Prologue #2
Another deep breath, and those stunning topaz eyes met his.
“I need you to marry me.”
Her hand fell from Hunter’s as he swung a horrified gaze to Bull.
And the bastard burst into laughter.
“It’s just a ruse, Hunter, calm down.” Bull raised his hands, palms out. “Mrs. Lickfold needs ye to pretend to be her husband.”
Hunter’s mind jumped from one possible scenario to the next. She needed to be impregnated. She needed her current husband killed. She needed to learn pleasure and she’d chosen him to—
Whoa, calm yer ass down. She’s no’ here to be pleasured.
Almost certainly.
Unfortunately.
Taking a deep breath and reminding himself that he was supposed to be a professional, Hunter sat back in his seat, placed his hands on his knees, and forced himself to face Mrs. Lickfold’s unfair beauty. “Alright. This is the point where someone explains what the hell is going on.”
“Is his incessant cursing going to be a problem?” Bull cut in solicitously. “I could remove his tongue, but that feels rather permanent. Unfortunately his oaths seem to come with the package.”
“The package?” growled Hunter, irritated his friend wasn’t even looking at him. “Am I the damned package?”
Bull nodded to Mrs. Lickfold, wincing in apology. “He’s really quite crass. And so poorly dressed. And has a tendency to look before he leaps. And—”
“What’s wrong with this suit?” Hunter demanded, feeling his irritation growing from minor to ready to punch someone. A specific someone. “I paid good money for this suit!”
Bull shot him a wry glance. “And ye were robbed—it’s not bespoke, darling. And ye ken how I feel about brown.”
“He’s perfect.”
Hunter might have been ready to launch himself at his uncle, but Mrs. Lickfold’s words cut through his annoyance, sucking the breath from his chest and slamming him back into his seat.
Perfect?
Me?
Hunter frowned. When had anyone ever considered him perfect? Never, that’s when.
“Ye want a pretend husband who doesnae care about tailoring and doesnae think things through and curses like a bare-knuckled boxer?” he growled, throwing out Bull’s accusations and daring her to agree.
The woman’s striking eyes met his, and damned if she didn’t. “Yes, Mr. Lindsay. I want to hire you to pretend to be my husband precisely because…” The wave of one delicate, gloved hand encompassed all of him. “Because you are a crass, salt-of-the-earth, uncouth type of gentleman.”
Well, give me a wig and call me Yer Honor.
Hunter leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and holding her gaze. “Why?”
Mrs. Lickfold’s gaze did not falter. Not even a little. “Eight years ago my father died—”
“I’m sorry for yer loss,” Hunter offered instinctively.
She inclined her head regally, her posture speaking not of grief but determination.
“Thank you. He owned a very successful sugarcane plantation in Jamaica, and left me with quite a lot of money. My uncle inherited and now manages the estate itself, something for which I am eternally grateful, because it allowed me to pursue my true passion.”
Jamaican father, and yet a tight English accent—almost as though she had attended finishing school here.
Intrigued, Hunter raised a brow. “And what is that?” Because the word passion stated so dispassionately by this woman was confusing as hell.
“Whisky, Mr. Lindsay.” Before he could blurt out a shocked Ye’re a drunk?
she continued. “You see, thanks to my father’s chemistry experience, access to sugarcane, and his belief that his daughter deserved an education, I know quite a bit about distilling—rum to start of course, but I have studied extensively, and I far prefer whisky to rum. ”
“Me too,” Hunter murmured, intrigued.
With a haughty tilt of her chin, Mrs. Lickfold continued.
“With my inheritance I was able to buy a piece of property on Islay, here in your Scottish Highlands, and build a successful distillery. I have hired a crew of men, local and non, who believe in what I am trying to accomplish. Angus McGillicuddy, my Head Stillman, is considered the best nose on the island, and agrees that the secret to our success is in the barley we grow ourselves, unlike the other distilleries who import it.” She took a deep breath, her fingers tightening in her lap, as if forcing herself to slow her explanation.
“Two years ago we turned our first profit, and I have even higher hopes for this year.”
Despite his confusion, Hunter’s brows were up around his hairline. He exchanged glances with Bull, who merely tipped his head toward Mrs. Lickfold as if urging Hunter to hear the rest.
So he turned back to her—not much of a hardship. “I’m impressed, madam. To build something so successful in such a short amount of time would be remarkable, but the fact ye’re doing it in a field typically considered to be a man’s…”
“Yes, that is the problem.” Her jaw was hard, her gaze direct, when she continued. “My husband, Mr. Lickfold, remained in Jamaica. I have been relaying his instructions to my employees who are, as you have surmised, not only men, but…”
“Highland men,” Hunter finished wryly. “Stubborn. Difficult.”
“Quite. After six years, they are demanding to meet Mr. Lickfold.” Her expression was carefully neutral. Too neutral. “Since that is not possible, I need to hire someone who will impress my employees. Someone who is strong and crass and not terribly obsessed with appearances.”
Aye, that would impress the men of Islay, whose ancestors had lived rough lives, carving out a life on that desolate island. But…
There had to be more to this story.
He didn’t know Mrs. Lickfold, didn’t know if she was normally so dispassionate. But…she’d worked at keeping her face clear of all expression. She was hiding something.
“See, Hunter?” Bull drawled from his place where he lounged against the desk. “Yer lack of sartorial sense will finally come in handy. And the fact ye refuse to wear a hat out in the sun, meaning ye’re tanned enough to have spent some time in the islands.”
Bull had been trying to distract him, to irritate him, to goad Hunter into doing something rash. Like punch him.
And let’s be honest; it would normally have worked.
But here and now, Hunter had a far more intriguing puzzle to solve: Mrs. Lickfold. With her sitting across from him, it was easy to ignore Bull’s mouth.
What wasn’t she telling him? Or was she telling him too much?
How much of this was a lie?
Carefully, he worked his way through the logical steps. “Ye want me to pretend to be yer husband—Mr. Lickfold. I’m to accompany ye to Islay, where I’ll impress yer men with my non-existent knowledge of distilling—”
“Oh, you do not have to know anything about distilling. I will instruct you on what you will need to know.”
“Oh good.” Hunter shot his uncle a dark glare, thinking of that mission with Gabby where he’d had to pretend to be the elephant expert. What a disaster. “Another chance to show off my ignorance.”
“Honestly, Mr. Lindsay, all you need to do is charm my employees. Drink with them. Fight with them,” Mrs. Lickfold said with a nonchalant shrug, “do whatever it is that men do together to get them to trust one another. Then, once they are convinced I do in fact have a husband, and they trust him…then you claim you are needed back in Jamaica.”
“And I leave?”
“And you leave.” Her fingers were twisted together in her lap once more. Was that nervousness? Or poise? “It will be a very simple mission, Mr. Lindsay. Consider it a holiday.”
Would it?
Unlikely.
But…even though the whole thing stank of falsehood, and despite the knowledge he’d be forced away from London—to Godforsaken Islay of all places—Hunter was intrigued. Not just intrigued, but fascinated.
He glanced at Bull, wondering what the other man’s take was. Could his uncle guess at Mrs. Lickfold’s lies?
Bull tipped his head to one side just slightly, twitching his brow. He was also suspicious, but was leaving the decision in Hunter’s hands.
And Hunter knew what decision he’d make.
She was beautiful. She was intriguing. And she needed his help.
He’d never been able to resist one of the three, let alone all of them encapsulated in one woman…
Hunter reached out and lifted her hand from her lap, squeezing it as he gave his most charming smile.
“Just call me Mr. Lickfold.”