Chapter 4
“Walking!” Her complaint followed Hunter halfway up Loch Tay. “You expect us to walk to Stroken? Why in the world—”
“Because,” Hunter explained—moderately less patiently than he had the first three times, “no one will expect it.”
“Because they presume we are not complete idiots,” his employer muttered, stomping after him. “Good Lord, Hunter, this is going to take forever.”
He risked a glance at her.
It had been almost four hours since they’d departed the train and yet…she was holding up well. He knew, thanks to Bull and Gabby’s sartorial lectures, that ladies’ travel gowns were designed not to show sweat and dirt, and the woman’s boots were practical…
Actually, now that he thought of it, she’d been wearing those same boots when she’d met in Bull’s office. The morning gown she’d worn that day had been delicate and beautiful, like Helena herself…but her boots had been sturdy.
Even now, she didn’t seem to be in danger of collapsing from exhaustion or the vapors. They’d drunk crystal clear water from Loch Tay and bought a simple meal from a bemused shepherd when the sun was high, but they were staying off the main roads.
And Helena didn’t look any worse for wear from it.
“Be honest, sweetheart. Why are ye complaining?”
“Stop calling me that! I am not your sweetheart!”
He raised a brow. “We’re married, are we no’?”
Christ, she was fun to tease. She got all flustered, spluttering, waving her hand about all dismissively…
“We are pretending to be married. I hired you!”
“Aye,” he drawled. “And that’s the only reason why I’m carrying yer luggage, milady.”
Her scowl was just as adorable as the rest of her.
“Are ye tired, sweet Helena? Do ye need to rest?”
The way her chin jerked up haughtily told him all he needed to know; even if she were tired, she damn well wouldn’t complain about it.
Hunter allowed her to pass him on the road before he allowed his chuckle to slip out. “Seriously, why are ye complaining about walking? I ken the answer, I just want ye to say it!”
“Why am I complaining?” She didn’t stop walking, but glared at him nonetheless. “I am complaining because I am a delicate flower and you are forcing me to walk a thousand miles to Stroken.”
He didn’t bother stopping his laughter this time. “Och, love, ye might look like a flower, but I’d wager ye’re a nettle; beautiful, strong, fierce, prickly. Excellent in hot water.”
Her glare slipped into a thoughtful expression. “Huh.” She kept her attention on the road ahead.
“Huh?” he repeated.
“That might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
The sweetest? “Then yer husband’s even more of an arse,” Hunter mumbled, trying not to think of the man all the way over in Jamaica whose wife was currently in his power. “Helena, ye might be tired, but ye’re strong. I think ye’re complaining just to hear yerself complain.”
“Then you have a poor opinion of me.” The beauty kept her chin up. “I am complaining because this little sojourn is costing me an extra two days, plus however long you plan to ‘go to ground’—what does that even mean?—in Stroken. Islay is getting farther away.”
“And once we ken the men who tried to kill ye are nae longer a threat, we’ll continue on to Islay.”
Topaz eyes flickered under long lashes. “You really think him that much of a threat.”
Interesting. A statement, not a question. “I’m no’ taking any chances with ye, sweetheart,” Hunter vowed sharply. “I’ll keep ye safe. Tell me again about the other distillery owners on Islay.”
In the hours they’d been walking—and talking, and complaining—Hunter hadn’t been able to come up with any other rational reason why someone would want to kill Helena Lickfold.
Aye, her distillery was poised to be a grand success in the next few years, but if she died her absentee husband would just pick up where she left off.
It was possible she owned it in her own right, but even then, he would inherit.
Nothing would have changed.
Was it possible that her enemy was wagering that the woman’s husband—who’d never even visited Islay—would sell the distillery outright after her death?
Not a bad wager, but still a bold assumption on which to base a murder.
Hunter discounted personal motives for murder; it was difficult to imagine Helena pissing off anyone enough to warrant assassination.
No, he kept coming back to her competitors on Islay. Did one of them stand to gain from her death? In what way? And did the competition have anything to do with it? He asked her again to describe Peater’s Distillery, the closest competitor to her, but the owner sounded like an idiot.
Their conversation went round and round, and Hunter had to admit he was impressed by her deductive reasoning.
She might appear—or wish to appear—as a delicate lady, but her mind was sharper than his.
Hunter had never been one to be afeared or affronted of a clever woman; if anything, quite the opposite.
And Helena didn’t get frustrated with dead ends, as he did, but just reworded the question so they could study it from another angle.
The discussion had the added benefit of getting them through the next few hours.
When the sun was sinking behind them and the Scottish chill was descending, Hunter finally began to look for someplace to spend the night. “We’re far enough away from Lochearnhead that we can risk entering a town, if ye’d like.”
“Oh thank God. I was afraid you were going to make me walk all night. Or sleep in a haystack. Or catch and skin fish for dinner.”
He grinned. “Was that the order of least horrible to most horrible? Catching fish?”
“I like fish.” She sniffed. “I do not enjoy scaling them.”
But she’d had the experience before? Interesting.
Hunter allowed his gaze to drift over her. Helena’s shoulders stooped, her steps weren’t as strong as they’d been earlier in the day, and little tendrils of dark brown, almost black hair stuck to her skin around her forehead and ears.
She looked weary and travel-worn. Still beautiful, but exhausted.
And he vowed tonight she’d sleep well. “Tell ye what.” He offered her his arm. “If ye can make it to the inn and we pretend to be regular travelers, tomorrow I’ll find us a carriage or wagon. Do ye ride?”
Helena winced, even as she slid her arm through his. “Not as well as you, I would guess. On Islay we are not afraid of walking, and my stables are filled with animals intended to…enrich the fields, shall we say.”
A lady who could walk all day and still talk about shite. His kind of lady.
Was it any wonder he was grinning when he led Helena into the quaint village of Acharn, nodding politely to the people he passed, and wishing for the first time in a while that he’d followed Bull’s instructions and thought to wear a hat, if only to hide his face.
But Helena wasn’t wearing her bonnet, so perhaps they made a good pair.
Perhaps the innkeeper wouldn’t think anything of it.
Thank Christ, he didn’t.
“Of course, of course I have a room for ye and yer wife!” the man boomed. “Last one left, tucked up against the eaves, safe as houses!”
Were houses particularly safe when at a great height, then? Hunter didn’t allow his expression to change. “And bathing facilities?”
The man pounded on the bartop. “This place has been here since the Bruce’s time, laddie! None of that fancy indoor plumbing. But me wife can bring up a basin and hot water for your lady?”
“That would be wonderful.” Helena awarded a tired smile upon the man. “And a meal, perhaps?”
Not wanting to appear in public more than necessary, Hunter slid the man some extra coin. “In our room, if possible. My wife and I have been traveling all day and just want to…ahem. Rest.”
“Of course, of course, say no more!” The man winked as he scooped up the coins and made them disappear into his apron.
“Ahem-rest, eh? I was newly married once meself! Of course, those days are long behind us, and now the missus won’t let me touch her unless I’ve had a bath.
” Another wink. “But we used to be as young as ye!”
At his side, Helena was making a noise very much like a choking goose, and Hunter imagined her trying to control her laughter. Or horror. He knew if he glanced at her, he’d lose control of his own mirth, so he very carefully nodded to the old innkeeper.
“That’s right, sir. Newlyweds. Cannae keep our hands off each other. Ye ken how it is. Sometimes I dinnae have to bathe at all.”
Helena turned away and buried her face in his shoulder, trying to control her laughter.
“She’s shy,” Hunter whispered loudly. “Embarrasses easily. A delicate flower, ye ken.”
“Och, aye, I ken how it is!” The man’s expression suddenly went from jovial to uncertain. “There’s just one thing, laddie, one wee problem with the room.”
Hunter’s humor vanished. “Problem? What sort of problem?” He wanted to be up there, his boots off his feet, their faces hidden from prying eyes.
“It has to do with the beds, and the number of them.”
He felt himself begin to relax. “Och, that’s normal—”
“There’s two of them.”
Hunter froze, and felt Helena’s head rise. “Two?” he repeated. “Two beds?”
“In the room, aye.” The innkeeper winced. “I’m sorry, but we only have the one room left to rent ye, and unfortunately, it has two beds. I ken that could be a problem for newlyweds like yerselves.”
“Newlyweds,” Helena repeated weakly. “Two beds.”
Hunter shook himself. Get a grip, man! “Och, aye. Two beds are fine. I dinnae ken why I expected—I suppose, in situations like this, I expected there to be only one bed.” He glanced at Helena. “And we’d have to share it.”
“How awkward and most disagreeable,” she agreed, eyes wide. “Do people sleep in shifts?”
“Or I’d have to offer to sleep on the floor,” Hunter explained, his pulse inexplicably racing, “and ye’d think the floorboards looked uncomfortable, and offer to let me sleep with ye, as long as I didnae touch ye, only of course we’d wake up spooning.”
“Spooning?” Helena repeated in a whisper.