Page 52 of A Virgin for the Icy Highlander
The slight scrape of the opposite chair made him crack one eye open, just in time to see Oscar lean forward, raising a suspicious eyebrow.
“It’s all well and good that yer daughter likes her,” Oscar said, “but doyelike her? It’s hard to tell from yer face. Then again, it’s hard to tell anythin’ from yer face.”
Hunter snorted. “I’ve been hearin’ that a lot of late.”
“Ye’re avoidin’ the question,” Oscar replied knowingly, taking a pointed sip of his whiskey.
The hour was far too late for meaningful conversations. Even if Hunter’s head hadn’t been swimming with pieced-together visions of his exquisite bride and the way she’d felt in his embrace, he wouldn’t have had the wherewithal. But Oscar was between him and the door, and though Hunter could beat his friend in a fight, he had even less strength for that.
So, it was simply easier to answer.
“It doesnae matter whether I like her or nae,” he replied. “She willnae like me much when she finds out what I did to Lorna.”
He picked up his glass again, deciding he needed the whiskey, after all. Most conversations that began with his first wife required some sort of assistance to keep the worst memories at bay, and as he didn’t have a length of wood handy to knock himself out with, the whiskey would have to do.
“It wasnae yer fault, Hunter,” Oscar said, pursing his lips. “If I have to tell ye that again, I’ll put ye out of yer misery meself.”
Hunter raised his glass to his friend. “That wouldnae matter either. She’d be there in the hereafter to punish me, so ye’d just be sendin’ me to her.” He took a larger gulp, and the liquor burned down into his stomach. “It’s easy tosayit wasnae me fault, but ye werenae there.”
The scream began as a distant ringing in his ears. It would get louder with the passing minutes, until it was a deafening wail inside his skull that nothing could chase off.
He’d tried. The only thing to do when that scream started was to wait it out, which was probably the least he could do, considering he was the one who’d caused it.
“Aye, well, we’ll agree to disagree on that ‘til we’re in our graves. Stubborn as an old goat, that’s what ye are,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “But how come yer bride doesnae ken yet?”
Hunter finished off what was left in his glass and rose to pour himself another. “She hasnae asked.”
“Are ye serious?” Oscar stared at him, holding out his glass for more. “Do ye nae want to get ahead of the tale? If someone else ends up tellin’ her, she might nae get the full truth. Do ye ken how many versions of it there are out there?”
Hunter tipped the whiskey into Oscar’s glass, then his own. “I plan to tell her before the weddin’.”
Sitting back down, he stared into the amber liquid, refusing to admit the real reason he hadn’t told Grace yet: he hadn’t wanted to become a monster in her eyes. He’d been putting it off, enjoying the feeling of getting closer to her, without her seeing him through the lens of his past.
But he wasn’t an unjust man; he wouldn’t let her marry him until she had all the information. It was only fair. And if tonight became nothing but a distant, pleasant memory, that was something he would have to accept.
“Well,” Oscar remarked, “we ken she can always punch ye in the face and be done with it if ye do somethin’ she doesnae like, so I’d be ready to duck when ye tell her.”
Perhaps delirious with fatigue, Hunter couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up his throat and spilled out to join Oscar’s wry chuckle.
Grace wasn’t incredibly short, unlike Lilian, but she’d have to really throw herself into the punch if she wanted to hit him.
Hunter said as much. “I’d gladly get her a chair, so she wouldnae be left unsatisfied.”
“Makes ye wonder how short that other lad was,” Oscar mused, tapping a finger against the side of his glass, his gaze wandering across the room. A moment later, his eyes shot wide. “What, pray tell, isthat?”
Hunter followed his friend’s gaze to a span of wall behind him, partially concealed by a bookcase, depending on where someone was in the room. Although Hunter already knew what he was seeing.
“Ellie and Grace made it to surprise me,” he replied, a smile curving his lips. “Can ye nae see the resemblance? I’ve never seen me likeness captured so perfectly.”
Oscar’s gray eyes narrowed. “That’s ye?”
“What do ye mean?” Hunter had vowed not to say anything unkind about the painting, after Grace had mentioned his less-than-effusive reaction, and he meant to keep that promise to his daughter. “Who else would it be?”
A grin spread across Oscar’s face, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Aye, ye’re right. It looks exactly like ye. I cannae believe I didnae see it before.” He got up and wandered over to the portrait. “But what’s this?”
He pointed to the white blob.
“Me pet lion,” Hunter replied with a shrug.
