“What are you doing?” he asked in a harsh whisper so loud anyone with a set of ears probably heard him.
She turned away from the porter, actually smiling—the first genuine smile she’d given another human being since they boarded. Something broke apart inside him, making him inexplicably envious. Especially when it disappeared the moment she turned to face him.
“What does it look like?” she asked, narrowing her eyes, and even though he didn’t hear her say it, he felt her follow up with you idiot.
“I have no idea.” He actually did have an idea; he just didn’t want to say it out loud.
“You made it clear just a moment ago that you see no problem risking your own skin rather than sit with me in silence for a few hours. To put off your own comfort for even the smallest amount of time for the larger goal of potentially saving your neck. If you aren’t willing to put in the time or energy, why should I give up the things I love, the people I actually care about, to do it for you?”
There was no look of triumph in her eye. No sense of victory. She simply turned away from him, went about her business, and left him to sit in his own discomfort.
And it was damn uncomfortable.
“Don’t you want my aunt’s help with those rumours?” he challenged.
“Of course,” she replied, seemingly unbothered. “But we’ve gone this long without their help. We can manage if we have to.”
Beau knew the art of negotiation meant having the nerve to walk away and leave it all on the table. In order to risk great reward, you had to be prepared to lose.
Too late, he realized, she could walk away—or better—turn him in and get the reward. And she clearly had the nerve to do it.
Why did it have to be this woman, of all people, who was reminding him that the one neck he was risking was his own?
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, quite possibly before he knew what he was doing. “I am grateful for your help. I really am.”
In what was probably only a few seconds, but felt like an eternity, she turned to him, looking him over. For a second he wanted to crack a joke or say something that would deflect from the unsettled feeling he had in his gut. Instead, he just stood there.
Whether she was aware or not of his internal struggle, he wasn’t certain. But the relief that flooded him when she turned toward him and nodded was palpable. He blew out a long exhale.
She turned back to the porter, her smile a little more apologetic this time, as she spoke a few more words to him. A smile he wanted for himself. Why, he had no clue. It was clear she held him in absolute contempt. And he’d given up looking for approval from those closest to him. It had never been worth it in the end.
A whistle blew a second time, announcing the train’s imminent departure. A few last-minute passengers made hurried dashes toward the train. Miss Murray took a few steps and to Beau’s surprise, paused. It occurred to him she was waiting for him. Whether it was out of politeness or simply to ensure he was, in fact, coming, he wasn’t sure. But she was there all the same, with a look of anticipation that wasn’t unpleasant.
It wasn’t everything. But it was a start.
Chapter Seven
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?
