Chapter 11
Hunter’s side felt as if it were on fire. Even worse than the pain was the grogginess and the forced inactivity.
Even worse than that was seeing Helena so worried.
Thorne and two grooms had managed to return him to his room yesterday afternoon with a minimum of jostling. Helena oversaw the entire process, a frantic look in her eyes.
Hunter had snagged her hand as he was being tucked into bed, and squeezed it. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Dinnae fash.”
She was chewing on her lower lip when she bent over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You are very special to me, Hunter. Never forget that.”
In his pain-hazed mind, that had seemed like the sweetest thing she’d ever said to him, and he’d lay back with a contented sigh.
That, however, had been the end of his reprieve. Helena disappeared, and then Uncle Fawkes was there with his disapproving scowl and his potions and pokey bits. By the time Hunter was finally given something to make him sleep, he was damned glad for it.
This morning he was still groggy, still in pain, and every time he tried to climb out of bed, someone guessed his intentions and showed up to push him back against the mattress. It was embarrassing how little strength he had. It was just a scratch, for God’s sake!
By noon he was irritated. By mid-afternoon he was angry as hell. By dinnertime, he was ready to climb the walls.
“It was nothing!” he bellowed at old Fawkes, who had peeled off the bandages and was currently prodding at the injury with a curious finger. “Just a scratch!”
“Hell of a scratch,” the older man muttered, turning away to mix some powder into a magical paste. “Ye’re lucky ye’re no’ dead.”
“Aye, of course I am. I had my damn magic spoon with me, aye?” Hunter slumped back against the pillows, knowing Fawkes would have no idea what he was talking about.
Hell, he hardly knew what he was talking about.
“Dinnae bind my chest so tightly this time, eh? I hate no’ being able to move—or breathe. ”
From where he lounged against the cold hearth, Thorne called out, “The lad’s right. It’ll be a nasty scar, but it’s already starting to scab.”
Fawkes nodded without looking up. “I’m just that good.”
“Years of practice stitching us up.” Thorne winked at Hunter with a grin. “And he’s modest as hell.”
“He’s a swell guy,” Hunter groaned from his pillow. “And he’s got a head to match.”
That surprised a bark of laughter out of Fawkes, who turned to slather the goop on the wound. “This should numb the area a bit too. I dinnae think ye cracked any ribs when ye fell off yer horse—”
“Fall? It was a strategic withdrawal.”
“A strategic withdrawal from the back of a perfectly good horse,” Fawkes corrected him with a wry smile. “But ye’d ken better than me when it comes to broken bones.”
Wincing, Hunter carefully twisted his torso this way and that. “Nothing feels broken, but the skin is pulling.” A mild description.
Uncle Fawkes merely grunted and continued to poke at the wound.
Hunter turned his irritable attention to Thorne. “At least tell me I’ll get some real food? That broth was shite.”
His uncle snorted. “Even the best broth is still broth. Aye, I’m sure Kit will send up something substantial, if ye swear to stay in bed.”
He might not be up for anything vigorous, but the mention of bed sent Hunter’s mind in a different direction. “Have Helena bring it up. I wouldnae mind lying in bed and having her spoon me broth.”
Fawkes snorted. “Thorne said something verra similar once about Kit.”
But Thorne’s expression had turned thoughtful. “Actually, I havenae seen her all day. Kit said she was quite distressed by yer injury—”
“Likely crying in bed,” Fawkes grunted. “Languishing.”
But Thorne met Hunter’s gaze over the other man’s head, his expression concerned enough to start Hunter worrying.
“Helena’s no’ the languishing type,” he told Thorne, who nodded once and straightened away from the hearth.
“I’ll find out why she’s no’ here mopping yer brow, laddie,” he said as he strode toward the door.
Fawkes had been focused on the injury, of course. “Sit up, man,” he commanded, sliding his arm behind Hunter’s shoulders. “We need to rebandage this.”
Despite his worry for Helena’s state of mind, Hunter remembered to remind his uncle, “No’ as tight. I want to get out of this bed by tomorrow.”
“Aye, ye big baby. Hold this end of yer bandage.”
It took three tries to satisfy both Fawkes and Hunter, but by the time Thorne returned the dressing was complete around Hunter’s torso, and the invalid could move to his own satisfaction.
Still, he froze when he saw Thorne’s expression, and the envelope he carried. That didnae look guid. “What is it? Where’s Helena?”
“Her room’s empty,” Thorne snapped. “The maid has no’ seen her since she helped her get ready for bed last night. And I found this on the dressing table.”
He shoved the closed envelope at Hunter, who tried to keep his hands from shaking when he took it. His pulse was pounding so loudly in his temples he wondered if the other men could hear it, and he fumbled trying to open the letter. No. No no—
“Dear Hunter,” he read. Just seeing her handwriting caused his panic to spike and his throat closed off. His eyes skimmed over the rest.
Now I know I am the cause of your injury, I cannot allow further harm to come to you. I am not in any danger myself, so I will return to Islay on my own and send the remainder of your fee to the Bull Lindsay Detective Group.
Thank you. You will never know how dear you have become to me, and I cannot stand the thought of pain coming to you because of me. Thank you for the best two weeks of my life.
Yours, Helena
Postscript: please thank the Duchess Kit for the loan of the clothing I have been wearing. I will of course return them when I reach home, including the pink silk gown which I am saddened I never got around to wearing.
Post postscript: tell Titsworth I shall send my full recommendations for the whiskies in his cellar after the Best of Islay competition.
Post post postscript: I truly am sorry.
“She’s…gone,” Hunter rasped, torn between slumping in defeat and throwing himself out of the bed to go after her. The letter fluttered to his lap as he lifted his gaze to Thorne, not bothering to hide his distress. “She’s gone—going to Islay without me.”
“Likely with some fool notion of keeping ye safe,” Fawkes grunted as he tied the last of the bandage. “People make decisions like that when they’re in love.”
“Are ye in love with her, lad?” Thorne asked gently. “A married woman?”
“She’s no’ married,” Hunter said dully, giving in to exhaustion and slumping back against the pillows. What did it matter now, who knew the truth? “It was a ruse. And aye.”
“Aye, ye love her?” his uncle prompted.
Hunter’s eyes fluttered closed. “How could I no’?”
There was the sound of two exhales, and he could imagine his uncles exchanging glances.
Finally, Thorne spoke. “Ye cannae let her go then.”
“I cannae let her go because she needs me to protect her,” Hunter corrected without opening his eyes. “I’m going after her.”
“No’ tonight,” Fawkes said firmly. “I’ll taper off the decoction for pain—ye’ll feel like shite by tomorrow, but ye’ll be able to think.”
Tomorrow. He had to wait until tomorrow to go after her? Or was his uncle saying he’d have to wait longer? Why couldn’t he hold onto a thought longer than a moment?
It was Thorne who hummed. “Whoever he is, this bastard has attacked ye twice. Ye, no’ her. They want ye dead.”
Fawkes hummed thoughtfully. “Whoever he is, the bastard wants Helena’s husband dead. That’s what the picture said, aye? Lickfold.”
Hunter’s eyes snapped open. “Holy fook, ye’re right. They werenae trying to kill me. No’ me, me, I mean. They were trying to kill Helena’s husband.”
“He likely wants Helena to himself,” Fawkes offered. “With ye out of the way, he’d be free to do that. Ye’re the one in danger here, no’ her.”
“And Helena figured it out,” Thorne finished. “She left to protect ye, just as Fawkes said. So if ye’re going after her, ye damn well best make sure ye’re well-protected.”
Hunter’s gaze met each of his uncles’ in turn, and he knew he could call on them—on the entire extended family—for support.
His side burned, aye, but his chest burned with need even more.
“Aye,” he agreed slowly. “Aye, I’ll get to Islay and I’ll make the bastard pay.”
The columns of the ledger blurred, and it took Helena a moment to realize the culprit wasn’t the paper, but her eyes. Damn.
It was difficult enough parsing through Angus McGillicuddy’s handwriting—although not nearly as difficult as understanding the man’s actual speech—without tears mucking up the process.
Sniffing, she straightened up, rolling her shoulders and lifting her chin, trying to gain control of her emotions.
Helena had been home on Islay for three days now, and it was easy to pretend she’d been so focused on catching up on all the work she’d missed in her absence that she didn’t have time for tears. Which was what made this so frustrating.
Hunter was healing. Hunter was safe.
She had to let him go. To protect him.
Someone out there had wanted to make Helena Lickfold a widow, and they’d assumed they could do that by murdering Hunter. Well, she could not allow that to happen.
The lump on her lap gave a little wuff and, pleased for the distraction, Helena forced a smile and pushed away from the desk.
“Are you ready for some din-din, my teeny precious?” she asked as she scooped up Wulfie to rub her nose against his.
“You have been such a good boy, waiting for Mama to finish her work!”
The dog wagged his little tail and tried to eat her face, making happy little puppy noises.
“Oh, you make my heart so happy,” she cooed, praying it would become the truth. “I do not need anyone besides you, my love.”