“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.
Chapter Eight
The unnamable awareness that had been humming in Beau’s veins since he’d first sat in the carriage with Miss Murray had finally subsided by the time he’d hopped out of the Chandlers’ wagon. But the moment she’d begrudgingly accepted his hand, it had flared anew, running through his blood like a fine brandy. The touch had been brief, and she’d briefly locked eyes with him out of what he suspected was politeness. As she walked away, an echo of longing prickled under his skin.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Beau turned his attention to the property that only a few days ago he’d been so eager to sell. His mother had grown up here, and, according to his aunt, eager to flee as soon as she’d been able. Beau could see why. This modest but sturdy building, built by the grandfather he never knew, stood watch over a flock of sheep and little else. His memories of his mother were few, but she seemed to thrive on company, on dazzling everyone in the room. Here, she’d only had her family and some farm animals to keep her company.
Still, the country was pretty enough. The gentle rolling hills and mature trees were certainly inviting, if one liked that sort of thing. Liked the quiet. And it was so quiet. Not that Saint John was a metropolis on the scale of New York or even Toronto, but there was always something to catch his attention. Perhaps he was more like his mother than his father had given him credit for… and credit was something Frank had given Beau precious little of.
He hauled the luggage from the back of the buggy, distracted by the notion that his knees might buckle under the weight of the trunk he’d watched Miss Murray handle at Everwell with little strain. He’d never been one for ridiculous notions of manliness, but if pressed, he would have noted a small blow to his ego.
“What on earth did you pack?” he asked Miss Murray, gripping the leather handles. “Cannon balls?”
“Books,” she said.
“All of them?”
Miss Murray rolled her eyes then approached, clearly ready to give her assistance.
“I am being babysat by a woman, Miss Murray” he said, pulling the trunk out of her reach just as she went to grab the sturdy leather strap. “Allow me to salvage some of my masculine pride.”
Whatever the strain to his knees or his back, the hint of a smile that seemed to pull at her mouth lessened the pain.
He heaved the trunk to the faded red door, when it magically opened. He was greeted by a woman of modest height, her Mi’kmaq heritage evident in her dark brown eyes, black hair, and straight nose. She greeted Daniel Chandler with a warmth he returned, welcomed Miss Murray with a gracious smile, then regarded Beau with undisguised curiosity.
“You’re Emily Redden’s son,” she said simply.
Her greeting took Beau off guard. The only two people who ever spoke of his mother were his father and his aunt. To hear it from a stranger left Beau with a curious sense of loss—as if there was an entire part of him he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
She beckoned them inside and led him to a small parlour. He lowered the trunk to the floor, then turned to face her. They stood in silence, and Beau had the sense she was taking the measure of him. He brushed it off as mere curiosity at having her days upended by this unusual request of his aunt’s.
He outstretched his hand, eager to end the examination. “Beau da Silva.”
“Annie Chandler,” she replied, accepting his greeting. “Here to take a first and last look at the farm before you sell it?”
Beau kept his smile in place, but there was no mistaking her disapproval at Beau’s plans.
“It might not be his last,” Daniel Chandler said, appearing from behind his wife, his eyebrow raised in that way a man does when he’s too polite to outright say what’s on his mind. “Nelson Taylor might be afraid to offer it now. Mr. da Silva here nearly took his head clean off his shoulders.”
Beau blinked, taken off guard by the name. Nelson Taylor was the estate agent for George’s College, an expensive private school in Windsor that had styled itself on the elite private schools like Eton, or Deerfield Academy in the U.S. Only a week ago, Beau had traded correspondence with Taylor about the details of a possible sale of The Grove.
For her part, Miss Murray, who’d been quiet, even by her standards, went unexpectedly ashen at the mention of the man’s name. The moment their eyes met, she looked away. Clearly the encounter had left her more hurt than she’d initially let on. Despite her brusqueness, she’d clearly been injured by Taylor’s callousness.
“Mr. Taylor is a miserable man on a good day,” Annie said, giving Beau a second look. “I’m sorry he was the first one you met when you got off the train.”
“You’re not the only one,” Beau replied. Not that he had time to think about the sale now, but there was no chance in hell he would do business through Nelson Taylor. He’d speak to the Board of Governors himself about the sale if he had to.
