Miss Murray gave him a questioning look, and then shook her head. “You and Rimple could set up an experiment. Cow, Horse, Sheep. Which one grows it faster. Your grandparents would be proud.”
The casual way she talked about his grandparents sent a curious ache through him. What would they think of his discovery of this book? All through the volume, there were little snippets of writing in the margins. An echo of their lives in his hands. He flipped back to the front pages, where there was an inscription by Verner Redden, his grandfather, and a second by his grandmother, Maisie, whose hand was equally present in the margins of some pages where some of the ingredients had been scratched out and substitutions made.
“They must have had an interesting garden,” she said, gazing out the kitchen window to a spot that even to Beau’s untrained eye had been treated differently than the meadow surrounding it. “You can see where it was, though it’s frightfully overgrown. When the weather clears, I’ll take a look out there and see what’s salvageable.”
“There’s a bunch of tools in the barn,” Beau said, tamping down the urge to remind her that there was little point in salvaging a garden for a place where neither of them had any intent to stay. “I have no idea what state they are in, though if the Chandlers have been keeping up the outbuildings, the spade might even be sharp.”
Miss Murray poured them each a steaming cup of tea and added a bit of milk in each of their cups while Beau fetched a couple of biscuits and jam. It was, he had to admit, sort of pleasant, sitting here with her in this humble little kitchen with its large hearth that must be outrageously warm in the heat, despite the large windows. Meanwhile, Madeline Murray was too busy looking down at the book, studying every page, soaking it up as if she was deciphering an ancient manuscript, looking for some hidden secret. Her mouth moved silently, reading to herself, and then she looked over at him, pointing to the book. Her eyes widened with something that could only be excitement. Joy. And damn it all if it didn’t make him feel a little joy, too.
“This is very interesting,” she said, looking up at him, gifting him with an expression that lit up her entire face. “There are plants in here I didn’t know could be grown in our climate. Brugmansias, for example. You have to be careful with those. And—” She paused, her eyelashes fluttering in surprise before she schooled her features. She closed the book.
“Something wrong?” he asked. He’d been staring, he realized. Caught up in what he suspected was the rare occasion of Madeline Murray being happy. And something about that both elated and saddened him at the same time.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry—this is your family treasure, not mine.”
She pushed the volume toward him and he responded by resting his hand on hers. He’d intended the impulsive act only to let her know he was in no hurry to end her enjoyment. But the moment his body made connection with hers, desire, excitement rushed through him, followed by a nameless wanting that welled from deep inside and made him go still. The only sound in the kitchen came the steady thrum of the rain and the pounding of his heart in his chest.
Her gaze brushed over his face, resting on his mouth. Was that his imagination, or did she part her lips slightly? They were soft and full, like the rest of her, and Christ, Beau wanted to taste them. If he’d been honest with himself, it was nearly his first thought when he saw her in the bookshop, and he’d dreamt of it more than a few times since. Those lips seemed to be the answer to a thousand questions he didn’t even know he had.
Should he kiss her? He sure as hell wanted to. Did she want to be kissed?
* * *
A soft, intoxicating heat rushed through Maddy’s body. Was she imagining the invitation in his gaze? Because her body seemed to be answering it. She was certain she’d been frozen to in her seat, but somehow their bodies had moved closer, her entire being prickling with delicious awareness of him.
Yes, she was a thirty-seven year old virgin. Yes, she read romance novels and romantic poetry until her heart and body ached. Still, Maddy knew how to satisfy herself. She learned more from books than just how to sow seeds or deflect the blow from a dagger.
But this… this was different. She suddenly didn’t need to imagine the tenderness of a man’s touch. She didn’t need to read about the way someone’s heart might drum in their chest so loud that even the heavens might hear it.
Did Beau hear it? Maybe he was trying, because he came closer—or maybe it was her—and somehow, his lips brushed up against her cheek close to her ear, and her body responded with a single word.
“Beau.”
The word flitted through the air, landing somewhere between them. As she realized what she’d done, panic barrelled toward her, like the scream of an oncoming train. Malcolm had heard her heart beating in her chest, too. Right before he announced to his friends that he’d won her hand. Did her heart break, or simply freeze that night? She couldn’t remember anymore. It had just seemed to stop working.
The memory intruded on the present like the guardian it had become. Deep in her heart, Maddy knew no one would look at a woman like her and a man as beautiful as Beau da Silva and think that there could be any physical attraction between them.
Well—on his side. Because Maddy did have eyes that worked and she knew how absolutely devastatingly handsome he was. Even the subtle marks around his eyes and along his brow that marked his age only highlighted his beauty. Whoever had named him, named him well.
She pulled her hand away and pushed herself to her feet. The act was clumsy, jostling the table so much her mug of tea shook, dropping neat little circles of liquid on the sturdy wooden tabletop. Maddy ignored what might have been a flicker of hurt cross his face.
“I’ve got a headache,” she said, clearing her throat, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s probably the weather.”
Maddy forced herself to remember why she was here. The greenhouse of her dreams would nearly be funded with the proceeds of this job, which was to keep Beau da Silva safe from harm. But right now there was a greater danger, and it came from her own body. She darted out of the kitchen and upstairs to the relative safety of her room.
As expected, he did not follow.
If she’d been at Everwell, she would have retreated to the corner of the carriage house she shared with Gemma for training. There, while Gemma practiced on ropes above her, Maddy had a straw bag to punch and kick. Mats to flip over opponents. She even occasionally boxed with Jeremy Webber, Gemma’s husband, an accomplished pugilist in his own right. Once the rain stopped, she promised herself, she would find some private space to practice with her knives and the retractable cane, a gift from Lady Em. There was a barn and acres of land primarily occupied by trees, birds, and the Chandlers’ livestock. She would use it to put some space between them. She’d only been on the job for a week, and already she felt herself softening around Beau.
Beau.
She rolled her eyes as her stomach clenched at the way she’d uttered his name, breathy and wanton. And what was worse was the sharp intake of breath she heard when she’d put her lips to his ear. It had sent a bolt of heat straight to her core—and scared her to death. She’d nearly kissed him.
She’d never been kissed like that.
Never been kissed at all.
Chapter Twelve
