by Lisa Kleypas
Keir didn’t object as strongly as he could have, partly because he was so hungry, his insides were fit to rattle like an empty churn. But mostly it was because this was the last time he would have this woman to himself, and despite his worries over the whisky shipment, he wanted a few more minutes with her.
He was still stunned by what had happened in the flat.
He was sure he hadn’t kissed her the way a gentleman would. Thankfully, she hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d tried to hold back, but it had been impossible. That mouth . . . sweet as honey from the comb. And the way she had molded bonelessly to him. She’d felt so exquisite in his arms, so fine and lush and warm.
He would relive that kiss in a thousand dreams. It had been as unlike anything that had happened in his life before, as it would be from everything that came after.
As they made their way through the filthy environs of the South London docks, he kept Merritt close beside him. It wasn’t at all a place for her. The pavement was littered with refuse, the wicket gates and walls were plastered with faded advertisements and obscene images, and the windows of slop shops and public houses were covered with grime. Noise came in layers: steam cranes and sounds of construction, ships’ bells and blasts, jingling carts, hooves and wheels, and the endless din of human voices.
“How invigorating,” Merritt exclaimed, glancing around the scene with satisfaction.
He responded with a noncommittal grunt.
“Being in the thick of things,” she continued, “where ships have docked with cargo from all over the world: pine from the West Indies, oranges from Seville, and tea from China. Yesterday one of our warehouses was stocked with ten thousand bundles of cinnamon, and the smell was glorious.” She let out a satisfied sigh. “How busy and alive this place is. Look at all these people!”
“Aye,” Keir said, gazing dourly at the milling crowd around them.
“The excitement of London always makes the family estate in Hampshire seem dull and quiet. There’s nothing to do but fish, hunt, or walk through the countryside.”
Keir almost smiled at that, thinking she’d just described his ideal day. “You dinna go back often?” he asked.
“Hardly ever since . . . well, since I had to start managing Sterling Enterprises. Fortunately, my family comes to London all the time.” They came to a penny pie shop, and she exclaimed, “Here we are.” Patrons had lined up in front of the shop, the queue extending along the pavement. Appetizing smells of hot pastry crust and fillings of minced beef or sweetened fruit drifted out from the doorway in a rich current. “This place is one of my favorites,” Merritt said. “The pie maker keeps a clean shop, and always uses good ingredients.” She assessed the size of the crowd with a slight frown. “Bother. The queue is too long.”
“Are you sure—” Keir began, his gaze riveted on the little pies being carried out by customers. Each pie, with its flaky lid punctured at the top to let out fragrant steam, had been nestled in its own paraffined cardboard box. He could have eaten a dozen of them, boxes included.
“I’ll take you to a food stall where we’ll find something much faster,” Merritt said, striding purposefully along the street.
They walked past offerings displayed on trestle boards and tables . . . puddings, sliced beef, boiled eggs, paper scoops filled with pickles, olives, salted nuts, or hot green peas glistening with bacon fat. There were roasted potatoes wrapped in waxed paper, crisp slivers of fried fish, smoked oysters crusted with salt, and cones of hardbake sweetmeats or brandy balls. Just a few minutes earlier, Keir had been willing to overlook his hunger in favor of more important concerns. Now that he was surrounded by this profusion of food, however, his empty stomach informed him that nothing else would happen until it was filled.
Merritt stopped at a stall featuring sandwiches, bread and butter, and cake.
“Evenin’, milady,” the stallkeeper said with a respectful tip of his hat.
“Mr. Gamp,” she said warmly. “I’ve brought this gentleman to try the best ham sandwich in London.”
“Smoked Hampshire ham, that’s the secret,” the stallkeeper said proudly as he set out a pasteboard box. “That, and the missus bakes the bread herself. Barm-leavened, to make it soft and sweet.” Deftly he cut one of the sandwiches on the board into triangles. The sturdy slices of bread had been filled with a plump stack of thinly sliced ham and a layer of watercress.
“How much?” Keir asked, swallowing hard at the sight.
“For tuppence, you’ll get a sandwich and a mug of beer,” Gamp replied.
It was twice as much as the same meal would have cost in Islay. Keir handed over the money without a quibble.
After ceremoniously placing a wrapped sandwich in the pasteboard box, Gamp added a pickle and an individual loaf of currant cake, and said to Merritt, “Extries for any friend of yours, milady.”
She beamed at him. “You’re too kind, Mr. Gamp.”
Keir went with Merritt to stand beneath the eaves of a top-heavy building, where he proceeded to wolf down his food. Ordinarily he would have felt self-conscious, eating in front of a lady—while standing on a public street, no less—but he was too hungry to care.
After he’d finished the sandwich and drained the beer, Keir was filled with fresh energy. He felt as if he could stock every cask of the whisky shipment into the warehouse singlehandedly.
He went to drop the empty mug into a bin beneath Gamp’s stall table, and admitted to Merritt, “You could say, ‘I told you so,’ and you’d be in the right of it.”
She laughed. “I never say, ‘I told you so.’ It never helps, and everyone hates hearing it.”
Flecks of light danced over her cheeks, scattered by the nearby perforated iron firepots at the stall. It made her appear to sparkle like a creature out of Scottish lore. Beautiful women were often dangerous in those stories: disguised as a water spirit or a witch, to ensnare a hapless male and lead him to his fate. No escape, no mercy. As a young boy, Keir had always wondered why the men hadn’t tried to resist.
“Ah, weel,” his father had explained, “they’re enchanters of men, bonnie women are, and when they beckon, we can’t help but follow.”
“I wouldn’t!” Keir had said indignantly. “I’d stay home and take care of Mither.”
There had come a chuckle from the stove, where his mother had been frying potatoes. “A good laddie, y’are,” she’d called out.
His father had grinned and stretched out before the hearth, lacing his fingers together over his middle. “Someday, lad, you’ll ken exactly why a man falls to temptation, even knowing the better of it.”
And, as in most things, Keir thought ruefully, his father had been right.
It was only a short walk back to the wharf, past houses and shops with light glowing from windows and in glass cases of streetlamps. Merritt began to dread the moment when they reached the warehouse and this peculiar but delightful interlude with a stranger would be over. How long it had been since she’d felt this giddiness, as if she were being courted. She’d forgotten how much she’d liked it. How odd that the man to remind her was a rough-and-ready whisky distiller from a remote Scottish island.
MacRae accompanied her to Sterling Enterprises, and stopped with her just inside the entrance. “When will you go home?” he asked, as if he were concerned about leaving her there.
“I’ll take my leave after I meet with Mr. Gruinard, the supervising exciseman,” Merritt said. “He has an office here in the building. I’m sure I can persuade him to wait at least until noon tomorrow before interfering with the bond terms.”
The hint of a smile lurked in the corners of his lips as he stared down at her. “How could anyone refuse you?”
That tempting forelock of hair had fallen over his forehead again. Merritt had to clench her hand to keep from reaching up and stroking it back. “You mustn’t hesitate to come to me if there’s anything you need,” she told him. “Recommendations for places to go, or introductions to someone—or if there’s a prob
lem with the flat—I’m here most days, and of course my secretary or Luke will provide assistance—”
“I don’t expect I’ll be troubling you, milady.”
“It would be no trouble. Just walk over here from the flat whenever you like, and . . . we’ll go to the penny pie shop.”
He nodded, but she knew he had no intention of taking her up on the invitation.
That was probably for the best.
But as they parted company, Merritt had a sense of being abandoned, deprived of something . . . not unlike a puppy whose owner had just left the house. What was the word for it? Forlorn, she decided. Yes. She was feeling forlorn, and that would not do.
Action must be taken.
She just wasn’t certain what that was yet.
During an hour of negotiations with Mr. Gruinard, Merritt managed to gain a few small but valuable concessions. Now she could finally go home. It had been a long day, and she was eager to sit by the fire with a pair of soft slippers on her feet. But no matter how tired she was, the cogs of her brain wouldn’t stop turning, and she knew already she would be in for a night of poor sleep.
She decided to have her carriage stop at warehouse number three on the way home. After all, as a caring older sister, she was concerned for her brother’s welfare, and as a responsible employer, it was her place to find out how work was progressing.
And if, in the process of speaking to Luke, she happened to catch sight of Keir MacRae . . . well, that was entirely incidental.
The warehouse was a hive of activity. A steam-powered crane creaked and groaned, and occasionally hissed as if with a sigh of relief, after lifting cargo to the upper level of the building.
Curses and grunts of effort filled the air as the warehousemen worked. Even with ramps and hand trucks, it took brute effort to maneuver and rack the whisky barrels.
Merritt entered the building as inconspicuously as possible, taking care not to block anyone’s path. Nearby, men strained to push heavily loaded hand trucks up a ramp, where a warehouse gauger stamped each cask. At least a half-dozen workers with tin drinking cups had gone to the corner, where stone jugs of water had been set in barrels of sawdust and ice.
Her presence was quickly noticed by one of the foremen, who offered to escort her to the upper floor where Luke was working. They went up on a hand-powered lift, operated by a working rope at the front of the cage. During the ascent, Merritt gazed around the warehouse, but even from her elevated vantage point, there was no sign of Keir MacRae.
She found Luke on his hands and knees, marking the floor with chalk to indicate where to store the next load of casks. “Would you like to hear some good news?” she asked as she approached him.
A slow grin crossed her brother’s sweat-streaked face at the sight of her. He stood and dusted his hands together, creating little clouds of chalk. “Tell me.”
“I just met with Mr. Gruinard, and he said even if we don’t have all the whisky stamped and stocked inside the warehouse by noon, as long as the casks are set inside the bonded yard—”
“The one we’re only allowed to use for timber?”
“Yes, that one—Mr. Gruinard will make an exception and let us use it as a temporary holding area for the whisky until we finish the job.”
“Thank God,” Luke said fervently. “Well done, sis.” He gave her a quizzical glance. “Is that all?”
“What do you mean, ‘Is that all?’” Merritt asked with a laugh. “Isn’t it enough?”
“Well, yes, but . . . there was no need to tell me in person at this hour. You could have sent a note, or let it wait until morning.”
“I thought you’d want to know right away. And I wanted to see for myself how you were doing.”
“I’m so touched by your concern,” Luke said. “Especially since you’ve never taken such trouble over me before.”
“What twaddle,” Merritt exclaimed good-naturedly. “Two weeks ago, I brought soup and tea to you—here in this very warehouse—when you had the sniffles!”
Setting his hands on his hips in a relaxed posture, Luke said in a dry undertone, “Let’s not pretend this visit has anything to do with me. You came here hoping for a glimpse of a certain bearded Scotsman.”
She lowered her voice as she asked, “Did he say anything to you?”
“About what?”
“About me.”
“Why yes, we stopped in the middle of work to gossip over tea. Then we made plans to visit the milliner and try on bonnets together—”
“Oh, hush,” Merritt whispered sharply, both amused and annoyed.
Luke regarded her with a slow shake of his head. “Be careful, sis.”
Her smile faded. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m referring to the mistake you’ve apparently already decided to make.” Taking in her offended expression, Luke added, “Don’t misunderstand me—MacRae seems as good-natured and steady as they come. A brick. But there’s no part of your future that would naturally align with any part of his. On top of that, after the way you’ve flouted convention in recent years, London society is dying to catch you in a scandal. Don’t provide them with one.”
To receive a lecture on conduct from a younger sibling—who was no saint himself—was bad enough. But it was even worse to see the concern in Luke’s gaze, as if he suspected something had happened at the warehouse flat. Was it that obvious? She felt as if she were walking around with a large scarlet letter stitched across her bodice.
She kept her tone light even though her chest was tight with anger. “Why in heaven’s name am I being lectured for something I haven’t done?”
“It’s not a lecture. Just a reminder. The devil never tries to make people do the wrong thing by scaring them. He tempts them.”
Merritt’s forced laugh came out as brittle as overcooked toffee. “Dear, are you claiming Mr. MacRae is the devil in disguise?”
“If he were,” Luke replied quietly, “I’d say the disguise has been pretty damned successful so far.”
She flushed deeply, and strove to keep her voice calm, even though she was seething. “If this is all the thanks I’ll receive for my efforts with Mr. Gruinard, I’ll take my leave now.”
Turning on her heel, she began to make a smart exit, heading to the stairs instead of waiting for someone to operate the lift. The effect was ruined, however, as she crossed in front of a ramp leading to an upper row of barrel racks, and heard a muffled shout.
Pausing in confusion, Merritt glanced toward the noise and saw a heavy barrel rolling toward her.
Chapter 4
Before another second had passed, Merritt felt herself snatched up and hauled out of the barrel’s path. Momentum spun her in a half circle until she was brought abruptly against a tough, unyielding surface.
Dazedly she realized someone was holding her. Her senses gathered pleasurable impressions . . . the deep warmth of a masculine body . . . a sturdy arm around her back . . . a low murmur close to her ear.
“Easy, lass. I have you.”
A lock of her hair had slipped free of its pins. The little hat that had been attached to the top of her head with a comb had been knocked askew. Slightly disoriented, she looked up into Keir MacRae’s smiling blue eyes.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I should have paid more attention to where I was going. How—how did you—”
“I’d just finished stocking a rack, and was coming to say good evening.” Gently MacRae stroked back the loose curl over her eyes, and caught the hat just as it began to slide off her head. He regarded it quizzically. “What’s this?”
“My hat.” It was little more than a knot of feathers and a puff of gauze affixed to a velvet base. Merritt took it from him and fumbled to fasten it back in place.
His lips twitched. “A hat is for shielding you from sun or rain. That wee thing is no’ a hat.”
Her toes curled deliciously at the soft teasing. “I’ll have you know it’s the latest fashion.”
“It reminds me of a lapwing.”
“A what?”
“A bonnie wee bird with a spray of feathers at the back of her head.” His arm was still behind her back, holding her securely. It felt too good, being this close to him. She realized the reason she’d been so cross with Luke was because he’d been right: She was heading for trouble. Running headlong toward it, in fact.
Luke had caught the stray barrel and was in the process of rolling it back up the ramp, while a foreman spoke sternly to a young warehouseman. The scarlet-faced young man, still in his teens, cast a distraught glance at Merritt. “I’m so very sorry, milady, I—I beg your pardon—”
“Dinna fash yourself, lad,” MacRae said easily, making certain Merritt was steady before letting go of her. “Her ladyship suffered no harm.”
“It was my fault,” Merritt said. “I should have been more alert.”
“No one’s alert at this hour,” Luke said, rolling the barrel back up the ramp and righting it with a grunt of effort. “Try rolling the barrel on the brim instead of the side,” he advised the young warehouseman. “It’s slower but easier to control. I’ll show you, but first—” He glanced at Merritt over his shoulder, the crease of a frown appearing between his dark brows. Reluctantly he asked, “MacRae, would you be willing to escort my sister out to her carriage?”
“Aye, of course,” MacRae said promptly.
Merritt smiled and reached out to take MacRae’s arm. “I’d rather take the stairs than the lift.”
As they proceeded down the long, enclosed staircase, Merritt told him about her meeting with the excise officer. MacRae was gratifyingly impressed by her negotiating skills, and thanked her for buying the extra time. They would need it, he said, as progress had been steady but slower than he would have liked.
“You must be exhausted,” Merritt said in concern.
“’Tis weary work,” he admitted, “but there’ll be an end of it tomorrow, and I’ll have a good sound sleep.”