Chapter 2 #2
Oh. Well, he’d grown up listening to Gabby’s similar complaint.
“Dinnae fash, lass. We’ll have those stubborn bastards believing ye have a stalwart, strong husband who might no’ be as smart as ye, but can drink with the best of them.
” He reached out and, without thinking, patted her knee, the way he might his sister.
“Then I’ll leave and ye’ll have them in yer palm. ”
Her chin rose, that topaz gaze locking with his. “I wish they had just taken my word on it.”
“Och, aye.” Another shrug and he sat back, glad she hadn’t objected to his instinctive touch. “Although I cannae regret it; otherwise ye wouldnae have contacted Bull and I wouldnae get to meet ye.”
She was studying him long enough for him to glance away, pretending interest in the passing hamlets and fields. Not that he hadn’t done his fair share of surreptitious studying of her over the last few days, but when Helena Lickfold studied a man, he felt…well, studied.
Hunter shifted uncomfortably on the bench, hoping he wasn’t about to have inappropriate thoughts.
Try to remember she’s already married, eh?
Aye, to an arsehole who hasnae bothered to visit her in years, leaving her to do all the heavy work on Islay alone.
“You and Bull. You are of similar ages?”
His gaze darted back to her, then to Mister, who’d propped her head against the wall and—if she wasn’t napping, was doing a tolerable impression of it. It had become a common sight these last few days.
“Bull is only five years aulder than Gabby and me. He was around often when we were young, and after school he helped me figure out my place in life.”
It was impossible to forget the way Bull had beamed at him, all those years ago. Ye like punching things, aye? We’ll get ye some proper training, and we willnae have to worry Rourke and Sophia about ye becoming a spy or some other damn-fool notion.
“So Bull is your father’s brother?”
The Lindsay family wasn’t easy to explain, and Hunter screwed up his face, trying to decide where to start. Perhaps best not to bog down the story with the inheritance debate and their grandfather’s awkward murder spree.
“Aye, and he’s the youngest, but the last few werenae legitimate. Our father was legitimate, but the least suitable to raise a family to hear it told; he drank and gambled to excess.”
Helena’s brows rose. “You do not remember him?”
With a shrug, Hunter confessed the truth.
“Our mother was his mistress, an actress with more talent than beauty. She’d run away from home to make her name on the London stage, in a huff, as it were—her family cut her off, and we’ve never heard from any of them—but realized she could make a better living catering to various wealthy men.
Shortly before her death of the pox, she shipped us off to our unsuspecting father, who wasnae any better equipped to handle us. ”
“Oh dear.” Helena winced. “That sounds like a…quandary.”
What a polite way to describe a shite childhood, absent of love or affection or understanding.
Not that Hunter was going to allow the pain to surface.
“We were raised by various nurses then shipped off to school at a ridiculously young age. It was Uncle Rourke who—after our father’s death—finally brought us home and hired a governess to tame us.
” His lips curled fondly. “And then he married her, and made us all into a real family.”
“Oh, I love that,” Helena breathed, her smiling lighting her face. “What a happy ending. So you have no other siblings?”
“Just Gabby. But our uncle and aunt have twins—twelve years auld, now—and there was always a crowd growing up, cousins, uncles, friends…”
He smiled at the memories of their wild Hogmanay celebrations over the years, and was surprised to see Helena hanging on every word.
“All of your father’s siblings, I assume?”
“Och, nay! Our Uncle Rourke was part of a…I suppose ye might call them a brotherhood. Some of us are related by blood—there’s a few convoluted sets of siblings and a dash of bastardized cousins in there—but more it was bonds of hardship, ye ken?
” Hunter sent her a rueful smile. “We called them all uncle and aunt, and all us whelps were raised in a big pile.”
She’d ceased scratching the dog—was he asleep as well?—and leaned forward, the expression on her face almost eager, if Mrs. Helena Lickfold could ever lay claim to an expression so crass as eager.
“And your cousin Merida, the forger,” she began.
But Hunter interrupted with a tsk and a raised finger. “Ye’ll find that Merida MacMillan is a brilliant landscape painter, renown for her works adorning salons from here to Bath, and I’ll no’ hear ye say a word against her.”
Since he accompanied this with a wink and a smirk, she swiftly guessed what he truly meant.
“Oh yes, indeed, mum is the word.” There was a sparkle in her eyes which really did make them glow like gems. “Tell me of your other cousins.”
And so, without mentioning titles or estates, Hunter described his childhood playmates; wee Rosie Hayle, whose father Demon was more like the devil himself; Bull’s step-siblings Marcia and Rupert; Merida; the Stroken lads; and a dozen more as the bairns kept popping out.
And through it all Helena hung on his description, seemingly completely enthralled by his stories, and chuckling along with him when he described the time he and Rupert had taught themselves how to properly calibrate black powder fireworks—through trial and error.
To be fair, Rupert had been in charge of the research, and Hunter had been more of the development.
Which meant that Rupert wrote a shite-ton of stuff down, and Hunter had learned to run. Fast.
“It took me two months to grow back my eyebrows, but it was a Hogmanay nae one forgot,” he finished.
Still chuckling, Helena slumped against the back of the bench in satisfaction. “What a delightful memory. Islay celebrates Hogmanay with similar abandon, and it is one of my favorite holidays now.”
Hunter rested one foot across the opposite knee. “Did ye have big celebrations back in Jamaica? Before ye left?”
Her expression shuttered slightly. “No. My mother died young, and my father sent me to school in England early. The memories I do have of Father’s home are quiet and studious ones. He was a scholar at heart.”
In England? Well, that would explain the accent. “Sounds as if he wanted the best for ye. But what about after ye married? Surely ye spent some time with yer Mr. Lickfold before ye hared off to Islay?”
Helena’s shoulders shot back and she blinked, her attention dropping to Wulf and color rising on her cheeks. “Oh! Yes. Well, there were times… Are we slowing?”
Hunter glanced out the window. “Aye. We must be approaching Lochearnhead.”
Was it his imagination, or did she look relieved as she began to pet the dog again?
“Wulfie, dear, we will be stopping soon. Does ‘oo need to go potty? Does ‘oo?”
Hunter didn’t bother hiding his smile.
In the last few days, he’d learned that Mrs. Helena Lickfold was haughty, in control, and strong…except when it came to the ugliest little mutt in the history of canines. Then she turned into a ball of goo.
“Does he ever answer ye?” Hunter asked mildly.
As if to mock him, Wulf bounced to his feet and began to turn in a circle on her lap, yipping madly.
His pretend missus sent Hunter a triumphant look. “That is his potty dance.”
“How incredible, that ye’ve trained him so well. Or has he trained ye?”
She sniffed. “My Wulfie is a brilliant little lad. Are you not, Wulfie dear?”
In answer, Wulfie dear took a giant leap off her lap.
Helena lunged. Hunter lunged.
They met in the middle of the compartment, each holding part of the dog.
And froze.
Because despite the gloves she was wearing, Hunter couldn’t mistake the warmth of her hand. He wanted to keep holding her—even if it meant holding the damn dog—and revel in the way his arm, his chest was heating—
Wide topaz eyes locked on his and Helena swayed closer…
“I’ll take him.” Mister’s long-suffering sigh broke through their staring contest. “He can do his business on the platform and make it a porter’s problem.”
With a noise that might have been relief, Helena wrenched the rat-shaped canine from him and whirled to press him toward the maid. “Thank you. We will arrange a meal for when you return.”
“Huzzah,” Mister deadpanned as she tucked Wulfie beneath her arm. But she softened the sarcasm with a wink. “Since you two are officially married, I can afford to leave you unchaperoned, right?”
Without glancing at Helena, still trying to understand how—why—his body had responded to her that way—Hunter snapped off a salute. “Aye, aye, Miss Mister.”
The maid nodded regally and swept from the compartment, and Hunter deflated.
Aye-aye? A salute? What in the shite was that about?
Hiding his pained groan, Hunter scrubbed his hand down his face and turned away. He’d panicked, trying to cover the way his body had responded to Helena. A response he should have expected and reveled far too much in.
Shite.
“I’d better go potty too,” he muttered, reaching for the door knob. “Though I dinnae think I’ll make it a porter’s problem. Ye’ll be safe here alone?”
Helena, who was taking great interest in the way she arranged her skirts on the bench, didn’t look up. “Yes, of course. Of course I will be safe. Why would I not be safe? It’s fine—I am fine!”
Methinks she doth protest too much.
The fact that she was obviously flustered as well helped bolster Hunter’s mood a bit.
Perhaps her self-imposed estrangement from her husband had affected her as well? At least enough that she became flustered by another man’s touch?
The thought had him whistling confidently as Hunter returned from the washroom, but he managed to tone down his grin when he stepped inside the compartment. “Everything well?” he asked as he stepped up to the window, which Helena was peering intently out of.
“Oh yes. The village is just fascinating, is it not?”
Since her voice was a tad too high and her question a tad too fast, Hunter suspected she was still flustered by his nearness.
Which was rather flattering.
Aiming to test his theory, he offered his hand without glancing down at her. “Aye, and from up here ye can just see the loch that gave the town its name, see?” He pretended great interest in the view.
And after a moment, her tiny gloved fingers rested in his.
Helena stood. “Where—” It was all she had time to get out before the train began with a lurch, throwing her against him.
Years of training in and out of the ring meant that Hunter’s reflexes were good enough to catch them both. His hands landed on her upper arms, steadying her as the train began to rock.
Her mouth opened, perfect lips forming a perfect oh. He found himself inhaling her scent—something sharp, mixed with honey? It wasn’t a typically feminine scent, which was strange, because this woman was all feminine.
“Helena,” he breathed.
Her head tipped back, her eyes widen, and he told himself not to mistake that for an invitation…as much as he wanted to. Despite his good intentions his head was bending, his lips reaching for hers…
When there was a scrabbling at the door.
“It’s Mister,” she breathed, and Hunter hurried to put her away from him, to maintain propriety.
But in the pair of heartbeats it took him to swing around to open the door, a large unexpected shape barreled through.
Hunter had just enough time to reach for Helena again when the shape—a man wearing a hat pulled low and a kerchief tied around his face to mask his features—brandished a wickedly flashing knife and growled in a raspy voice, “You will never reach Islay alive!”
And then the stranger lunged, knife-first, for them both.