Past the large maple tree, movement caught her eye. She paused, wondering if it was merely a bird moving through the brush when the scent of something earthy, masculine, mingled with the heady aromas of the roses, thick in the summer air and carried by the gentlest of salty breezes coming from the Northwest Arm below.
Every muscle went on alert. Maddy rarely kept a weapon on her while she was at Everwell. Throwing knives and short sabres were her preferred tools when life and limb were on the line, but her small pruning scissors and a bucket would do in a pinch. She’d gone into situations with far less. Besides, she had her wits, and she had her body. It wasn’t lithe, like Gemma’s. But it was strong, and she would use it to protect herself and anyone—or anything—she loved.
She loved Everwell. And she loved these roses.
The unnatural rustle of leaves further sharpened her senses. She turned her head toward the noise, angling her body slightly in order to assess the threat. Through the verge, punctuated by pops of colour, she could clearly see the form of a man. Though much of his outline was obscured, her body—unreliable traitor—recognized him as the man from the bookshop.
Beau da Silva. Potential murderer of a rich industrialist, and more importantly, slinger of insults about her age and marital status.
From his gait, Maddy guessed he wasn’t trying to hide his presence. Rather, he seemed preoccupied with the flowers themselves, pausing here and there, taking in their scent, and generally admiring them. That should have taken some of her disdain away from what he was doing until he wrapped his hand around a blossom and?—
He wasn’t just looking at her roses. He was reaching out and… touching them? Indignation crept up her spine, prickling hot even in the growing heat of a summer day as he pawed at her prized Duc de Cambridge. Did he even know what he was doing? Helping himself to her passion, her sweat, and occasionally, when she worked out here without her thick leather gloves—her blood. He wasn’t just inviting himself to something he had absolutely no business handling, but a diseased plant, which might easily help spread the fungus across more of the plant if he helped himself to them as easily as he did this one.
She opened her mouth, but before she could find the voice to call out and demand this interloper stop, he’d done the deed.
He’d taken one of her roses.
Her blood pounding, Maddy dropped her pruners and the bucket, rushed through the labyrinth, and came upon him just as he’d pocketed whatever blade he’d used to steal the rose. She came upon him from behind, whipping him around so she could see his face. His bright blue eyes widened in surprise and he looked about to break out into what no doubt would have been a beautiful smile. If she’d waited, he might even try and say something charming.
But Maddy didn’t particularly care about his charm or his lovely eyes or his beautiful smile. He’d invited himself into this place and stolen one of her roses. Even worse, he risked the health of her entire plant. And there was a price to be exacted for that.
A second later, her body working from memory, the thief was on his back, Maddy pinning his shoulders with her hands. She looked down at him, ignoring this unwanted sensation, this heat, coming through the soft linen of his summer jacket. He squinted and let go a small cough, before looking up at her with undisguised mischief.
“Lovely to see you again.”
Chapter Four
This wasn’t the first time Beau da Silva had been left breathless by a member of the opposite sex. But it was absolutely the first time he’d been knocked completely out of his senses by one.
He lay in the grass, perfectly still. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, considering he’d nearly had his breath knocked out of him. He sucked in a gulp of air even as his heart slammed against the walls of his chest. A halo of wild red hair above him blotted out the sun, and a pair of eyes, as hard as emeralds and just as green, stared back at him. Below that was the most remarkable bosom. It was hardly the moment to be distracted by lush breasts, but in his defence they were only inches away from his face, and Christ, if Beau was about to die here, he supposed this wasn’t the absolute worst way to go.
“What in the hell are you doing here?”
He tried to put hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun’s glare and green-eyed fury kneeling over him, but her hands pressed him down into the ground. For half a second he’d considered answering her question with a charming quip, before his good sense—aided by a strong sense of self-preservation—made him reconsider. He struggled against his attacker, expecting to easily throw off the fury, only to find his efforts rewarded by being held down even harder.
Was he… aroused by this?
Quite possibly.
“I’ll explain once you let me up.”
“You don’t get the privilege of setting the terms,” she replied. “Not here, and certainly not after what you just did.”
Beau blinked. What in the hell had he done? He’d dutifully arrived at the Everwell Manor as directed, even though he didn’t understand the reason why a charity run by, and for, a bunch of widows and spinsters was somehow instrumental to his wellbeing. His aunt had wanted a few moments alone with the proprietors, and since Beau hadn’t had the time to properly stretch his legs since yesterday, it didn’t seem completely unreasonable to bide his time in this rather remarkable garden.
But now he wondered if he should have asked a few more questions.
“I have no idea where here is, and you’re going to have to explain my crime.” Or at least, the one that wasn’t a murder charge.
She plucked the flower he’d just nestled in the buttonhole of his label and held it in front of him like an accusation.
“It’s a flower,” he said. He would have shrugged, if he could move his shoulders. “There were at least another two dozen on that one bush alone. I had no idea it was restricted.”
“Do you have any idea of the damage you could do?” she said through gritted teeth.
Damage? Beau thought. Couldn’t this banshee see that it was Beau who was about to be damaged?
“It’s a plant,” he grumbled, dispensing with any further attempts at charm, which were clearly wasted. “They grow. That’s what they do.”
