by Lisa Kleypas
His hands grasped her hips, keeping them angled firmly upward as he pumped in a steady rhythm. Slow in . . . slow out . . .
“Faster,” she said desperately.
“No’ yet,” he whispered.
“Please,” she begged.
His low, dark voice curled in her ear. “There’s a saying we have about whisky: Slow fire makes sweet malt.”
She whimpered as he rolled his hips gently, his hardness caressing everywhere inside. The deliberate pace didn’t alter, no matter how she tried to drive herself harder onto the rigid length of him. Every time she began to plead for more, his mouth came to hers in another one of those obliterating kisses.
None of this was what she’d expected. Her husband had been a considerate lover, doing everything she liked and giving her exactly what she wanted. Keir, however, was doing the exact opposite. He delighted in tormenting her until she didn’t recognize herself in the frantic creature she’d become. He was absolutely wicked, shameless, making love to her in ways that felt unimaginably good, always holding satisfaction just out of reach.
“You give me so much pleasure, darlin’ . . . more than a body can stand. The way you hold me so tight inside . . . like that . . . I can feel you pulling at me. Your wee, hungry body wants me deeper, aye? Put your hands on me . . . anywhere . . . ah, how I love your sweet touch . . .”
After what seemed like hours of sweet torture, he fell silent and pinned her down to keep her still, and she realized he was fighting to keep from climaxing. That excited her unbearably, and she couldn’t stop her body from clamping and pulsing on the hard invasion, over and over.
Keir buried his face in the pillow with a primitive grunt, then he turned his head and told her, “Stop that, you wee wanton.”
“I can’t help it,” she said faintly, which was true.
After a moment, he muttered, “Damn it, lass, you’re like to pull the marrow from my bones.” But his mouth curved against her ear.
His arms wrapped around her, and he rolled easily to his back, taking her with him.
Surprised and flummoxed, Merritt floundered a little as he gently pushed her up and arranged her legs to straddle him. “What are you doing?”
“Putting you to work,” he said, “since you’re so set on wringing me dry.”
She looked at the brawny male beneath her and shook her head slightly.
A brief laugh escaped him as he saw her confusion. “You’re a horsewoman, aye?” he asked, and nudged upward with his hips. “Ride.”
Genuinely shocked at finding herself in the dominant position, Merritt braced her hands on his chest for balance. Her first tentative movement was rewarded by an encouraging lift of his hips. It sent him even deeper than before, the angle seeming to open something inside her, and she quivered in sensitive reaction. Hot and excited and mortified, she understood what he wanted. As she began to move, she gradually lost her self-consciousness and found a rhythm, her sex rubbing and pumping against his. Every downstroke sent pleasure through her, every sensation connected to the thick length of him.
Panting heavily, Keir reached up to cup her breasts, his thumbs stroking the stiff peaks. “Merry, love . . . I’m going to come soon.”
“Yes,” she gasped, a tide of heat approaching fast.
“You’ll . . . you’ll have to pull away, if you dinna want me to release inside you.”
“I want it,” she managed to say. “Stay in me. I want to feel you come . . . Keir . . .”
He began to pump fast and hard, his hands grasping her hips to keep her in place. His eyes half closed, the passion-drowsed intensity of his gaze pushing her over the edge. The release went on and on, new swells and crests washing over her, leaving her moaning and shivering in their wake. She felt his hands grip her thighs as he bucked beneath her once, twice, and held fast.
When he subsided, trembling like a racehorse held in check, she lay on top of him with their bodies still fused. Feeling euphoric, she nuzzled the dark golden fleece on his chest.
Keir let out a long sigh and relaxed beneath her. “Temptress,” he said after a while, his voice low and lazy. “Are you satisfied, now you’ve had your way with a poor green lad from Islay?”
With great effort, Merritt levered herself higher on his body and touched her nose to his. “Almost.”
Keir’s chest moved beneath her as he chuckled. He turned until she was on her back, and carefully stroked a few loose locks of hair away from her face. Just before he kissed her, he whispered, “’Tis a good thing the night’s not over, then.”
The bells of St. George’s were ringing. Keir blinked and emerged from sleep as he heard the sound, recalling they clanged at a quarter before six every morning, to awaken the East End workers. Time to leave, while he could still slip out unseen.
He lay still, absorbing the feel of Merritt snuggled against him from behind. Her knees were drawn up neatly beneath his, a slender arm draped across his waist. Her breath came in soft, even rushes against his back.
How sweet it felt to lie there with her warm little body tucked against him, his mind still full of the night’s pleasures. A faint smile crossed his lips. He’d exhausted them both in his efforts to wrest a lifetime’s worth of joy from a few short hours. And yet he still wanted her.
At first, he’d wanted, selfishly, to satisfy her so completely that she’d never forget him. To ensure he would always be the man she wanted most in her bed. But he’d been caught in a trap of his own making. I’m the one who’ll never forget. For me it will always be you, Merry, love, the woman I’ll want until my last breath.
Carefully he eased out of the warm bed and paused with a shivering stretch in the cold air. He hunted for his clothes, dressed in the semidarkness, and discovered his mended coat had been hung inside the door on the handle. His personal items had been tucked into one of the pockets. He checked his wallet, not for currency, but to look for the slip of paper with the typed names. To his satisfaction, it was still there.
A washstand had been built into the corner of the room. The pallid glow of an outside streetlamp slipped through the window as he drew back one of the curtains. He washed his face, brushed his hair, and rinsed his mouth with cold water. As he turned to the bed, his stomach felt leaden at the thought of saying good-bye. He didn’t know what to say to her.
All he knew was that after he left, he’d have to learn how to live with his heart beating somewhere far away.
The first hint of daybreak frosted the shadowed room and gleamed on Merritt’s bare shoulders and back. She lay on her stomach with her face turned toward him, and he saw that her eyes were open. A bittersweet smile curved her lips as she took in the sight of him standing there fully dressed.
Silently Keir willed her not to say something that would unravel him.
To his infinite relief, she said in a voice still thick from sleep, “Don’t forget about my pat on the arse.”
The touch of humor made him smile. He felt a rush of gratitude, realizing Merritt was not a woman to make a scene, or part with someone on an uncomfortable note. It was one of the many graces of her character that she would try to make this easier for him.
Keir approached the bed and slowly drew the covers aside to reveal her naked backside. He ran his palm over her bottom, bent to press a kiss on one full, sweet curve, and finished with the gentlest of pats.
After pulling the covers carefully back over her, he left without another word or glance. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, and it gave him as bad a feeling as he’d ever felt.
He walked through the chilled mist of morning, heading back to the warehouse flat to bathe and change into fresh clothes. Last night’s storm had temporarily whisked away the city’s haze of pollution, turning the sky soft blue and washing the roads clean of their usual pungent dust and debris.
In the past, whenever he’d slept with a woman, his mood was jaunty. Ready to take on the world. But not this time. Some protective layer had been removed, leaving his senses ra
w and sharpened. He was exhausted, and yet at the same time, unfamiliar energy vibrated through him as if he’d been strung with piano wires.
He went through the motions of the day, meeting with a spirit merchant, and later with the exciseman, Gruinard, who explained the procedure of transferring bonded whisky from the warehouse to the purchaser. Delivery forms and transfer applications to be filled out, assessments of duties to be paid, registries to be signed, permits and certificates to be issued.
As Keir struggled to pay attention to the mind-numbing details, he had to stifle a yawn that made his eyes water.
Gruinard chuckled, not unkindly, at the sight. “A bit ‘sewn up,’ as they say, after a night gallivanting about London? Can’t say I blame you. I was once a young buck myself.”
As evening approached, Keir went to the waterside tavern, where he saw some of the Sterling warehousemen he’d worked alongside. They called out to him heartily and insisted he sit at their table. A round of ale was poured, and someone handed him a glass filled to the brim.
“We always start with a toast to the good lady,” one of them, an Irishman named O’Ceirin, told him.
Keir looked at him blankly. “The queen?”
The group laughed heartily, and O’Ceirin explained, “No, ye plank-noggin, we drink to the lady who saved our livings and kept her husband’s company when she might have sold it.” The Irishman raised his glass. “Fill up, lads, to the health and long life of Lady Merritt.”
With a hearty chorus of approvals, the warehousemen drank deeply. Keir finished half his glass in one gulp, and tried not to show the utter gloom that had enveloped him. He was scarcely aware of ordering food, but a plate of green peas and flavorless boiled meat was set before him. After forcing down a few bites, he finished his ale and took his leave.
The warehouse was dark and quiet as Keir returned to his flat. After sitting heavily in the chair near the stove, he glanced morosely at the adjoining room, where the small, solitary bed awaited. It might as well have been a torture rack. How could he be so tired and yet so reluctant to go to bed? His body was cold everywhere except for the wound on his back, which glowed with heat. It was tender, oddly tight, pulsing with a precise and regular throb. He sat there, staring blindly at the little stove, and considered lighting it to warm the flat. No. Everything was too much effort.
Heaving a sigh, Keir finally let himself think about Merritt.
He couldn’t believe he’d have to go the rest of his life without her. He wanted, needed, to see her one last time. Just for one minute. A half minute. Ten seconds. God, he was sick with longing. If he could just have a glimpse at her, he’d never ask for anything else in his life.
Maybe . . . he could go to her? No, don’t be a witless arse. He’d barely managed leaving her once. Leaving her twice would be the death of him.
But even knowing that, Keir found himself rising to his feet and reaching for his coat. His heart thudded with anticipation. He would just ask after her well-being. Even if she didn’t come to the door—if she were abed and he could only speak to the footman—that was still better than sitting here doing nothing.
He left the flat and began down the staircase leading to the outside door. But his steps slowed as he saw a cloud of smoke at the bottom of the stairwell.
Fire. A chill of alarm went through him in a flash, raising gooseflesh. He was stinging all over.
There was no such thing as a small warehouse fire. The stairwells and elevator shafts acted like chimneys, funneling flames and heat upward to spread the inferno across the wide-open floors.
With a curse, he barreled down the rest of the stairs and reached for the door handle.
It was gone.
Keir stared at the doorplate incredulously. The handle hadn’t fallen off, it had been neatly removed, with the bolt turned to the locking position. Someone had deliberately trapped him in here.
A warehouse for bonded goods was designed to be as secure as a bank vault. The door, wrapped in steel sheets and attached with industrial hardware, could not be broken.
A dull roar came through the wall between the stairwell and the building’s storage area. The sound of fire. Soon it would reach thousands of casks of whisky.
He was fucked.
Cursing, Keir turned and raced back up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. He went back into the flat, fumbling slightly as he unlocked the door. He ran to the window, pulled back the fastening bar, and opened it wide. A glance down the side of the building revealed nothing in the way of stairs or fire escapes.
Three stories yawned between him and the hard-paved ground, with no way to break or soften his fall.
Very fucked.
He focused on a one-story transit shed, built approximately ten feet away from the warehouse. If he could manage to reach it, the distance of the fall would be cut by a third. But without a running start, Keir wasn’t sure he could jump that far. And even if he could, he probably wouldn’t survive hitting the shed’s metal roof.
On the other hand, it was preferable to being roasted like an egg.
Breathing hard, Keir levered himself up to the window and stood carefully on the sill, gripping the jamb for balance.
It occurred to him that he’d probably end up being buried in England . . . far from his parents’ graves and the island he loved.
Someone wanted him dead, and he’d never know why. The thought charged him with fury.
And he jumped.
Chapter 11
Merritt stood in her bedroom as Jenny unfastened the back of her dress. It had been a long day, fraught with work she hadn’t felt like doing. She hadn’t been able to focus on anything for more than five minutes. Her mind had pulled back from every task like a cantankerous mule.
Her gaze strayed to the nearby bed, freshly made with pristine smooth sheets and blankets, the pillows nicely plumped. There were no signs of the torrid activity of the previous night. But for a moment, her mind conjured an image of a sleek golden body, broad shoulders rising over hers, the flash of the tiny key as it dangled from his neck and dragged gently between her naked breasts.
She gave a brief shake of her head to clear it. The bed was too large for one person, ridiculously so. She would get rid of it, she decided, and buy one half its size. Should she have the brocade counterpane cut down to fit the smaller bed? No, she would give it away and have a new one made. Perhaps something in blue—
Her musing was interrupted by a deep boom from outside, rattling the glass lamp housings and the crystal drops in the chandeliers.
“Holy Moses,” Merritt exclaimed, “is that thunder?”
Jenny was frowning. “I don’t think so, milady.”
They hurried to the window and drew back the curtains. Merritt flinched at a blinding flash close to the horizon, instantly followed by another thunderous sound. It was coming from the direction of the docks, she realized. Her stomach turned to ice.
“Fasten my dress back up, Jenny,” she said tensely. “No—first shout for Jeffrey and tell him to have the carriage readied, then help me with the dress.”
Approximately ten minutes later, Merritt was hurrying downstairs. There was a hammering at the front door. Before she could reach it, someone shouldered inside without waiting for a response.
It was Luke, who wore no overcoat or hat. His face was set and grim as he said without preamble, “It was one of ours.”
“The explosion? It was one of our warehouses? Which—”
“Yes—”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. I was at a card game at a club near the wharf. Someone came running in with the news.”
“Why did you come here?” Merritt demanded, gasping with anxiety. “You should have gone to see if it was . . . if . . .” She couldn’t speak for a moment. “Oh, God, Luke, do you think it was the bonded warehouse?”
Her brother’s face was grim. “It was a bloody massive explosion,” he said quietly. “The kind that would happen if fire reached
a hundred thousand gallons of alcohol. I came straight here because I knew you’d rush to the scene, and it’s as dangerous as hell. Listen to me, Merritt—I’m only letting you go there on condition that you stay close to me. You’re not to leave my side without asking. Agreed?”
Merritt was both astonished and irritated by the tone of command she’d never heard from her younger brother before. Although she wanted to inform him that she had too much common sense to go dashing about the scene of raging fire, she didn’t want to waste time. “Agreed,” she said shortly. “Let’s go.”
They went out to a waiting hansom cab and headed toward the wharf at a breakneck pace. To Merritt’s agonized frustration, the vehicle was forced to slow as they approached the main gate. A sea of onlookers had already amassed, filling the streets and making it difficult for the fire brigades’ horse teams and steam engines to reach the docks. A cacophony of sounds filled the air, clanging bells, pumping steamers in the water, and people shouting.
“We’ll have to stop here,” Luke said, and paid the driver before helping Merritt out. He kept an arm around her, trying to protect her from the crush of bodies as they made their way through the crowd.
The flames illuminated the wharf with the brilliance of midday. A coughing sob broke from Merritt’s throat as she saw the main source of the fire was indeed warehouse number three. She felt a hot slide of tears down to the edge of her jaw.
“He may not have been in there,” Luke said immediately. “He might be at a tavern or . . . or the devil knows . . . a brothel or music hall.”
Merritt nodded, trying to take comfort from the words. She blotted her wet cheek with the sleeve of her coat. It was a measure of her feelings for the man that she would have been overjoyed to find out he was at a brothel. Anything, anything other than being caught in that inferno.
“He could be wandering through the crowd right now,” Luke continued. “If so, we’ll have little chance of finding him.”
“Let’s search the area around the warehouse.”
“Sweetheart, we won’t be able to go anywhere near there. Just look at—no, you’re too short to see over the crowd. There are at least a half-dozen steamers in the water, pumping at full force, and two rolling engines trying to extinguish it from the street.”