Chapter 15 #2
“No!” The older man’s laugh was a touch maniacal.
“It’s just so much work, don’t you agree?
Far more fun to be a gentleman of leisure, which is what I intend to become.
My plan was to marry you, my dear, merge our distilleries, and allow you to run them both since you’re clearly doing so stupendously with this one. No one finer to do so.”
Nodding in agreement with himself as though he had decoded the most complex and ancient text, Huffington wrenched his now profusely bleeding finger free from the parrot and gestured around the bustling yard.
“Look at this place! So efficient, so organized. As my wife, you could run my distillery the same way, and send me my share of the profits to keep me comfortable in India with Stefan.”
Do not ask who Stefan is. Do not ask who Stefan is.
Hunter, on the other hand, was apparently thinking along different lines. “Ye cannae marry her, auld man,” he growled, stepping to her side. “And murdering me willnae work. Come up with a new plan.”
“Oh, I have, don’t you see?” Huffington beamed at the pair of them. “You will run my distillery, Hunter lad, and once you marry Helena, our distilleries will be merged after all!”
Hunter dropped the birdcage.
“Oh dear, look what you’ve done,” tsked Huffington, bending to pick up his birds.
“All bashed on one side by you, darling girl, and my nephew on the other. I suppose they do rather balance each other out—but if this is how you take care of gifts, dear boy, it’s a good thing you’re going to have Helena to run the distillery—”
“Ye’re giving me a distillery?” Hunter blurted out.
Helena’s hand slid into his, her fingers squeezing what had to be painfully tight, her heart pounding against her ribcage.
She’d agonized over Hunter’s return to London, the uncertainty of their futures, but if he had a place here on Islay… If he’d accept a place here on Islay, just next door… She found herself holding her breath, afraid to hope.
Could the whole Gordian knot be untangled not by a knife, but by a spoon?
Huffington had straightened now, cradling the birdcage with the irritated lovebirds—or possibly parakeets—and was glaring at Hunter.
“Are you dense, lad? Goodness, it’s a good thing Helena can do the thinking for you.
That’s what I’ve been saying. You’re my heir—you’ve been my heir, I’ve just been waiting for you to show up and claim—”
“How in the fook was I supposed to ken I was yer heir?” Hunter growled, and she could feel the anger radiating off him. “That I even was an heir? I didnae ken ye even existed!”
“Oh, well…” Huffington flicked his fingers dismissively. “I would’ve gotten around to sending you a letter, I’m sure. Eventually. Perhaps even from India, though I imagine the post would be a little slow. Why, it never occurred to me that you would have the magic spoon!”
“Fook the magic spoon—” Hunter began, but his uncle cut him off with a laugh.
“Oh no, it doesn’t work like that.” He grinned almost wistfully. “Although Stefan will be delighted when I tell him the story. I’ll have to remember that part. There we were standing on the porch, and the dear boy said “Fook the magic spoon” and I immediately thought of—”
“Mr. Huffington,” Helena cut in, forcing her lungs to work. “Are you saying your intention is to leave Hunter in charge of Peater Distillery now, even though you are alive, so you can depart for India?”
“Yes, my dear.” The older man nodded eagerly. “And once he marries you, you’ll be in charge of the operations, which had been my plan all along! I trust you, you see.”
Oh.
“I’m no’ marrying her, auld man,” Hunter growled, “just because ye say so.”
Helena’s heart had dropped at that first part of the sentence and she turned to him, breathless once more.
Hunter scooped up her other hand…and it was as if Huffington and his birds faded into the distance.
Suddenly, the world consisted of Hunter—his beautiful blue eyes and his crooked smile—and her own heartbeat.
“Love, I asked ye to marry me when I had nothing—”
“You never had nothing, Hunter,” she whispered. “You are so much.”
“Aye, I had ye.” Her fake husband squeezed her fingers, his smile growing. “I love ye, Helena Lickfold. I want to spend the rest of my life with ye. I thought that meant struggling to learn about distilling while wearing another man’s name, and I was willing to do that if it meant ye’d be mine.”
When did he get so blurry? Oh, blast, it was all these tears.
When Helena smiled, she felt the tears on her cheeks, and that just made her smile more.
“I love you too, Hunter. I did not know how to ask you to consider staying here on Islay with me, but I was considering giving up my distillery to be with you.”
“Now ye dinnae have to,” he whispered.
“Now you don’t have to!” bellowed Huffington from far too close.
“Because dear old Uncle Horace gave you a place here on Islay! You’d better hurry up and marry her, because I need someone who knows something about distilling to run my place and no offense lad, but I don’t think you’re bringing many brains to the operation!
Why, Helena’s whisky is the Best of Islay, you know. ”
“The hell it is,” Hunter rumbled, glaring at the old man. “And who the fook is Uncle Horace?”
Unable to help herself, Helena began to chuckle. This was the strangest, most wonderful proposal she could possibly imagine.
And it was perfect.
Laughing outright now, she reached up to put her arms around Hunter’s neck. “I love you, Hunter Lindsay, and I will gladly teach you everything I know about the distillery business so we can together become the Best of Islay.”
It was easy to ignore the old man when Hunter looked at her—really looked at her. As if she were the most important thing in the world. The only thing on Islay that really mattered.
“Ye really do love me?” he whispered. “Me? I’m just…” He shook his head. “There was a reason ye hired a bare-knuckled bastard. Ye’re a lady, Helena.”
“I hired a bare-knuckled bastard, yes,” she agreed, lifting herself on her toes. “But I fell in love with the kindest, biggest-hearted man I have ever met. You are sweet and kind and care for me in an addicting way far stronger than spirits. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done.”
“I forgive ye,” he whispered, that blue gaze darting over her features. “I’ll always forgive ye, sweetheart. I love ye.”
“I love you too.” Helena grinned. “Now that you are a gentleman of standing and significant property on Islay, I hope you are not planning on taking the time to court me. Or should I court you? I could bring you birds and chocolate and flowers? Wulfie might even deign to visit you—”
“I have a better idea.” Hunter’s lips curled as he bent toward her. “Will ye marry me, Helena? As soon as possible?”
She pulled him closer. “Yes, of course. I cannot wait for you to be my real husband.”
They were both grinning in anticipation as their lips met.
And somewhere in the distance, someone dropped a birdcage.