Chapter 12 #2
Before he could launch into another incomprehensible speech, Hunter interrupted him, palms out, deferring modestly.
“Nay, I mean it. Ye’re the experts here, I’m the newcomer.
I want to start on the malting floor and work my way up, just as any other man would.
” Also, it’ll help because I ken jack-shite about wet mash but I ken how to heave a shovel.
Thankfully both stillmen—and the gathered staring workers—were looking pleased and nodding along, so Hunter figured he’d done something right.
“But first, if ye gentlemen dinnae mind, I’d like to go find my—Helena.
Is she in the office?” He pointed to the largest building, hoping he’d guessed correctly.
“That’s the house,” Johnny offered, at the same time Angus launched into a speech.
“Och aye, bin a lang while ye’ve bin wi’out yon missus, eh? Must be champin’ at th’ bit tae clap eyes on ‘er. She cam’ back lookin’ like a rain-soaked wraith, she did—nae a word, soas we all reckoned somethin’ foul’d befelled ye.”
Hunter hid his sigh and raised polite brows in Johnny’s direction, who was outright grinning now, as the gathered men chuckled.
“Aye, ye’ve been a good stretch from yer lady wife, right enough,” Johnny translated. “Ye must be keen tae see ‘er again. She’s been in a right state since she come back—never said much, but it was writ plain on ‘er face, an’ we all feared the worst.”
Wife.
Hunter hadn’t called her such out loud, not when he wasn’t sure where he stood with Helena, but aye. These men all thought him her husband. They thought he was the genius behind their success.
And…they thought something horrible had happened to him?
The news that she’d been in a right state drew him up short. “She’s been crying?” he asked.
Every single one of the gathered men nodded emphatically.
“Well, shite,” Hunter muttered.
And that caused more than a few of them to burst into chuckles.
He shrugged and grinned wryly. “I suppose I ought to go make it up to her. I’ll see ye soon, lads,” he called as he stooped to grab his suitcase.
It was as he hurried toward the large house that he heard calls from behind him. Since he didn’t understand anything they were saying, he hoped they were encouragement.
Not that he needed it. By the time he reached the steps, he was practically running. But the door opened, and he skidded to a stop, just as Mister stepped out onto the front porch, carrying Wulfie. Her face split into a relieved grin. “Mr. Lickfold!”
Hunter dropped his suitcase and opened his arms as the small dog gave a yip and jumped from her arms to hurtle down the steps toward Hunter.
“Wulfric!” he cried, scooping up the tiny dog. “Och, ye scraggy laddie, I missed ye too!”
This last part was a bit muffled by terrier tongue as Wulfie did his honest best to lick the inside of Hunter’s nostrils.
He was laughing as he took the stairs two at a time, intending to greet Mister—but before he could reach her, however, the door opened again…and Hunter pulled up short, clutching the dog to his chest.
Because his Helena was stepping through the doorway: her gaze on the floor, her hands clutched before her, her eyes sunken as if she hadn’t been sleeping well.
The man following her—an outrageously dressed older man covered in feathers who looked vaguely familiar—met his eyes over Helena’s head, and his blue eyes widened slightly.
There appeared to be a pair of parrots on his shoulders, but Hunter didn’t linger on them, because….
“Helena,” Hunter breathed, and her gaze jerked upward.
He watched her expression go from worried to confused to pure joy, and he was already reaching for her when she screeched, “Hunter!” and threw herself into his arms.
With a little huff of laughter, he pulled her against his chest, moving Wulfie to safety on one side, and buried his nose in her hair to inhale and believe he really was holding her.
“I missed ye, lass,” he murmured.
“Oh, Hunter!” she sobbed, and aye, that was definitely a sob.
Was she crying? He pulled her away just slightly to see that aye, those were tears in her eyes, but a brilliant smile on her lips.
“How are you feeling?” She patted his side gently, as if checking for the bandage under his jacket. “Should you be traveling so soon?”
He grinned down at her, pleased she hadn’t mentioned leaving him with this foolish plan of hers to protect him. “Love, ye couldnae keep me away. I was on the train five minutes after my doctor cleared me to come after ye.”
And unable to resist, Hunter lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss was a quick one, over too soon. When Wulfie began to squirm, Hunter straightened and saw Mister beaming at them both.
The stranger, on the other hand, was frowning.
When Hunter met his gaze with raised brows, wondering if Helena was going to remember to introduce them, the other man offered a ridiculous courtly bow, holding out the edges of a feather-lined cloak.
“Peter Huffington, Mr. Lickfold. I own Peater Distillery, our properties adjoin.” Was he a bird enthusiast? “You can call me Horace.”
“Do not call him Horace,” Helena murmured from the corner of her mouth.
The man, whose blue gaze was flickering over Hunter’s face in something which might have been confusion, now offered, “I see the rumors of your death were premature.”
Hunter’s mind had stuttered at the man’s name, but that last line suddenly drew all of his focus. Rumors of his death? He frowned.
Had Helena told everyone he’d died, then? To explain why she’d been crying—as Angus and Johnny had almost intelligibly related? But they hadn’t been surprised to see him alive, just surprised he hadn’t arrived with Helena.
So why would this man think he’d been dead?
But Hunter couldn’t concentrate on the mystery of the claim, because with Helena—and Wulfie—in his arms, he finally had his whole world within reach.
His love stretched up to brush a kiss across his jaw, and Hunter’s entire attention returned to her. “I’m so damn happy to see ye, sweetheart.”
“I am pleased as well.” Her words might be more subdued, but her smile wasn’t. “Thank goodness Mister and Cook have worked out the menu trouble—we shall have a celebration tonight.”
Tonight? He didn’t want to have to wait until tonight.
Grinning, he turned to thrust Wulfie into Mister’s arms. “Perhaps the celebration ought to be tomorrow? Here, Mister. Take this emaciated gerbil out for a walk. I think we need some time alone.” He caught the stranger’s eyes.
“I’m sure you’ll forgive me, other Mister… .” What the hell had his name been?
Helena was already tugging him toward the doorway. “Yes, see yourself out. I need some time alone with my husband.”
Husband.
She’d called him that to remind everyone at Bruadarach who he was supposed to be, obviously. Of his place not just at the distillery, but in her life. This was her dream, and she was securing it.
But Hunter wanted more.
Was that a possibility?
Or did she still only see him as her hired husband?