“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?”
