Chapter 7

Beau and Miss Murray settled back into their seats, the hem of her skirts tantalizingly close to his legs. She seemed blissfully unaware of the closeness, far more preoccupied with her valise. She pulled a book out for herself and was about to close her case when she paused.

“Would you like something to read?”

Beau couldn’t decide if Miss Murray was attempting to be pleasant, or trying to entertain him, like a child needing distraction. Either way, it was an invitation to conversation, and he took it.

“Depends on my mood I suppose,” he said. “I can’t say that curling up with treatises by dead Romans intrigues me. But I’m not above a good detective novel by that Collins fellow. And I do enjoy poetry.”

She rooted through her bag a moment, then produced two volumes. “Romantics or Elizabethan?”

Beau bit back a smile. It seemed so at odds that a woman of Madeline Murray’s severe countenance would be traveling with not one, but two books of poetry. But then he recalled the utter joy she’d displayed at the bookshop when they’d first met. This woman who seemed to ensure, like her beloved roses, that her thorns were on display. He suspected they were there to protect the soft and vibrant beauty she tried to hide.

What would he give to touch that softness?

“I’ll take the Elizabethan, thank you,” he said, accepting the smaller of the two volumes from her. It was beautifully bound, with an exquisite leather cover. Beau carefully thumbed through the pages, which were edged in a beautiful gilt. There was a printer’s mark on the inside page.

“Is… this a first edition?” he asked, studying the binding which looked ancient, though he was no expert.

“No idea,” she said, not bothering to look up from whatever book she’d suddenly found so engrossing.

Beau returned his attention to the inside cover, squinting at the flourished signature produced by a pen centuries ago. Was that…Christopher Marlowe?

“Is this?—”

“Yes,” she said, answering his question with all the nonchalance of a person who might have been agreeing with him that the day was fine, or that carrots were in fact the worst of all vegetables, instead of confirming the book was signed by one of the premier poets of the English language.

“Did this come from MacAskill’s, too?” he asked, genuinely interested.

She shrugged. “I can’t recall. I found it somewhere.”

“You found a seventeenth century copy of Sir Phillip Sidney’s poems once in the possession of Christopher Marlowe?” he asked, genuinely incredulous. “Let me guess—you plucked it out of a bookshop you happen to be strolling by, where it had sat dusty and unappreciated, lost amongst a load of lesser works?”

She actually looked up at him and considered his question, then shrugged her shoulders.

“Sort of,” she said. “It’s amazing what people have right under their noses that they don’t appreciate.”

“But you do.”

“I do.”

Beau had no words for the utter conviction in her answer, but something slammed in his chest. Was that his heart, maybe? Did he even have one anymore? He knew, he wanted to tell her, what was right under his nose. And he wanted her to know that he was worthy.

“I appreciate you trusting me with it,” he said instead.

“I don’t trust anyone with my books,” she said, snapping her satchel shut.

If Beau had dared believe that he’d managed to have made some sliver of progress finding his way into Miss Murray’s good graces, she’d closed that door with her comment. And while he hadn’t expected her to suddenly be civil, he hadn’t expected her insinuation of his character to sting. Beau gathered his senses and reminded himself that it wasn’t worth trying to prove himself to a person who didn’t care.

“Did you want me to stow your satchel for you?” he asked.

“No need,” she replied. “I might need something from it.”

“Another book?” Beau said, taking his seat. “You seem to have an entire library in there.”

“Weapons,” she said, as if she were talking about books, or flowers, or anything else.

Beau blinked. “Weapons?” He knew she was being hired as protection, but it still seemed ridiculous that he would have a woman as a bodyguard. “Don’t tell me you have a set of pistols in there.”

“I don’t use firearms,” she said, brushing off his comment. “Too much noise.”

Beau stifled a nervous laugh.

“And how often do you feel the need to be stealthy with a weapon?”

“I work in a place that providers shelter women from their violent husbands,” she said. “I feel the need far more often than I should.”

The matter-of-factness of her reply set his jaw on edge. Was that part of the reason she was loathe to accompany him?

“Besides, if someone recognizes you, they may have little compunction about subduing you by whatever means possible to collect their reward,” she continued. “What do expect me to do? Throw a book at them?”

Beau supposed she had a point.

“I don’t actively make a point of hurting anyone,” she said. “My role is defensive.” She turned her gaze back to the book, inexplicably making Beau feel envious of the volume to which she freely gave her attention. And he found himself wanting some of that attention for himself.

“Can I ask how a woman becomes a bodyguard?”

“The same way a woman does anything,” she replied, idly flipping a page. “In spite of all expectations and obstacles put in her way.”

“You don’t look the like type of person who’s going to use a knife in a fight,” he said, more to himself than to her, given she’d seemed more enraptured by the sonnets of a dead poet than Beau.

“What do I look like?”

The challenge in her question—and the subtle narrowing of her stare—was unmistakable, but Beau could have sworn he detected the hint of a nervous swallow as she waited for his reply.

What did Madeline Murray look like? Like no other woman he’d ever encountered. She was his height, or possibly an inch taller, with shoulders that upon reflection seemed able to carry the weight of a thousand worries. She was hard, and yet she was soft. She had a full mouth, and a generous bosom and hips. Madeline Murray wasn’t dainty. She wasn’t overtly charming or classically beautiful.

She looked like a goddess—a Ceres, a Demeter, a Faerie Queen.

“Not a miserable old spinster,” he said instead.

The faintest hint of a smile quirked at the edge of her lips and she looked away again, down toward the safety and silence of her book. Beau contented himself with the subtle flush of pink rushing into her cheeks, before turning back to his own.

The journey passed uneventfully. By the time Maddy and Mr. da Silva disembarked at the station in Windsor, they had settled into companionable silence. Having collected their baggage, they waited for Mr. Chandler, a trusted associate of Mrs. Turnbull, to take them the rest of the way.

According to Mr. da Silva, the Chandlers had been neighbours of the Reddens for two generations, trusted with keeping the property maintained long after it had been regularly occupied. Mrs. Turnbull had alerted the Chandlers about Beau da Silva’s arrival, using the pretence that he was coming to personally survey the property ahead of the sale. There was no allusion to Frank da Silva’s murder, or the bounty on Mr. da Silva’s head.

The Scandalous Spinsters were highly experienced at coordinating people to accomplish a feat of the extra-legal variety for a client, but this arrangement was between The Everwell Society and Mrs. Turnbull. That subtle but critical distinction meant that the contact with the Chandlers had been handled by Mrs. Turnbull. This left Maddy with a crater of doubt about the trustworthiness of their new neighbours.

By now, Dominic would be on his way to Saint John to find the real culprit, or at least cast enough doubt on the existing theories to allow Mr. da Silva to return home with his innocence established. She could only hope the detective employed his usual cunning and solved the case quickly. Behind Mr. da Silva’s effortless charm there was a sharp intellect and a quick wit she would have to guard herself against. Not because she might be under his spell, though. Never again would she fall prey to a handsome face or the pretty words of a well-dressed man promising her the moon.

Maddy shook off her woolgathering and looked past the platform to the road, which was busy with the comings and goings of a small town. Thankfully, she had not seen any posters advertising the bounty for Mr. da Silva’s whereabouts. Instead, she tamped down a curious wave of envy growing inside her at the barely disguised looks of interest thrown in his general direction by women passing by.

They did not have to wait long before a cart pulled up alongside them. The driver was a man her age or a little younger, wearing a straw hat, trousers, and a jacket Maddy suspected was used for weddings, funerals, church suppers, and picking up strangers from the train station. He had fair skin and dark blond hair.

“Good morning,” he said, looking over Beau, then taking off his hat and nodding to Maddy. There was something about him—his smile perhaps—that was not dissimilar to Mr. da Silva.

“I’m Dan Chandler, and this is my son, Teddy.” He nodded to the boy sitting next to him. Teddy looked to be in his early teens, with short black hair, fair skin tanned by the sun, and bright inquisitive eyes. “I believe you are the people I’m to take to The Grove.”

“You have found us,” Mr. da Silva replied. “I’m Beau da Silva, and this is Miss Murray, who is my?—”

“Housekeeper,” she interjected primly, sniffling her discomfort. At her age, she hardly needed a chaperone—those days were long past her. Still, she was not good at play acting. That was Elouise’s job.

“I can help you with your things,” Mr. Chandler said, hopping down. He and Mr. da Silva shook hands, before picking up Maddy’s trunk and hauling it to the back of the cart.

Maddy watched the crowd as the men hauled the luggage onto the farm cart. Clearly the Chandlers had taken advantage of the trip to load up on a few supplies, and there was some rearranging required to ensure everything fit snugly and provided room for seating.

Even though the task took only minutes, impatience ate away at Maddy’s attention. Every moment they lingered was another moment someone could recognize Mr. da Silva. She turned her attention from the crowd to the wagon, trying not to be distracted by the way his fine wool coat pulled across his shoulders.

“There is no need to take up an entire side of the road.”

Maddy turned to the source of the grumbling. It emanated from a well-dressed man with a remarkable set of sideburns, hawkish nose, and an unmistakable air of pomposity. While there was, in fact, plenty of road for him to move around, he stood there waiting for Maddy to move. Unwilling to subject herself to his ill will, or Mr. da Silva to his attention, she moved out of the way.

“My apologies,” she said, then stepped aside for him to pass. He returned her apology with a caustic stare.

“Next time, watch where you are going.” He brushed by her, muttering to himself. “Oversized cow.”

The insult caught her ear. She turned away, giving herself a moment to let the hurt roll off her shoulders. She looked over to the wagon to see if it was finally loaded properly so they could leave. She was greeted by the sight of Beau da Silva, jumping off the back of the wagon, directly in front of the man, a thunderous look on his face.

The man blinked, clearly taken aback by his path being blocked a second time.

“I didn’t realize it was acceptable to insult a woman for simply standing on the road,” Mr. da Silva said, the lightness of his tone at odds with the edge in his stance. “You will apologize immediately.”

Blood flooded the man’s cheeks, regarding Mr. da Silva with the dangerous countenance of someone whose overinflated ego had just been shattered. Maddy, warring between mortification at the attention and Mr. da Silva’s defence of her, watched the two intently.

“Come,” he continued when the man merely sputtered, not moving as quickly as Mr. da Silva had liked. “I’m sure you have somewhere of dubious importance to be. Apologize.”

“And what is she to you?” the gentleman sneered, casting a side long glance at Maddy.

Mr. da Silva put himself between Maddy and the cad.

“Do not mistake this congenial conversation for a lack of anger on my part,” Mr. da Silva said, his voice low and laced with ire, his jaw tightening his smile into something that struck Maddy as pure threat. “The lady definitely has better things to do than be insulted by an undersized steer. I insist you apologize so we can both get on with the busy nothings of our day.”

The man stepped back, swallowing, his face a touch paler than it had been a moment ago. Mr. da Silva may have said he wasn’t a man prone to violence, but he certainly sounded threatening in that moment. He stepped back and looked up at Maddy.

She recognized those eyes. Like a shade from her past, here to haunt her. Icy blue eyes that belonged to Malcolm’s friend Nelson Taylor, one of a handful of young men Maddy’s parents had tried to induce into marrying their contrary, oversized daughter.

A lump formed in her throat and she struggled to remain calm. Perhaps it was just the strain of the trip. After all, the Maritime provinces were small, and family ties cut across the region. It was entirely possible that this man was only distantly connected to the Taylors from southern New Brunswick. The young Nelson had been handsome, with curly brown hair and square shoulders. The man before her walked with a stoop, and seemed far too old to be the same man who’d been invited by her parents to the dinner parties they’d held as she’d been trotted out as marriage material with a healthy dowry as the prize.

“My apologies,” he said, his lips twisting as he attempted a halfhearted smile, mostly to satisfy Mr. da Silva. Maddy did not dare watch him too closely, but there seemed to be no flicker of recognition. Only disdain.

That she could manage. Recognition would shatter her completely.

Maddy fixed her feet to the ground, her fingers reaching for the knife she had tucked in a sheath on her left forearm. She wanted to take Mr. da Silva by the arm and drag him to the carriage. They were drawing a crowd. She nodded in acknowledgment, unable to speak. She just wanted this to be over.

The man scurried away like an angry badger, and Maddy swallowed the jagged panic she’d been holding.

“Are you all right?” Mr. da Silva asked, concern clear in the lines around his eyes. It was clear he wanted to press the issue, but she couldn’t let him—for both their sakes.

“It’s time to go,” she said, clearing her throat. “Before you draw any more attention than you already have.”

According to Mrs. Turnbull’s notes, the journey would take a couple hours depending on the state of the roads. Eager to get out of sight, the two climbed into the cart.

Maddy sat in the back and watched the world go by, the unpleasantness of her encounter to shrink into the distance as they made their way out of town. Mr. da Silva sat on the driver’s bench with the two Chandlers. It didn’t take long for the men to fall into an easy rapport.

The roads were a little dusty but not overly rutted, and the horses went at a steady pace. The countryside was pleasant, alternating between wood and meadow, the landscape dotted with little hills, and the air was heavy with the sweet, earthy scent of grass. Sometimes the road took them by tidal rivers, the muddy red-brown waters highlighted by borders of lush green tidal grass. The countryside was sparsely populated by the odd farm, and in the distance, what appeared to be a Mi’kmaq summer encampment.

The afternoon was warm, and Maddy was glad for her straw hat. Unlike Gemma, whose skin bronzed in the summer, and Rimple, whose naturally darker skin warmed even further during the season, Maddy’s skin turned an unholy shade of red if she was not careful, her freckles blossoming like asters in September.

At last, the cart slowed. Mr. Chandler signalled to the horses to make a left turn, leading them down a much small lane—so narrow in fact, Maddy wondered what they would do if they came upon a team of horses coming from the other direction. It soon became apparent the risk was almost negligible.

They continued on until they came to a ragged fence that bordered a small field, where a couple of cows lazed under a tree. Further up the hill was a few outbuildings, and a farmhouse that looked to have recently had a fresh coat of paint.

“Is this it?” Mr. da Silva asked.

Mr. Chandler shook his head. “That’s our farm. That and all the woods we just passed. Where we’re going is just up ahead.”

The farm disappeared from view, back into the trees. They seemed to be going to the absolute edge of nowhere. Without the Chandlers, they would invariably gotten lost.

The cart turned onto a gently curving road that snaked through the woods, the trees providing a welcome shade from the canopy overhead. A small sign, cut on board made grey by time and weather, was nailed into the side of a large maple tree. It announced The Grove was close by. Maddy started to wonder if Mr. da Silva’s property was indeed little more than a shack in the woods.

That was, until she saw it.

Outside of her books, Maddy had never allowed herself to be romantic. Romance was wasted on the beauties of the world, who had so many kind looks and words sent in their direction by those eager to woo them. She was thirty-seven years old. She was taller than many men, and somehow hard and soft in all the wrong places. The very idea of romance simply hurt too much. The pursuit of it had nearly ruined her.

But there was an undeniable lump that tightened her throat as the stately oaks drew her gaze to rest on the prettiest stone cottage she had ever seen.

Not that she’d seen many stone cottages, of course. There were only a few, generally created by more well-to-do immigrants from the British Isles who yearned for the feeling of home. In the Maritimes, even the most stately houses were made of wood, which was plentiful. But there was something about it that held Maddy’s attention, drawing her to the edge of the wooden seat. Something solid. Something timeless. Something magical.

The buggy came to a gentle halt near the entrance, allowing Maddy to see the building in greater detail. What looked to be a small, storey-and-a-half structure was in fact larger, as the building had been set into the side of a hill that sloped down and away. On the south-facing side was a mass of tangled green that looked to be overgrown grapevines. The paint on the sturdy wooden door and the window frames had long since faded, with only the slightest hint of the oxblood pigment that covered them. She couldn’t help but wonder how pretty they might look with some window boxes beneath them.

The sliding of trunks from the back of the wagon broke Maddy out of her reverie. Chiding herself for allowing her attention to be stolen, she cast a glance around for Mr. da Silva, who had disembarked and stood on the ground, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. He held out his hand, which she viewed with suspicion.

“I don’t bite,” Mr. da Silva said with that effortless charm of his. He smiled a moment, then took a pause. “Come now. It’s been a long day.”

An unnamable shame pinched at her heart, warring with her to do something so very normal, like take his hand. Maddy wasn’t graceful. She lumbered, her mother had often told her. She wasn’t interested in having Mr. da Silva bear the weight of her as she stepped down.

But he stood there, so bloody expectant. Like he wanted to help her. To her great surprise, she relented. She told herself it was out of some misplaced desire to play nice with him. To allow him to pretend to be useful. If that was what he needed to feel better, so be it.

She placed her hand in his, determined only to rest her fingers in his as lightly as possible while she gripped the edge of the cart with her other hand, allowing the sturdy wooden vehicle to bear her weight. But as his fingers wrapped around her hand, a shock of warmth rushed through her body, and before she was able to recover her senses, he’d held out his other hand, robbing her of the chance to use the cart to steady herself as she stepped down.

“There you go,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. “I have you.”

Robbed of her ability to answer him with anything but a nod, she had no choice but to allow him to help her down. His touch was traitorously soothing, alleviating some of the discomfort from the long day of travel.

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded in return, and she expected him to reply with some witty allusion to his gallantry. She found herself studying him for any sign of polite disinterest, or worse, disgust. Instead, he seemed equally as transfixed as she.

The rumble of her trunk being pushed across the back the cart broke the spell, and she pulled her hands away, eager to rid herself of this unwanted softening at his touch.

Of course, there should be nothing about Beau da Silva that Maddy might want. Even if he was the reason she found herself in the middle of a woodland with a fairytale stone cottage, she’d had to leave Everwell and all her friends behind because of him. Once upon a time, she’d been forced to run away, and had spent too much time scared and alone. Then she’d learned to protect herself, then others, because she’d learned in the most horrible of ways that if she did not, no one else would. And today Nelson Taylor had appeared—a shade from her past who only reinforced her need to protect herself.

Except for the most inconvenient thought that just as she’d wanted to protect herself by making herself invisible to him, Mr. da Silva had done the opposite.

For an unfathomable moment, Beau da Silva did have her.