Chapter 10 #2
Helena learned that the older twin, Keenan, was Thorne’s heir and would one day become the Duke of Stroken.
However, in a twist on convention, they’d chosen to make Lochlan, the younger son—”By just ten minutes!
” the lad declared indignantly—Kit’s heir.
One day he’d become the Earl of Bonkinbone, and from the stories Helena heard, the legacy of that title was a long and torrid one.
An enjoyable day all around.
As the afternoon waned, Thorne announced the end of the picnic with a sigh. “Alas, having a fancy title isnae always fun and games.”
His wife rolled her eyes. “It’s rarely fun and games. I have reports to look over as well, and letters to get out. Let’s head back.”
To give them their due, the lads didn’t put up too much of a fuss. Hunter seemed more disappointed when he lifted Helena atop Old Betsy, and she noticed.
“Not ready to return?” she asked.
His lips twisted and he shrugged ruefully. “I always enjoy my time with them. Uncle Thorne was always the fun one, ye ken?” He swung up beside her on his horse. “Once he found Aunt Kit, life got even more interesting. Did ye ken he’d hired her as his valet?”
“What?” As the Cumming family spread out behind them, Helena gaped at Hunter. “His valet?”
Hunter launched into a story about why Kit preferred to wear trousers, and how she’d been hired into the Stroken household originally as a footman…but thanks to her talents with the violin, had quickly become Thorne’s valet.
Helena found herself fascinated. As the lane narrowed to single-file between two rows of hedges, she realized she was twisting in her saddle to watch him as he told the story. “Did he realize who she was?”
“You mean the legitimate daughter of the Earl of Bonkinbone, their biggest rival and enemy?”
“No, I mean a woman,” she exclaimed incredulously.
Hunter laughed. “Honestly, I think Thorne was already head over heels in love with her by the time he figured that part out. I told you, Uncle Thorne has always been a bit of a free spirit.”
Goodness, that was clearly the truth. Shaking her head in amazement, Helena turned back in the saddle.
And that was when the gunshot rang out.
Thank God in Heaven her horse was so docile, because when Helena yanked hard on the reins in startled panic, the blessed animal just stopped still instead of rearing and throwing her.
Heart hammering, Helena twisted in time to see Hunter tip sideways, clutching at his side—and that’s when she screamed.
“Hunter!”
“Get down!” Thorne bellowed, kicking his horse into motion and taking the hedge in a wild leap as he raced hell-for-leather in the direction of the shot.
But Helena wasn’t concerned about that. She threw herself from her saddle in the most outrageously inept way, landed on her hands and knees, and scrambled toward Hunter’s prone and unmoving form.
“Hunter? Oh God, Hunter.” There were tears on her cheeks by the time she reached him, curling herself around him, desperate to protect him.
No. No, they would not take him from her.
It wasn’t until she felt his arm snake around her waist, pulling her to him, that she realized he was still breathing. Breathing—that was good.
Helena patted his face frantically. “Where are you hurt? Speak to me, Hunter.”
Suddenly Kit was there, dropping to her knees beside them and taking charge.
“The bullet grazed your ribs,” she said in a no-nonsense tone, her hands plucking at his jacket and shirt as she examined him. “You’re not going to die, but I’m afraid it’ll hurt like a bitch for a while.”
Grateful for the other woman’s expertise, Helena concentrated on cradling Hunter’s head in her lap, stroking his forehead and willing his pain away. How could this have happened?
Kit glanced up at her two sons crouched beside her, worry on their faces.
“Lochlan, tell Titsworth to ready hot water and bandages, then fetch two grooms to get Hunter back to the house. Keenan, ride for Hangcok Hill and fetch Fawkes. I trust him as much as any doctor, and he knows the situation already.”
“No, wait!” Helena cried, reaching to stop the lads before they could saddle up again. “The shooter is still out there! He could be waiting for you to emerge from cover. Clearly he does not care who he harms.”
At least behind these hedges, they couldn’t be seen…
But Kit shook her head, her expression almost pitying. “Thorne’s going after him. And after hearing your story, we know the lads won’t be in danger.” She nodded to them, sending them off.
As they thundered off in different directions, Helena realized she was holding her breath peering after them.
And there were no more shots.
Exhaling, she curled herself around Hunter once more, willing him to open his eyes. Her breasts pressed against his head, her arms cradling his shoulders as she willed him to keep living. Kit, meanwhile, was applying pressure in the manner of someone who had done this before.
“What did you mean?” Helena finally asked. “About my story?”
Without looking up, Kit explained. “We were all riding single-file, and Hunter was at least a dozen feet behind you, right? The shooter was aiming for him, Helena. Not you.”
Could that be true? The shooter would admittedly have to have been exceptionally bad to hit Hunter if she’d been the actual target. “Why?” she whispered.
“Is it no’ obvious?” Hunter’s voice was tight with pain, and muffled by her chest.
Helena immediately sat up. “You are awake? Can you open your eyes?”
“Yer tits were in my face.” His lips twitched. “I was enjoying myself.”
“Hunter,” she scolded, even as she cupped his cheeks with her palms. “I suppose I should be glad you are yourself.”
When he did open his eyes, squinting against the light, she saw the pain in them and her heart clenched.
“Hunter’s right,” Kit said solemnly.
Helena glanced up at her. “About my tits—breasts?”
Now it was Kit’s time to smile sadly. “No, I mean about the shooting. If the man’s target was Hunter, it’s likely the assassin in the train wasn’t targeting you at all…but him.”
Helena shook her head in confusion. “Hunter? Why?” Her gaze dropped to the man in her lap. “One of your enemies? Another case?”
As Hunter winced, Kit could only shrug helplessly.
The sound of hoofbeats had both women tensing, looking up. It was only when Thorne appeared, then threw himself from the saddle to land with his booted feet planted beside them—he really was graceful, wasn’t he?—Helena breathed a sigh of relief.
“How is he?” he snapped, dropping to his knees beside them.
“I’ll live,” Hunter croaked. “Especially if Helena sticks her tits in my face again—”
Mortified, Helena slapped her hand across his mouth and tried—not quite successfully—to keep from blushing.
Kit was smirking, still applying pressure on the wound. “The bullet skimmed his ribs, thank God. I sent the boys for help.” Her gaze went to Thorne’s forehead, where an old scar was just visible at his hairline. “He’s as lucky as you were, love.”
There was a story there that Helena didn’t have time for. “Kit says it was not an accident Hunter was hit.”
“It wasnae,” Thorne announced in a dark voice. He was gripping a piece of paper in his hand and now lifted it between two fingers. “The bastard was shooting from behind a wall. By the time I got there, he’d jumped on a horse and was long gone. We’ll send out men after him, but he left this.”
Helena frowned. “A picture of Hunter?”
Without lifting his head, without even opening his eyes, Hunter groaned, “Is it my good side?”
With shaking fingers, Helena took the paper from Thorne. “It appears to be a flyer from a boxing match. You look remarkably chipper for someone about to punch another man.”
“Ah.” Hunter’s forehead wrinkled. “My agent said it was good for my image.”
“Forget the photo,” Thorne snapped, dropping his hand to Hunter’s chest. “Look at what was written.”
Helena frowned as she studied the handwriting. “Target: Mr. Hunter Lickfold. A hundred pounds to make his wife a widow.”
Hunter grunted with severe disappointment. “I thought I’d be worth more.”
“You are, dear,” Kit assured him.
“Aye, I would’ve paid triple that,” Thorne deadpanned, and Hunter, thank God, began to chuckle.
“Ow!” He clutched his side. “Dinnae make me laugh.”
As Thorne and Kit bent over him, discussing the best way to transport Hunter with the man himself offering unhelpful suggestions, Helena felt herself withdrawing in horror.
Because the real dread of the photo wasn’t the picture or the reward…but the name.
Mr. Hunter Lickfold.
Lickfold.
Hunter had been targeted not for his cases or by an old enemy…but because of her.
She’d sent word to Islay after she hired him that she’d soon be returning with her husband, Mr. Hunter Lickfold, and someone had clearly used that information to be waiting for him.
To make you a widow.
This was…this was all Helena’s fault.
Panic was making her breathing shallow as she gazed in terror down at the man she was coming to love.
Someone had tried to kill her husband—Lickfold—in order to make her a widow?
In that moment she didn’t know who, and she didn’t care. All she could focus on was that she’d painted a target on Hunter’s head when she’d hired him for this job.
And she couldn’t risk his life any longer.
She needed to cut him free, relieve him of this duty.
To save his life.