Chapter 10
Helena couldn’t recall ever being so happy.
Oh, there’d been those first few months on Islay when she was starting up her dream, Bruadarach, and everything was so new and exciting—the contracts, the deals, the building.
The water, the grain, the big distilleries rising up before her to create the most delicious drink in the world.
Before everything had turned into work, carefully balanced between the truth and the fiction she’d created. That had been a happy time.
But it couldn’t compare to this.
As one day slid into the next, as much as she told herself she needed to be on Islay—as much as she worried about her friend and her pupper, she couldn’t deny she was loving this chance to be with Hunter.
She was…loving Hunter. Being loved by him.
Oh, the words hadn’t been said, she doubted they ever would.
Their relationship wasn’t defined, was undefinable—their lives were just too different.
But in this time together, here at Stroken where the rest of the world faded, it didn’t need to be said; she could feel his joy the same way she made certain he could feel hers.
This wasn’t a honeymoon; it was an escape.
And Helena was reveling in it.
It wasn’t just that Hunter spent every night in her bed—and often found ways to sneak them away for some pleasure in the middle of the day.
It wasn’t just that he made her gasp and scream and moan and had taught her all about the art of love.
It wasn’t just that he encouraged her to learn all she could about his body as well, until his breathless responses made her feel like the most trained seductress on the planet.
No, it wasn’t just their physical responses to one another. Hunter treated her like someone he wanted to spend time with. Someone he cared about, someone whose opinion he trusted. They spent hours discussing their pasts, their goals, their interests.
She learned that despite the money he’d won over the years, and the inheritance his uncle kept trying to push on him, Hunter was happiest living a simple life.
She’d spent the last few weeks pretending to be a lady, but in reality she liked his plans far more.
His description of his hired flat in London reminded her of the home she’d built on Islay.
For the first time in her life, Helena had someone she could talk to about her distillery—not just numbers and output, but how she’d built it, how she’d learned everything she could, how she had made it a success.
Someone she could boast to—which was an unladylike thought, but one she had come to accept.
Hunter didn’t judge her for being a woman in a man’s field, didn’t try to turn her from her course.
He just listened and asked questions and made suggestions and deferred to her; not because of some silly notion of class differences, but because he recognized her expertise and wasn’t threatened by it.
At his encouragement, Thorne asked her to choose the whisky served after dinners and to speak to Titsworth about stocking the cellar. Hunter didn’t just respect her judgement, he praised her to others, which was…remarkable.
Was it any wonder Helena was falling in love with Hunter Lindsay, despite her best efforts?
She knew he had his own rented rooms in London, near his family’s townhouse, and his job with the Bull Lindsay Detective Group. She knew he was devoted to his sister and his aunts and uncles and cousins. She would never ask him to give all that up.
But the time was coming when he’d have to leave her, and that was as it should be. But she couldn’t let that sorrow ruin the joy she’d found here.
On the third day at Stroken—fully rested and enjoying having a full wardrobe again, thanks to Aunt Kit—a messenger finally arrived. Hunter took her hands in his.
“Mister waited for you at Crianlarich,” he told her, his gaze serious. “Just as we expected her to.”
Helena found herself holding her breath. “And Wulfie? Is he well—are they both well?”
Making a show of releasing her hands to check the telegram, Hunter frowned. “It doesnae say—och, aye, here it is. The dyspeptic hedgehog is eating his weight in raw steak.”
She was so relieved she smacked his arm. “It does not say that.”
“Wulfie is well, sweetheart.” He grinned as he pulled her closer. “As is Mister, although I noticed yer first concern was for yer weasel—”
“He is a terrier.”
“Weasel-terrier, that’s what I was going to say.” He squeezed her. “Mister waited, apparently anxious as hell for word for ye. Now she kens ye’re safe, she’s taking yer ferret—I mean, Wulfie on to Islay. We’ll meet her there when we ken it’s safe.”
“And when will that be?” Helena searched his face, not certain what she wanted the answer to be. She knew logically that she needed to be home, but she also didn’t want this interlude to end.
Hunter winced as if he could guess her thoughts. “No’ yet. Uncle Thorne agrees as well—ye’re safe here. Until we find out what happened to the bastard who tried to kill ye, and until we ken why, it would be foolish to leave the safety of Stroken.”
Forget Stroken; she felt safe here, in his arms. “Am I safe?” she whispered.
“Aye, sweetheart, ye are. Stroken is remote, and there’s nae way the assassin could ken ye’re here—”
Her head jerked up. “Unless he was watching Mister, and follows the messenger back here.”
Her lover winced again and tucked her head back against his shoulder. “Then we’ll deal with that when it comes. In the meantime, Uncle Thorne has alerted the others and they’ve sent their men to help search for the asshole. When they catch him, we’ll ken ye’re safe enough to return home.”
Home.
But if Hunter wasn’t there, holding her like this, how much like home would it really be?
Helena sighed and snuggled closer, pressing herself fully against him. “I suppose I do not hate the idea of having to stay here longer.”
“Good.” He shifted slightly. “Ye deserve this kind of luxury, Helena.”
“Do I?” She tipped her head back. “Why? I am no one special.”
His lips curled up on one side. “Och, lass, ye’re verra special indeed,” he murmured before dropping a kiss to her lips. “Ye make me wish I were a better man—a richer man. No’ just one who possesses a magic spoon, mind ye.”
Helena blinked. “Magic—magic spoon? I thought it was a rock?”
“Spoon, rock, it’s nae enough,” he murmured. “I’m no’ a man who could give ye all that ye deserve.”
Damn her plan to pretend to be a real lady! Would Hunter still be objecting like this if he knew her preference for stomping through the barley fields in her favorite sturdy boots?
“I do not need riches, Hunter. I think you are quite wonderful as you are.” When she rocked her hips forward, she felt his hardness pressing against her core. “And besides, you give me everything I want.”
“Ye’re a lusty lass, ye ken that?” He was grinning as he lowered his mouth to hers. “Let’s go investigate yonder folly again, aye?”
So no, it was no surprise Helena wasn’t in a hurry to leave.
After a full week she was far too comfortable here, with this family, to worry about the propriety which had made her so anxious at the beginning.
“Are ye ready for our picnic, Helena?” one of the twins chirped as she joined Thorne, Kit, Hunter and the lads near the stables. “We’ll ride for a bit first.”
In the week she’d been here at Stroken, Helena had practiced riding a few times. “As long as I am permitted to ride Old Betsy, and I can only just manage her.”
“That’s because she’s aulder than ye are,” the other twin quipped, swinging into his saddle, “and she moves slower than Father.”
Thorne—tall and strong and scowling playfully—chose that moment to trot up on his gelding. “I dinnae move slow, Keenan, I’m deliberate. Ye ought to try it sometimes.”
“Keenan?” The lad glared at his father as his horse trotted in a circle. “I’m Lock. Swear to Christ, Father, ye could at least learn to tell yer own sons apart.”
Helena paused in her attempts to settle her skirts over the unfamiliar saddle to glance at Thorne, whose expression had turned rueful.
“Och, lad, I’m sorry. I thought yer brother—”
“Forget moving slowly, Father,” the other lad said, trotting up. “Perhaps ye need spectacles to tell us apart?”
Thorne squinted at the two of them. “Key, ye—”
“I’m Keenan!” one of them declared, and Helena’s own eyes narrowed, certain it was the first lad again.
Apparently Thorne had the same issue, because he scowled again. “Look, you little shites—”
Kit swung into her saddle. “That one’s Keenan,” she announced abruptly nodding toward the first lad who’d spoken. “That’s Lochlan. Stop dressing alike, lads, you’re giving your father fits.”
One twin nodded solemnly to the other one. “That’s what happens when ye get auld.”
The other shook his head with a mournful sigh. “First it’s the fits, then the bellowing, then the delusions. It’s the beginning of the end—”
“I’ll show ye the end!” Thorne bellowed, kicking his horse into motion.
With a whoop of laughter both twins took off, until all three were galloping across the grass and Helena wasn’t certain who was chasing whom.
The picnic was wonderful, and the twins proved they could carry on a conversation without too much mischief.
At their mother’s urging, they confessed they both played the piano and the violin, and apparently quite well at that.
Helena demanded a concert that evening, and the lads seemed willing to show off their talent—as long as their mother played with them.
Not to be outdone, Thorne proudly insisted on his boys showing off their acrobatics, challenging them to see who could stand on their hands the longest. Amid the laughter, Hunter and Thorne both fell over first. Apparently—according to his wife—Thorne had deemed this a relevant part of their education, and both lads could handle a sword and dance nearly as well as their father.
Yes, they were proud parents.