was about to voice. “Worship every inch of you.”

With slow, deliberate movements, he traced circles in the palm of her hand with his fingers, then brought her hand to his mouth and between breaths, kissed the tips of her fingers.

“I want to see that lush skin in the sun and kiss every freckle. I want to taste the skin behind your right knee, and where the curve of your hip meets your legs. I want to run my tongue along your belly. I want to lose myself between what I have imagined to be the most perfect set of breasts to ever exist.”

“When have you been imagining my breasts?” she whispered, in a vain attempt to keep her breath steady. This man was disarming her with every word out of his beautiful mouth.

“Since the day in the bookstore,” he said, running his lips over the back of her knuckles, the warmth of his breath rushing over her skin. “Since the first moment I saw you, standing in that store, like Tatiana. I have never wanted anything more, Madeline Murray, than to make love to you.”

He lowered her hand, and her entire body shuddered from the deprivation of his tender kisses. Until today, she’d never been kissed. Until today, she’d never known what it was to be really and truly wanted by a man in such a pure, carnal way.

Maddy had read countless books—some tragic, some serious and meditative. But her favourites—the ones she read over and over, in the quiet moments when she was alone, were her romantic stories. Gallant knights who pledged their love and their bodies to beautiful women of the court. She’d wished a thousand times for someone to look at her like she was worthy of such devotion. Such attention.

It was possible he was lying. But he had nothing to gain. The dowry was gone. Madeline Murray had nothing but herself to offer.

I want what I want.

“I have no idea how a person is worshipped,” she said in little more than a whisper.

“I have had weeks to consider it,” he said, with a conviction she found difficult to comprehend. But before she could think it more deeply, he claimed her mouth, and she was lost to a world of sensation.

Even though he’d seen her nearly naked by the river, this was different in every possible way. Any lingering modesty was gone. He trailed soft kisses along her neck as he unfastened the buttons on her blouse and pulled it from her shoulders, unwrapping her with all the care of an elaborate Christmas package. The hooks on her skirts were no match for his nimble fingers, and soon they were in a puddle under her feet, leaving her in nothing but her drawers and corset. When he pulled the delicate ribbon on her corset cover, he kissed the top of her breasts, sending an aching need through them. In response she’d wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him against her, savouring the hardness of him.

When he’d unhooked the last of her corset fastenings, exposing her breasts to the sun, he’d stepped back. Panic edged through the haze of pleasure that had enveloped her, and she found herself fighting the urge to put her arms over herself.

“Is there something wrong?”

Beau saw the hesitation in her eyes—that flicker of self-doubt that he was determined to dispel. His mouth went dry as she stood before him like Venus in her garden. She only had her drawers on, and he’d rid her of those soon enough.

“Only with my imagination,” he said, his voice a low growl, pulling off his shirt. “I wanted to give my eyes something to feast on before my hands and my mouth take over.”

He pressed gently up against her, so she would not be mistaken about how his body wanted hers.

“Do you feel that, Madeline?” He’d been stiff as a board since they’d been on the shore, but he wanted her to know how much he desired her. “You are a feast for a man’s eyes.”

His ran his hands over her body, cupping her breasts, lifting them to his mouth, teasing her nipples which were already at a delicious, tender point. Every inch of her was so sensitive to his touch. He realized, with both a tinge of sadness and excitement, that he was the first to grab her hips, cup the generous cheeks of her bottom, and revel in the fullness of her breasts. Every moan, every breath urged him on, and it was difficult to keep his own lust in check. But he promised he would worship her, and he would take his time.

With more strength than he thought possible, he broke his kiss. He took her skirt and spread it on a soft piece of ground, then undid the lace of her drawers. Biting back a moan, his hands itched to graze the strawberry blond mound that stood as a crown at the top of her legs. But that would wait.

Carefully he helped her to lie down, then, kneeling in front of her, pulled off her boots, the hilt of a small throwing knife flashing in the sun as it peeked out of a specially made pocket. Facing her once more, he ran his hands long the length of her calves, and, brushing his fingers up along the softness of her thighs, he slowly removed her stockings. It occurred to him them that he would buy her some silk ones, embroidered with her favourite flowers. Her gaze was soft and heavily lidded, signalling to him that she was lost to a world of her own sensation.

He lazily stroked tiny circles behind her knee, first with his fingers, then his mouth. She tasted like sunshine and waterfalls and—to his utter delight—roses. The fact she’d anointed herself with rose perfume brought a smile to his face. This private little part of herself was just another treasure he’d discovered. Naturally, and for comparison, he had to kiss her behind her left knee, just to be sure. She let out the smallest of giggles, and there was a shyness in it he found endearing. It was at odds with her fulsome beauty, on display for him alone.

“Are you ticklish, Madeline Murray?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, genuine curiosity in her voice. “I suppose I am.”

He loved her sounds. Every sigh, or a sharp intake of breath, sent a new rush of desire through him. He’d known from the moment he saw her that he wanted her. But he’d never understood, even in that moment of want, how deep his desire ran.

He brushed up against her sex, taking in the undeniable elixir of her readiness. He felt her hips move as he did so, as her body searched for the pleasure she had been too long denied.

“Not yet,” he said, as he peppered her belly with soft kisses. “I promised I would kiss every inch of you. And I’m a man of my word.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, stroking the back of his neck. He loved the subtly possessive way she’d reached out, as if she was bestowing her grace on him. He kissed his way back down to the mound of strawberry blond hair between her legs. As if she’d sensed his intention, she parted her legs. The moment he put his lips to the side of her thighs, grazing just the outside of her sex, she gave a pretty little sigh.

Soon his tongue explored her soft folds, wet with anticipation of him. Gently, he inserted a finger inside her sex. She stiffened slightly, then relaxed again. With small, steady strokes, he moved his finger, then inserted another, all the while administering his attentions to clitoris. He’d barely touched it when she came, crying out, lifting her hips toward him as the full force of her orgasm moved through her.

He lifted himself up, resting on his knees, stroking her legs as she opened her eyes. Her face was flushed from her climax, but she looked up at him, her brow furrowing.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I wanted you to have your pleasure” he said, eager to assuage whatever cloud threatened to overcome her. It took every ounce of control he had not to spill his seed in his own trousers. “I didn’t expect you to risk yourself for mine.”

“I am used to risk, Beau da Silva,” she said, “I trust you to be careful.”

I trust you.

It was all the invitation he required. He positioned himself over her, finding her opening. Her body yielded to him, and he buried himself in her tight, lush folds. Soon they were moving in a gentle but urgent rhythm, the edge of his own climax coming. He slowed, wanting to make this last. But as he looked down at her, her hair spread out like a fiery halo, her full lips full and parted from their kisses, his body could no longer wait for the rest of him to come to terms with what they were doing.

And more dangerously, what it felt like. It was pleasure, yes. But it was so much more than that.

And that was new.

She cried out a second time, and Beau, sensing his own climax threatening to overtake him completely, pulled out, spilling his seed on the ground.

They laid together quietly for a few moments before rising. For a second time today, he helped her dress. They didn’t speak for a while, both contented with the silence.

“I hope that wasn’t too uncomfortable for you,” he said at last. While he’d suspected she was a virgin, the exquisite tightness of her, and the momentary hesitation on her face as he entered her, seemed to confirm it. “This wasn’t the softest surface to lie upon.”

“It was much more enjoyable than I had imagined actually,” she said.

He couldn’t help but start at that assessment of his lovemaking. True enough, the setting was not quite what he imagined, and he’d imagined their coupling more times than he’d dared count. But all of them involved a bed, or at the very least, a roof.

“Dare I ask what you’d imagined?”

“No, you may not,” she said, blushing again. “And I was reasonably well read on the subject.”

“Now I must know what scandalous books you keep by your bedside,” he said, equal parts aroused and intrigued by the notion of Madeline reading books of that nature. The very thought threatened to make him hard all over again. “You really don’t need to do any more to make me dream about you, but you just keep on doing it, don’t you?”

“There is nothing wrong with being informed about the sex act,” she said. “Though there is so very little about how you feel.”

“This is when the poets are useful,” he said.

“Most poets are male,” she said. “I don’t know that any of them had ever explained that.”

“Maybe you could write a book then,” he said. “For educational purposes, if nothing else.”

She stopped to examine an overgrown hedge, carefully examining it before moving on.

“I would rather spend my time in a place like this,” she said with a sense of conviction Beau found himself envious of. “I’d rather be outside, with sun on my face, working with these glorious plants.”

“Why do you love them so much?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it’s because I can come to them as I am, and that seems to be enough.”

She was enough for him, he wanted to tell her.

How many times had he wished he’d been enough? How many times had Frank berated him for his early failures? A breeze rushed through the garden, dancing through the scraggly blooms, whipping up a torrent of memory that he’d normally kept buried under a heavy layer of business meetings, parties, and other diversions that he’d used to drown out the loneliness.

“Perhaps I should take up gardening,” he said, more to himself than to her.

She looked at him with a peculiar expression—as if she didn’t understand or didn’t believe his insinuation. And, if she had read the social columns in the papers, it would be more than natural she wouldn’t believe him.

“My father—Frank that is—was a demanding man. He loved my mother, his company, and his children in that order. I’d struck out on my own—with my fishing business, but after a few years, he wanted me to come back to Silver Lumber. I wasn’t happy about it, but it turns out this face and mouth were far better at making money than either of us realized.” He paused, his hands itching to reach out and take her hand. Instead, he clasped them behind him as he walked.

“Why did you go back? Was the outfitting business not working?”

“It was doing great,” he said. “But Frank rarely asked me for anything, and I thought?— “

“You thought it would be nice to be needed,” she said. “Needed by someone you loved.”

Something in Beau’s chest tightened, as if she’d unknowingly hit on something so tender he hadn’t had the opportunity to prepare himself.

“I spent fifteen years at the company chasing that man’s respect,” he replied, taking a moment to clear his throat to rid himself of the sadness that had trapped itself there. “And now I know, I suppose, that I probably would never have earned his love.”

“Well,” she said, her manner circumspect, “if he was going to will you the company, and he loved it so much, he must have trusted you with it. Maybe that was his way of expressing it.”

Beau turned that over in his head. Frank was many things, but sentimental wasn’t one of them. And he couldn’t care less about appearances. If Beau had failed him, the company would have gone elsewhere—maybe even to his brother-in-law.

Beau dragged his hand down his face. He hoped to hell that Neil had nothing to do with Frank’s death. Frank liked Neil. Hell, he probably loved him.

But he respected Beau.

“Maybe,” he said, something loosening in him. Years of resistance, of numbing himself to the emptiness of working for a man who would never love him, started to yield. He let go a long, low breath as he tried to channel the whirl of pain, of loss, of grief for the complicated man who’d raised him and given him his name. “Christ, I think I might even miss the old man. I just realized I didn’t even get to pay my respects at his funeral.”

“When Dominic solves your case, you can go back to Saint John and do that,” she said.

While the idea of not swinging from a noose appealed, the very last thing he wanted to do was the thing he’d always thought he’d been born to do—take over the company.

But Frank da Silva wasn’t his father. Beau’s father lived a half mile away.

And his heart, he realized, was sitting in the hands of the woman walking next to him.