Chapter 5 #2
Her head swung around to gaze at him in surprise. How on earth had he known her fondness for honey? It was a strange suggestion—why had his tall tale not involved flowers or chocolate, the more traditional way for men to apologize?—but honey would have absolutely melted her heart.
When he squeezed her, she remembered she was supposed to be participating in this lie. Her, “Yes,” was strangled, but she swallowed and tried again. “And you had to promise to never again get so drunk that you vomited all over the counterpane my mother hand stitched.”
Graeme’s chuckle seemed to come from far away, because the smile Hunter gave her? It was the one which made her insides go all soft, as if he had brought her honey to apologize.
“Arguing is just part of life,” the old man said. “But it’s the making up that is the true blessing.”
Hunter’s smile went from pleased to…something else. He was still smiling as he stared down at her, his arm around her, but now there was a gleam of wickedness to it. As if he knew something she didn’t.
He likely knows plenty of things—especially about making up—that you do not know.
Helena found herself suddenly short of breath at the thought of how Hunter might make up with her.
If his lips had made her feel so delicious when they’d brushed across her neck for such a short moment she was half uncertain whether she had dreamt it, what would they feel like on her throat? On her breasts? On…other places?
She remembered a book the girls at finishing school had passed around: A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts.
Thank goodness Miss Fidget had never come across it.
It had been a catalog of coital positions transcribed by a long-ago woman.
The pictures had been illuminating, but it had been the descriptions which Helena had found most interesting.
There’d been so many ways a woman might find pleasure with a man, ways she had simply never imagined.
Long after she’d left school she’d remembered that book, and the knowledge that she was worthy of such pleasure.
If ever there was a man who could make her feel that pleasure, it would surely be Hunter Lindsay.
“Is that no’ right, lass?” he now said, blue eyes flicking across her features as if looking for something.
Helena blinked. Oh, no; she’d been staring up at him like a dolt, not even breathing, for far too long. She forced herself to nod, to inhale…and then he leaned down and dropped a kiss on her lips.
It was a quick kiss, over too soon…but Helena stopped breathing again. Air wasn’t necessary when she was breathing him.
When Hunter lifted his head, she realized she was clutching at his jacket and couldn’t make herself cease.
This ‘marriage’ of theirs was turning problematic. She was being affected by him in ways she hadn’t imagined when she’d hired him—and now she couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or not.
Of course not. Her whole plan was predicated on ‘Mr. Lickfold’ disappearing after the competition, not loitering and taking away her power!
But the man took care of her. His grins made her insides go all squirmy in the most delightful ways. His kisses caused her heart to pound and her core to throb.
What was wrong with her?
All things considered, Helena should have been pleased when Graeme cleared his throat. “Storm’s coming. See those clouds? And my knee’s been twitching.”
As if nothing life-altering had happened, Hunter nodded solemnly. “Och aye. In the Highlands, ye always listen to a twitchy knee.”
“Ah.” Helena had to swallow a few times and force her fingers to unclench. “Ah. Well. Then I suppose we will get wet.”
Hunter winked, Helena’s cheeks flooded with heat though she wasn’t entirely sure why, and she lifted her hands to her tightly-tied braids in a futile attempt to shield them from the oncoming drizzle. Her hair did not do well in the rain.
Graeme, however, saved her. “Rain’s common enough in the Highlands. I have an auld kilt folded beneath the bench. Pull it out, aye?”
“A kilt?” she asked.
“Far more useful than a magic rock,” muttered her fake spouse with a grin.
When Hunter scrambled beneath them, Helena held her skirts out of the way. He emerged triumphantly, holding the large folded tartan.
“It’s been treated to repel water, this fabric,” he explained to her as they unfolded it. “The Macpherson clan, Graeme?”
He must have recognized the pattern. As the old man launched into an explanation of his family tree, Hunter helped her arrange the wool over their heads.
It stank slightly of sheep or some kind of animal, but when the rain began Helena was grateful for the protection, pulling it over her head so she could see naught but the tartan’s patterns.
Well. Almost only.
“It’s cozy, aye?” Hunter murmured at her side. “In the auld days, Scottish warriors would carry nothing into battle except their weapons and kilt, and they used it no’ just for clothing, but protection and warmth.”
They were close enough that his breath tickled her cheeks, and Helena told herself that it was that intimacy which was why she was flushing now. Over the sound of the rain pattering on the wool, she asked quietly, “Do you have one? A kilt, I mean.”
“Aye, the Lindsay colors. For a long while my family was nothing to be proud of, ye understand. My grandfather was a complete bastard—a murderer who killed his own sons. But Uncle Rourke raised us to be better, and now we’re all delighted to carry the family name.”
Well that promised to be an interesting story. Helena asked a shy follow-up question about his uncle and, without too much prompting, Hunter launched into a fascinating tale of espionage and murder which explained in part why he had so many uncles—blood relatives and non.
It didn’t entirely cease her worrying about Islay, and the people she had left behind.
People she had promised to return to by now, like Mister and her dear little Wulfie and her men.
Angus McGillicuddy was her Head Stillman, and she trusted him with her business—although she could only understand about half of what came out of his mouth, thanks to his thick Islay speech.
She knew he would keep Bruadarach Distillery afloat without her.
But what if Peter Huffington, the owner of their rival distillery, tried—
But no. She refused to think about him, Helena told herself sternly as she turned her attention back to Hunter. She had far more interesting things right in front of her.
It turned out that, despite the rain, Graeme had been listening in on Hunter’s stories, chuckling when appropriate and offering suggestions when it came to various hijinks.
Now, as the drops slowed to a drizzle and Hunter shook out the plaid as they slowly emerged, the old man passed back a hip flask.
“Here, warm yerselves up a bit. Nothing like a dram to keep out the damp.”
Laughing in appreciation, Hunter took it gratefully and took a sip. “Ye’re right there, my friend. This is good stuff, eh, love?” he asked as he passed it to her.
Helena couldn’t help the dainty sniff she took of the contents, but her brows rose in surprise, and she confirmed her suspicions with a sip.
“Smoky, but not sharp. I can taste the sea air in it—coastal aging.” Another sip, then a third, which she held in her mouth to allow the burn to spread to her cheeks before she swallowed.
“And the malt was smoked with dried peat, not coal… that earthiness is unmistakable. If I did not know better, I would guess this were an Islay blend.”
Graeme chortled and slapped his knee. “’Tis a blend, aright! The barman at my favorite tap was mixin’ the barrels!”
Hunter, meanwhile, was staring at her with a wide grin. “Ye got all that from a few sips?”
His admiration was clear, and she felt her cheeks heating in response. Or perhaps it was because of the way his tousled hair looked so delightfully disheveled and wet, giving him a charming, touchable sort of air…
What had he asked?
Oh, yes. Helena lifted her chin, determined not to minimize her crowning achievement and knowledge.
“Peat is the soul of Islay whisky. When we dry the malted barley over a peat fire, the smoke infuses the grain. It is not just flavor—it is heritage.” She leaned forward, and was delighted when Hunter leaned as well, his eyes eagerly following hers, as if he genuinely cared about her answer.
“The key is in how long the barley is smoked,” she explained.
“Leave it to smoke too little, and the peat is wasted. Too long, and it masks the grain entirely.”
“Peat…that’s the name of yer rival distillery, aye?”
He remembered that? Excellent. “Yes, Peater’s Distillery, because the owner’s first name is Peter.
” She rolled her eyes. “I have always suspected he does not quite understand the science behind distilling. Peat is not just for flavoring or a pun—it is what sets Islay whisky apart from mainland brews. It is a signature. A fingerprint.”
Hunter’s lips were parted, and a rain drop ran down one cheek, which he didn’t seem to notice. She gave up the battle to keep her hands to herself, and reached over to catch it with her thumb…only to be reminded that they weren’t alone when Graeme guffawed.
“She kens her whisky, this one. I can see why ye married her.”
“Aye.” Hunter’s words were quiet, as if he were speaking only to her. “Me too.”
Her fingertips still pressed to his cheek, Helena shrugged.
“I love whisky. I love that you can tweak one variable—just one—and the entire profile changes. Change the mash temperature, the peating time, the cut points in the still—and you have something entirely new. Like a symphony, and I get to be the conductor.”
Oh dear, she’d begun to wax poetic, hadn’t she? But Hunter didn’t mind. Instead, his eyes shone as he reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Ye are remarkable, Helena.”
“No, no I am just a scientist—”
Both men’s laughter cut her off, and she huffed in irritation.
“No! Listen, it is a science! I learned distilling at my father’s knee, but even as a girl, I wanted to know the why.
Why temperature mattered. Why peat changed the flavor.
I did not want to just make spirits—I wanted to understand them. And at Bruadarach, I finally can.”
“Oh, love, we’re no’ laughing at ye, we’re agreeing with ye,” Hunter reassured her, twining his fingers through hers. “We’re in awe of ye—”
“I am, at least,” Graeme called back. “Ye’re father’s a distiller too? Here in Scotland?”
It wasn’t the first time someone had asked about the color of her skin and her background, but the old man sounded merely curious.
“I was born in Jamaica, across the sea. I grew up surrounded by rum—sugarcane smoke, copper stills, the noise of it all. But whisky…” She sighed happily, and exchanged a smile with Hunter.
“Whisky is quieter. It listens before it speaks. The chemistry of it, the balance—it is like poetry in formula. And Islay? Islay gives it character you cannot fake.”
“That’s it, lassie!” Graeme announced. “I’m visiting Islay!”
Helena realized she was flushing—not just at his praise, not just at the warm glow of the spirits, but at the way Hunter watched her, as if he did think her remarkable. But she cleared her throat.
“Well, if you will leave me with your address, my husband and I will make certain you receive a few bottles of Islay’s best.”
“It’s the least we can do,” Hunter agreed with a smile. “My wife’s distillery is going to win awards, ye ken.”
The conversation centered around whisky for the rest of the journey.
Hunter did a surprisingly decent job of holding up his end of the commentary, proving he had been paying attention during those days on the train, when she’d given him an accelerated course of study on the science of distilling barley.
Of course, there was plenty that he got wrong too, but Graeme didn’t seem to notice, and the three of them laughed often.
It was late in the afternoon when they approached Blair Atholl, and Hunter brightly requested Graeme set them down outside of town.
“Ye’re no’ in any kind of trouble, are ye?” The older man peered down at them—Hunter’s arm around her waist—where they stood in the mud at the side of the road. “Aye, ye are, I can see that. Can I help?”
“That is kind of you to offer.” Helena sent him a grateful smile, hoping to appear demure and vague.
Hunter was blunter. “Someone tried to hurt my wife a few days ago. I’d like to get a room at the inn, but I’ll no’ lead her into trouble if I can help it.”
Graeme nodded firmly. “The inn is safe, but I can understand yer concern. I’ll keep an ear open, and let ye ken if I hear anything. Best of luck.”
Which is why Helena found herself walking—yet again—to the inn after Hunter decided there was no danger lurking. In fact he led her directly to the innkeeper, a willowy old man with a dour expression.
“A room for my wife and myself,” he announced, a little pompously. “And a bath if ye have it.”
“Nae bath,” the man grunted, jerking his head toward the stairs. “The meal’s in the taproom. Room’s at the top of the stairs.”
As Hunter reached for his pocket to pay, Helena caught the innkeeper’s attention. “Might we have some hot water to wash, at least?”
The man narrowed his eyes and Hunter chuckled, sliding another coin across the counter. “Demanding, aye. Just be glad she doesnae have her pestilential pooch with her, or she’d be requiring steak—”
Helena’s elbow jabbed him to silence. “Requesting hot water is not demanding. And Wulfie isn’t pestilential—though I admit, I am impressed that you even know what that means.”
“Why thank you, my dear.” He made a mocking bow, but his grin told her this was part of a role he was playing. “Remind me to tell you about Uncle Demon and his extensive vocabulary lessons.”
“Your uncle was your tutor?” she asked with a frown.
“Och, nay, he wanted nothing to do with bairns until his Rosie was born. But he had an extensive vocabulary which could be quite an education for a sharp lad who was a quick note-taker and who listened at doors.”
When the innkeeper snorted, Helena remembered they had an audience. They turned to the man, who jerked his chin toward the taproom.
“I’ll set the kettle to boil for ye. Go eat, and the room will be ready by the time ye’re through.”
Another bow from Hunter, this time less mocking, and he held out his arm for Helena.
“Well, sweetheart? Let’s go dine, then we’ll get some rest.”