“Perhaps,” he said. “But people who are good all the time are boring, don’t you think?”
“And people who are bad are a lot of work,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with good. It just depends on whose definition of good. I’ve just never been particularly adept at being whatever type of good women are supposed to be good at.”
“This seems like far too in-depth a conversation before breakfast, don’t you think?” he asked.
“But— “
“Do not try and distract me with those pretty eyes of yours.” He playfully waved a finger at her, then pressed her book into her uninjured hand. “For heaven’s sake, Miss Murray, take your novel and go sit somewhere you won’t be overcome by a need to clean something.”
Unwilling to betray herself, Maddy practically ran upstairs to the parlour, stopping at the bookcase in front of her, desperate to grab a single thread of her control. Her finger throbbed from the gash, but the rest of her hummed with warmth from the echo of Beau da Silva’s touch. There was something about his manner—playful and soft and yet demanding—that was traitorously compelling.
Those pretty eyes of yours. He’d said it as casually as if he’d noted that the grass was green, or that hens laid eggs. The phrase sent a cascade of emotion rushing through her veins—confusion, then a fleeting sense of delight, chased away by panic. His smiles, his warmth, his pretty words—those were the tactics of a man who was trying to make the best of his situation by treating her with common civility, or at worst, condescension.
That wasn’t the worst. The worst had been learning she’d been at the centre of a devastating game that had men fighting over her with romantic gestures and pretty words in order to win her father’s fortune. Even now, she could recall Malcolm’s face when he coolly told her the deal had been done, and they would in fact be wed. The moment he’d tried to ensure she couldn’t go back on the agreement. He’d forced himself, and she, in a moment, forced back. And now Nelson Taylor—who’d eagerly participated in those games—had reappeared.
For that much money, I would kiss a hog in a skirt.
Tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked quickly as she cursed the memories and the power they still had over her, nearly two decades later. She put the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing the emotion to stop.
“I thought you might want some breakfast.”
Maddy pulled her hands away, then whipped around, chiding herself for allowing the unwanted memory to distract her to the point she’d been taken off guard.
He paused, his casual smile broken a second time by a look she was coming to learn was concern.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” he asked.
“Of course you are,” she grumbled, turning back to the shelf to shield herself from his gaze. “I should be in Halifax, looking after my blighted roses.”
Her abruptness had done its usual work. He set down the tray on a nearby table, and turned to leave without any further attempt at conversation. She’d wounded him for no good reason but to protect herself. Shadows of a darker moment, long ago, edged into her thoughts. The night she’d learned the truth about her engagement. The night that led to Maddy being wanted for the same crime Beau was about to be tried for.
Murder.
Inexplicable panic rose in her chest, then settled, weighed down by regret. She held her hands to her belly in a pale attempt at calming her fear he might go. What was this sudden and inexplicable desire for his presence? She should just tell him to go and spare her the rejection she was certain was coming.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, overcome by another emotion she didn’t want to name. “I’m in a foul mood this morning and it’s not your fault. Please stay.”
* * *
Beau paused, struck by the tremor in her voice. Despite the lushness of her body, Madeline Murray presented hard angles and bristles, like a porcupine ready to strike if anyone got too close. He’d known from the moment he’d walked in the room that she was nursing a wound much deeper than the one on her finger. That he’d been stung by her response was another matter he’d bury under a mound of other, supposedly more important concerns. Right now, he found himself absolutely bewitched by the pink rising in her cheeks, and the subtle, but unmistakable plea in her dark green eyes. Madeline Murray had no idea what effect those eyes of hers had on him.
He pulled out a faded, red chair and she wordlessly accepted the invitation to sit. Beau picked up one of two plates of simple breakfast he’d prepared and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t think you could cook.”
“Fishing camp,” he reminded her. “Breakfast was my specialty.”
He smiled as he caught the flash of surprise in her expression.
“Handsome and handy,” she said. “We could use you at Everwell.”
In spite of himself, Beau found himself momentarily taken with the idea. “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Besides, you’re wounded.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “It’s a cut.”
“I’ve seen men die from cuts.” Beau said, knowing full well he was deliberately stretching the truth. That cut was to one of the foremen at a lumber yard, and the ‘cut’ was so large and of such a grisly nature the poor fellow had bled to death.
“This is twice I am hearing about a man dying in your proximity,” she said. “Maybe I should turn you in and get the reward myself.”
