by Lisa Kleypas
“Aye,” Keir said acidly.
“Yes,” Merritt replied.
“Are the both of ye single persons?” the sheriff inquired. When they both nodded, he pressed, “You’re no’ brother and sister?”
“No,” Keir said curtly, his patience wearing thin.
“Nor ooncle and niece?”
“MacTaggart,” Keir growled, “you know thunderin’ well I have no nieces.”
The sheriff ignored him, focusing on Merritt with a deeply searching gaze. “Milady, has this man used force or false representation to carry you away against your will?”
Merritt blinked in surprise.
“What’s the matter with you, MacTaggart?” Keir demanded. “Of all the goamless questions—”
Fia interrupted. “This lass has no’ been abducted, sheriff.”
Keir glanced at her over his shoulder. “Thank you, Fia.”
“She’s been debauched,” Fia continued primly. “Drawn away from the path of virtue by the temptations this lad exerted upon her.”
Keir was thunderstruck. “Debauched?”
MacTaggart stared at him gravely. “Do you deny you’ve lain with this lass, MacRae?”
“I deny ’tis any of your fookin’ business!”
Ranald Slorach shook his head glumly. “’Twas London,” he said. “That wicked city put lewd ideas into the lad’s head and corrupted his mind.”
Merritt pressed her lips together and lowered her head, holding in a helpless giggle while the Slorachs and the sheriff continued to discuss the ruination of Keir’s moral character while tarrying too long in the unwholesome environment of London, and the degenerate atmosphere of England in general. She stole a covert glance at Ethan, who was struggling manfully to conceal his own amusement.
“Sheriff,” Ethan broke in, “now that the damage has been done, I believe only marriage will correct it.”
“’Tis right, you are,” MacTaggart said decisively. “The lad must be hob-shackled right away, for the saving of his character.” He looked at Keir. “Go on then, MacRae. Speak your vow.”
Keir turned to face Merritt fully, and took both her hands in his. As he stared into her eyes, his expression changed, softening with tender warmth. “I take you for my wife. I vow I’ll try every day to be the man you deserve. And I’ll love none but you, my heart, until my last waking moment.”
She was caught in that diamond-bright gaze, while every part of her was alive with awareness of him . . . her skin, her body, her pulse, the marrow of her bones . . . all harboring the recognition of him not as a separate being, but as part of herself. She’d never imagined such intimacy was possible, an intimacy that had nothing to do with ownership.
I’ll be the extra rib that protects your heart.
You can’t. You are my heart.
She smiled up at him, burning and weightless with joy, wondering how gravity could still be anchoring her to solid ground. “I take you for my husband. I’ll love you with all that I am and all that I have, forever.”
His mouth came to hers.
She never remembered anything specific from the next few minutes, what words were exchanged, or what time it was when everyone else left and she and Keir were finally alone. She did recall he’d heated a hot bath for her, and when they’d climbed into bed, the sheets had been ice-cold, but Keir’s body heat had warmed her rapidly. And she remembered him leaning over her with a lazy smile, his hand moving gently down her body as he said, “Ransom told me we’ll have to confine ourselves mostly to the house and thereabouts for the next few days.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she’d whispered, and drawn his head down to hers.
Chapter 37
By the time Keir and Merritt emerged from the house the next day, it was early afternoon.
The weather was cool and gray—dreich, Keir called it—but Merritt’s wool walking dress and sturdy shoes kept her comfortable, and a thick cashmere shawl protected her from the wind. Wallace raced back and forth, playing fetch-the-stick with Keir as they walked.
The distillery and house covered three acres of ground, all of it overlooking the sea. Although the property appeared to exist in romantic isolation, it was only about two miles from Port Charlotte, which, according to Keir, was filled with shops, gardens, and terraced houses.
Wallace followed as Keir took Merritt into the distillery for a tour. She was amazed by the size and complexity of the operation, which used a combination of machinery and gravity to move enormous quantities of grain and liquid. Barley was hoisted to two- and three-story lofts, and funneled to various places in the distillery through iron shoots. There were upper malting floors connected to a massive kiln by gangways, along which bags of dried malt were carried. That had been one of Keir’s early jobs when he was a boy, as he could scurry quickly back and forth along the gangways. After being ground in a giant mill, the dried malt was conveyed by elevator to a grist loft, and eventually mixed with hot water in a sixteen-foot diameter tun that stirred the mash.
“Once the malt is mixed with water,” Keir said, “it cuts down on the grain dust and lowers the risk of explosions.”
Merritt looked at him with wide eyes. “Like the kind that happens in flour mills?”
He nodded. “’Tis the same. But we connected a large metal pipe between the grist elevators and the roof, so most of the explosion’s force would go up into the sky. And we installed fire hydrants and plugs, reels, and hose wherever we could.” He kept Merritt’s hand in his as they wandered past a towering row of copper stills. “There’s little danger of that now, as the distillery’s been shut down for nigh a month. But ’tis still no’ a good idea to light a match or smoke a cigar anywhere around the distillery.”
“Or fire a gun, I suppose,” Merritt said.
“Or that,” Keir agreed ruefully. He hesitated before asking warily, “You dinna bring a revolver to Islay, did you?”
“Of course I did. I borrowed one from Uncle Sebastian’s gun room. I came here to protect you, remember?” She reached into the pocket of her walking skirt, where a small but weighty Bulldog revolver rested against her hip. “If you’d like to see—”
Keir groaned and shook his head, pulling her between the copper stills. “No, dinna show me.” He backed her up against a cool copper surface. “I dinna need you to protect me,” he informed her. “I need you for other things.”
“I can do those too.”
His mouth moved over hers in a long, savoring kiss, not stopping until she was clinging to him weakly, her legs unsteady.
They broke apart as Wallace ran up to them, carrying something in his mouth, his tail wagging.
“What did you find?” Keir asked, reaching down to take the object from him.
Merritt felt a sharp pang of worry as she saw that it was a man’s wool flat cap. “Dinna fash,” Keir said immediately, “it belongs to one of Ransom’s agents. Duffy, I think. He’s probably somewhere in here.”
Merritt continued to frown. “Are they hiding from us?” she whispered.
“No, only trying to stay out of our way.” He dangled the flat cap near Wallace’s nose. “Let’s go find him, laddie.”
The terrier trotted away, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder to make sure they were following.
“Does Wallace know when Ethan or one of his men are nearby?”
“Aye. He met them—Duffy and Wilkinson are their names—before you arrived. I introduced them, and gave them each a bit of carrot to feed him. Wallace counts them among his friends, so he won’t bark at them. But if a stranger is nearby, he’ll tell us.”
They went to a large multi-story rackhouse, where filled whisky casks were stored horizontally on racks, stacked four high.
“Duffy?” Keir called out cautiously.
Merritt tensed, her hand creeping surreptitiously to her skirt pocket as they waited for a reply.
“Mr. MacRae?” A young clean-shaven man with dark hair came walking from the other side of the rackhouse. Keir gave the h
at to the terrier, who dutifully carried it to Duffy. “Thank you, Wallace,” the man said, scratching him behind the ears. “I was looking for that.” Glancing at Merritt, he bowed respectfully. “Milady.”
She smiled and curtsied in return. “Mr. Duffy.”
The young man’s gaze went to Keir. “If you’re going to tour the rackhouse with Lady Merritt,” he offered, “I could patrol another area in the distillery.”
“Aye,” Keir said.
They waited until Duffy had left before they began to walk among the racks, with Wallace following. “How old do you think he is?” Merritt whispered, slightly disgruntled.
“Two-and-twenty?” Keir guessed.
“I was estimating about twelve.”
Keir gave a shake of his head, dismissing her concern, and turned her to look at the stored casks. “Look at these racks—we installed them last year. Before that, we had to store the casks standing upright, which exerts too much pressure on them and causes leaks. Keeping them sideways is easier on the casks, and it lets more air circulate around the sides and ends.”
“Why do you want air to circulate?”
“Improves the flavor.”
“How do you move the casks in and out of the racks?”
“It still takes brute force to lift them up,” he admitted, “the same as with vertical storing. But to take them down, ’tis a simple matter of pulling the levers at the end of each row. It releases the stops, and the barrels come rolling out.”
“That could be exciting,” she said dryly, looking at the endless rows of barrels waiting to tumble.
Keir reached out and eased her against him, and nuzzled a few kisses beneath her jaw and along her throat. “Have you seen enough of the distillery for now, love? I could do with a wee nap.”
She slid her arms around his neck and lifted her mouth to his for answer.
Aside from that brief encounter with Duffy, they saw no sign of Ethan or his men. They were so absorbed in each other, relishing the novelty of being able to do whatever they pleased with no concern about anyone’s schedule, that the hours slipped by without their notice. They cooked a simple meal, drank wine, made love, and had a long, relaxed conversation before the fire. In the evening, they took Wallace for a walk around the property, and looked out at the sea through binoculars as dolphins cavorted.
Merritt had never been so happy, but at the same time, the lurking, nagging worry about potential danger was ever-present. And there was also the question of what was happening in court. It had been two days since Kingston had appeared at Chancery to reveal he’d located Keir, but so far there had been no word of any legal developments.
“He’ll telegram when there’s something to report,” Keir said. “Or Ransom will find out and tell us.”
As it turned out, Ethan knocked at the front door early the next morning. Keir dressed hastily and went to let him in while Merritt hurriedly put on a robe and set a kettle on to boil.
Ethan looked tired and tense as he entered the kitchen and held his chilled hands over the stove to warm them. “I have shocking news,” he said, rubbing his hands briskly to distribute the heat. “Do I have to broach it carefully, or can I simply come out with it?”
“Is it shocking in a good way or a bad way?” Merritt asked.
Ethan considered that. “Not bad, on the face of it. But I don’t know the details yet.”
“What is it?” Keir asked.
“Lord Ormonde was found dead in his home late last night.”
Chapter 38
A sense of unreality came over Merritt. She struggled to wrap her brain around the information and decide what it meant, but her usual thought process seemed to have been disassembled. She glanced at Keir, who had turned to busy himself with measuring tea into the teapot. His face was difficult to read, but she knew he had to be stunned and profoundly worried by the fact that everything was falling on his head at once . . . inheriting the trust and almost certainly the viscountcy and estate as well.
“Was it natural causes?” Keir asked calmly.
“I don’t know yet. He was certainly of an age for that possibility. I have to leave for London immediately and oversee an investigation.” Ethan went to a basket of food, lifted a cloth, and took out a bannock. He took a bite of the dry, crumbly oat bread without seeming to taste it. “I want to take Wilkinson with me and leave Duffy here, if you don’t object.”
Merritt frowned. “I might object.”
Ethan glanced at her speculatively and swallowed the bite of bannock. “With Ormonde’s death,” he said, “there’s no motivation for Brownlow to come all the way here and carry out the wishes of a dead man. It’s unlikely MacRae will be troubled by him again.”
“Unlikely,” Merritt said, “but not impossible.”
“Which is why I’m leaving Duffy with you,” Ethan said evenly, eating more of the bannock.
Keir slid his arm behind Merritt’s back and patted the side of her hip. “We’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ll stay safe in the house and plan of what to do next. There’s the distillery needing to be started up again, the trust properties needing to be managed . . . and an estate in . . . where is it?”
“Cumberland,” Merritt replied.
“Cumberland,” Keir repeated, and went to pour hot water into the teapot. He spoke while facing away from her, sounding wry. “If only I could divide myself into three men, each doing a job well, instead of being one man doing three jobs badly.”
“Three of you,” Merritt mused, her natural sense of humor asserting itself. “That would be rather too much for me to manage. Depending, of course, on how many of you would want me as your wife.”
Keir turned to glance at her over his shoulder, his hair tousled, his blue eyes glinting with a smile. “My heart,” he said, “there’s no version of me that would no’ choose you as my wife. ’Tis the first thing I would do.” His gaze held hers, and he added softly, “The very first thing.”
After Ethan and Wilkinson had left for London, Duffy went back to the change-house to rest in preparation for his solitary night watch. Merritt spent the afternoon talking with Keir, the two of them cuddled together on a very small settee. She would have to order one at least twice this size, she thought, when it came time to build a new house on the island. She watched with amusement as Wallace paced restlessly around the overloaded settee, obviously trying to calculate how he too could sit there.
“Wallace,” Keir said dryly, “I dinna know where you think you’ll find a blessed inch of empty space.”
The terrier persisted, however, hopping up near their feet and painstakingly crawling over their bodies.
“Wallace will come to London with us, of course,” Merritt said, reaching out swiftly to steady the dog as he wobbled. She pulled him onto her lap and leaned back against Keir. “As soon as Ethan says it’s safe, we’ll stay at my—our—home there, and meet with your father.” She paused, disconcerted. “I’m sorry, I meant with Kingston.”
“I dinna mind,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He is my father, whether I call him that or no’.”
Merritt smiled and gently scratched Wallace’s head and ears until he sighed and slumped across her lap. “He’ll explain how we should proceed with the trust, and we’ll meet with all the solicitors and bankers and so forth.”
“’Tis no’ the trust I’m worried about,” Keir said morosely. “’Tis the estate and title. I have no connection to those lands—nor to the people who farm it—and I dinna think I can live in a place where my mother bided in such misery.” He paused. “Can I no’ give any part of it away?”
“One can’t give away a title, I’m afraid. And perhaps there’s a tiny percentage of land you might be able to sell, but most of it’s probably entailed. That means it has to be kept all together, along with the house, to pass down to the next generation. You won’t really own it so much as you’ll be its caretaker until the next Lord Ormonde. Certainly you wouldn’t want to evict the current tenants, who are go
od, hardworking people.” She thought for a long moment. “However . . . that doesn’t mean the manor house itself can’t be used for some other purpose.”
“Such as?”
“A school?” she suggested.
“A school for what?”
“For boys and girls who are disadvantaged and need a good education as well as a healthy, happy place to live.”
Keir pressed his lips to her head. “I like that idea,” he said. “Very much.”
“It’s not the same as running your distillery of course, but there might be aspects you would find interesting and rewarding.”
“’Tis about more than making whisky, my distillery,” he said reflectively. “The part I like the most is that my men and I, we’re all working together to make something good. Something we’re proud of. I think . . . I could feel some of that for a school.”
Merritt smiled and nestled more tightly against him.
They talked into the evening, until they were both tired and ready for bed.
“Let’s bathe first,” Merritt suggested.
Keir parted his lips to reply, when Wallace suddenly leaped off the settee and ran uneasily from the main room to the bedroom and back again. His small body quivered with excitement, and his wiry fur stood on end.
“What is it?” Keir wondered aloud, going to the window. Merritt turned down the lamp to reduce the glare of reflected light.
All three of them jumped as they heard a jarring sound from the distillery, a mingling of groaning metal and broken glass, as if something had smashed.
Then the night was silent.
Wallace erupted in furious barking, until Keir laid a gentle hand on his head, quieting him.
“An accident with machinery?” Merritt suggested. “Perhaps one of the copper stills fell over?”
Keir shook his head, staring intently out the window.
Something was wrong. Merritt felt her insides turn hollow. She went to the bedroom, took the Bulldog revolver from the leather valise where she’d been keeping it, and turned the lamp down in that room as well. As she glanced through the window at the whitewashed walls around the distillery, she couldn’t detect any movement.