He found a broom and cleaned up the mess. Beau da Silva’s normally suave demeanour and reputation as a shrewd man of business seemed at odds with the man in his shirtsleeves sweeping a kitchen floor. His natural elegance while doing the most mundane tasks commanded her attention.
“You’re surprised I can hold a broom,” he said, giving her a sly smile.
“I might be,” she conceded.
“When I was younger, I ran a fishing camp for American industrialists,” he said. “I did a little bit of everything, especially in the beginning.”
“Do you still have it?” she asked. She’d heard of businesses like these, particularly along the Miramichi River, where there were fishing lodges that mixed rustic simplicity with a certain genteel luxury that provided a retreat for wealthy men looking for an escape and some of the best salmon fishing in the region.
He shook his head. “I sold it years ago.”
“Why?”
“Silver Lumber,” he said, a rare tightness appearing along his jaw. “The lodge was taking my focus away from the family business.”
His answer left her wanting to know more, which, given her aversion to small talk in general and Beau da Silva in particular, surprised her. But there was something in the way his movements had become more rigid, as if he were sweeping away a ghost along with the broken crockery that had piqued her curiousity. Instead of giving into it, she rose, prepared to get on with the business of grinding coffee beans. He cocked an eyebrow and gave her a look that made her insides flip.
“I didn’t say you could get up,” he said, his playful tone and arched brow a counterpoint to his commanding words.
“I don’t recall any reason why I have to listen to you,” she replied, even though she sat down again. “On the contrary, you are to follow my orders.”
“As enthralling as that sounds,” he said, filling the kettle with water from the pump, “I am not particularly good at following orders.”
He flashed her a smile, then turned away and carefully placed the vessel over the fire, then stoked the coals. The act provided Maddy an opportune moment to appreciate his backside, which, she could not help but notice for the eighth or ninth time since they arrived, was exceptionally well formed. All of him was well formed, and picking the most alluring part of him seemed an impossible task. Still, if anyone asked her opinion—which she would not give under any circumstances—she would have said that his forearms commanded her particular attention. Roped with lean muscle, they hinted at a physicality that was more about flexibility and speed rather than brute strength.
“Let’s see that hand,” he said, returning to her, his movements more efficient and businesslike now, though still edged with a bit of the softness he’d displayed earlier.
“You don’t have to bother with me,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “But you should know I am a selfish man, Miss Murray, and I like to get my money’s worth out of my investments. After all, if someone does come to the door trying to haul me back to Saint John for their two hundred dollars, you can’t defend me if your hand is festering. I’ll be out my payment to Everwell.”
Before she had the chance to answer, he gently pulled the cloth away from her cut, the white cloth now marred by blots of dark red. She held her breath as the air found the tear in her skin.
He frowned as he examined the cut. “Did we pack any sort of medical supplies?”
“Tilda wouldn’t have sent me fifty miles from home without any,” she replied.
“Right. Stay put.”
He disappeared into the dairy room behind the kitchen, then reappeared moments later, looking triumphant. He set the box down on the table near her, picking through the contents and eyeing labels, before pulling out a roll of clean bandages. He set it down, then noticed the book sitting on one corner of the table. She’d put it aside for this morning, hoping to finish the last few pages while the water was warming for the coffee.
“A little early morning reading?” He opened the front cover. “The Scarlet Pimpernel. I’ve not read this one.”
A well of embarrassment rose inside her, and on impulse, she pulled the book away, wincing slightly as the fabric cover pulled at the cut in her finger, bringing a fresh well of blood.
“Let me take that before you bleed all over it,” he said, gently taking the book from her hands and setting it beside her. “I’m not going to hurt your book.”
He gave her a wink, then examined a few of the bottles, some of which were common elements like iodine and alcohol, along with a few of Tilda’s special tinctures she’d mastered over a lifetime of learning and practicing her art as a doctoress. Beau found the alcohol and a few bandages, dabbed a clean bit of linen with the clear liquid and without ceremony, held it to Maddy’s finger. The sharp cold sting was expected, and while she was able to swallow an intake of breath, he caught her flexing to pull her hand away.
“Now now,” he said, tsking at her in mock admonishment. “Just keep still like a good girl.”
Almost against her will, Maddy laughed out loud, surprising them both.
“I haven’t been a girl in a very long time,” she said. “And I don’t know if I’ve ever been good.”
“Well,” he said, pulling away the swab gently, examining the wound once more before wrapping it up, “that’s something a man likes to hear.”
“Are you deliberately trying to vex me?”