Devil in Disguise Page 2

  Luke lifted his brows, looking mildly interested. “Are you going to?”

  “No. But I could!”

  Merritt had to gnaw the insides of her lips to restrain a laugh. “Mr. MacRae,” she soothed. “My brother and I are both well aware that I have nothing at all to fear from you. On the contrary, it’s common knowledge that Scots are trustworthy and honest, and … and simply the most honorable of men.”

  MacRae’s scowl eased slightly. After a moment, he said, “’Tis true that Scots have more honor per man than other lands. We carry the honor of Scotland with us wherever we go.”

  “Exactly,” Merritt said. “No one would doubt my safety in your company. In fact, who would dare utter one offensive word, or threaten any harm to me, if you were there?”

  MacRae seemed to warm to the idea. “If someone did,” he said vehemently, “I’d skin the bawfaced bastard like a grape and toss him onto a flaming dung heap.”

  “There, you see?” Merritt exclaimed, beaming at him. “You’re the perfect escort.” Her gaze slid to her brother, who stood just behind MacRae.

  Luke shook his head slowly, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips before he mouthed two silent words to her:

  Table syrup.

  She ignored him. “Come, Mr. MacRae—we’ll have your affairs settled in no time.”

  KEIR COULDN’T HELP following Lady Merritt. Since the moment he’d been drenched in 80-proof whisky on the docks, he’d been chilled to the marrow of his bones. But this woman, with her quick smile and coffee-dark eyes, was the warmest thing in the world.

  They went through a series of handsome rooms lined with wood paneling and paintings of ships. Keir barely noticed the surroundings. His attention was riveted by the shapely figure in front of him, the intricately pinned-up swirls of her hair, the voice dressed in silk and pearls. How good she smelled, like the kind of expensive soap that came wrapped in fancy paper. Keir and everyone he knew used common yellow rosin soap for everything: floors, dishes, hands, and body. But there was no sharpness to this scent. With every movement, hints of perfume seemed to rise from the rustling of her skirts and sleeves, as if she were a flower bouquet being gently shaken.

  The carpet underfoot had been woven in a pattern beautiful enough to cover a wall. A crime, it was, to tread on it with his heavy work boots. Keir felt ill at ease in such fine surroundings. He didn’t like having left his men, Owen and Slorach, out on the wharf. They could manage without him for a while, especially Slorach, who’d worked at his father’s distillery for almost four decades. But this entire undertaking was Keir’s responsibility, and the survival of his distillery depended on it. Making sure the bonded whisky was installed safely in the warehouse was too important to let himself be distracted by a woman.

  Especially this one. She was educated and well-bred, the daughter of an earl. Not just any earl, but Lord Westcliff, a man whose influence and wealth was known far and wide. And Lady Merritt was a power in her own right, the owner of a shipping business that included a fleet of cargo steamers as well as warehouses.

  As the only child of elderly parents, Keir had been given the best of what they’d been able to provide, but there had been little in the way of books or culture. He’d found beauty in seasons and storms, and in long rambles over the island. He loved to fish and walk with his dog, and he loved making whisky, the trade his father had taught him.

  His pleasures were simple and straightforward.

  Lady Merritt, however, was neither of those things. She was an altogether different kind of pleasure. A luxury to be savored, and not by the likes of him.

  But that didn’t stop Keir from imagining her in his bed, all flushed and yielding, her hair a blanket of dark silk over his pillow. He wanted to hear her pretty voice, with that high-toned accent, begging him for satisfaction while he rode her long and slow. Thankfully she had no idea of the lewd turn of his thoughts, or she would have fled from him, screaming.

  They came to an open area where a middle-aged woman with fair hair and spectacles sat in front of a machine on an iron stand.

  “My lady,” the woman said, standing up to greet them. Her gaze flicked over Keir’s unkempt appearance, taking in his damp clothes and the lack of a coat. A single twitch of her nose was the only recognition of the potent smell of whisky. “Sir.”

  “Mr. MacRae,” Lady Merritt said, “this is my secretary, Miss Ewart.” She gestured to a pair of sleek leather chairs in front of a fireplace framed by a white marble mantel. “Would you like to sit over there while I speak with her?”

  No, he wouldn’t. Or rather, he couldn’t. It had been days since he’d had a decent rest. If he sat for even a few minutes, exhaustion would overtake him.

  He shook his head. “I’ll stand.”

  Lady Merritt gazed at him as if he and his problems interested her more than anything else in the world. The private tenderness in her eyes could have melted an icehouse in the dead of winter. “Would you like coffee?” she suggested. “With cream and sugar?”

  That sounded so good, it almost weakened his knees. “Aye,” he said gratefully.

  In no time at all, the secretary had brought out a little silver tray with a coffee service and a footed porcelain mug. She set it on a table, where Lady Merritt proceeded to pour the coffee and stir in cream and sugar. Keir had never had a woman do that for him before. He drew closer, mesmerized by the graceful movements of her hands.

  She gave him the mug, and he wrapped his fingers around it, relishing the radiant heat. Before drinking, however, he warily inspected the half-moon-shaped ledge at the rim of the cup.

  “A mustache cup,” Lady Merritt explained, noticing his hesitation. “That part at the top guards a gentleman’s upper lip from the steam, and keeps mustache wax from melting into the beverage.”

  Keir couldn’t hold back a grin as he lifted the cup to his lips. His own facial hair was close-trimmed, no wax necessary. But he’d seen the elaborate mustaches affected by wealthy men who had the time every morning to twirl and wax the ends into stiff little curls. Apparently the style required the making of special drinking mugs for them.

  The coffee was rich and strong, possibly the best he’d ever had. So delicious, in fact, that he couldn’t stop himself from downing it in just a few gulps. He was too famished to sip like a gentleman. Sheepishly he began to set the cup back on the tray, deciding it would be rude to ask for more.

  Without even asking, Lady Merritt refilled his cup and prepared it again with sugar and cream. “I’ll be but a moment,” she said, before going to confer with the secretary.

  Keir drank more slowly this time, and set the cup down. While the women talked, he meandered back to the desk to have a look at the shiny black contraption. A typewriter. He’d seen advertisements of them in newspapers. Intrigued, he bent to examine the alphabet keys mounted on tiny metal arms.

  After the secretary left the room, Lady Merritt came to stand by Keir’s side. Noticing his interest in the machine, she inserted a small sheet of letter paper and turned a roller to position it. “Push one of the letters,” she invited.

  Cautiously Keir touched a key, and a metal rod rose to touch an inked ribbon mounted in front of the paper. But when the arm lowered, the page was still blank.

  “Harder,” Lady Merritt advised, “so the letter plate strikes the paper.”

  Keir shook his head. “I dinna want to break it.” The typewriter looked fragile and bloody expensive.

  “You won’t. Go on, try it.” Smiling at his continued refusal, she said, “I’ll type your name, then.” She hunted for the correct keys, tapping each one firmly. He watched over her shoulder as his name emerged in tiny, perfect font.

  Mr. Keir MacRae

  “Why are the letters no’ in alphabetical order?” Keir asked.

  “If you type letters that are too close together, such as S and T, the metal arms jam together. Arranging the alphabet this way helps the machine operate smoothly. Shall I type something else?”

&nb
sp; “Aye, your name.”

  A dimple appeared in her soft cheek as she complied. All Keir’s attention was riveted on the tiny, delectable hollow. He wanted to press his lips there, touch his tongue to it.

  Lady Merritt Sterling, she typed.

  “Merritt,” he repeated, testing the syllables on his lips. “’Tis a family name?”

  “Not exactly. I was born during a storm, on a night when the doctor wasn’t available, and the midwife was in her cups. But the local veterinarian, Dr. Merritt, volunteered to help my mother through her labor, and they decided to name me after him.”

  Keir felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Although he was half starved and had been in the devil’s own mood for most of the day, a feeling of well-being began to creep over him.

  As Lady Merritt turned the roller to free the paper, Keir caught a glimpse of her inner wrist, where a tracery of blue veins showed though the fine skin. Such a delicate, soft place. His gaze traveled along her back, savoring the full, neat curves of her, the trim waist and flared hips. The shape of her bottom, concealed by artfully draped skirts, he could only guess at. But he’d lay odds it was round and sweet, perfect to pat, squeeze, stroke—

  As desire surged in his groin, he bit back a curse. He was in a place of business, for God’s sake. And she was a widow who should be treated with dignity. He tried to focus on how fine and cultured she was, and how much he respected her. When that didn’t work, he thought very hard about the honor of Scotland.

  A little lock of hair had slipped free of the complex arrangement of loops and swirls at the back of her head. The dark tendril lay against the back of her neck, curling at the end like a finger inviting him closer. How tender and vulnerable the nape of her neck looked. How good it would feel to nuzzle her there, and bite softly until she quivered and arched back against him. He would—

  Bloody hell.

  Desperately hunting for distractions, Keir glanced at their surroundings. He caught sight of a small but elaborately framed painting on one wall.

  A portrait of Joshua Sterling.

  That was enough to cool his lust.

  The secretary had returned. Lady Merritt discarded the piece of typing paper in a little painted metal waste bin, and went to speak with her.

  Keir’s gaze fell to the contents of the bin. As soon as the women’s backs were turned, he reached down to retrieve the typed page, folded it into a small square, and slid it into his trouser pocket.

  He wandered to the painting for a closer look.

  Joshua Sterling had been a fine-looking man, with rugged features and a level gaze. Keir remembered having liked him a great deal, especially after they’d discovered they both loved fly-fishing. Sterling had mentioned learning to fly cast in the streams and lakes around his native Boston, and Keir had invited him to visit Islay someday and fish for sea trout. Sterling had assured Keir he would take him up on the offer.

  Poor bastard.

  Sterling had reportedly died at sea. A shame, it was, for a man to have been taken in his prime, and with such a wife waiting at home. From what Keir had heard, there were no children from the union. No son to carry on his name and legacy.

  He wondered if Lady Merritt would marry again. There was no doubt she could have any man she wanted. Was that why she planned to give her younger brother charge of Sterling Enterprises? So she could take part in society and find a husband?

  Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “I’ve always thought that portrait made my husband appear a bit too stern.” Lady Merritt came to stand beside Keir. “I suspect he was trying to appear authoritative, since he knew the painting was intended for the company offices.” She smiled slightly as she contemplated the portrait. “Perhaps someday I’ll hire an artist to add a twinkle in his eyes, to make him look more like himself.”

  “How long were you married?” Keir was surprised to hear himself ask. As a rule, he rarely asked about people’s personal business. But he couldn’t help being intensely curious about this woman, who was unlike anyone he’d ever met.

  “A year and a half,” Lady Merritt replied. “I met Mr. Sterling when he came to London to establish a branch of his shipping firm.” She paused. “I never imagined I would someday be running it.”

  “You’ve done very well,” Keir commented, before it occurred to him that it might seem presumptuous, offering praise to someone so far above him.

  Lady Merritt seemed pleased, however. “Thank you. Especially for not finishing that sentence with ‘… for a woman,’ the way most people do. It always reminds me of the Samuel Johnson quote about a dog walking on its hind legs: ‘It’s not done well, but one is surprised to find it done at all.’”

  Keir’s lips twitched. “There’s more than one woman who successfully runs a business on Islay. The button maker, and the butcher—” He broke off, wondering if he’d sounded condescending. “Although their shops can’t be compared to a large shipping firm.”

  “The challenges are the same,” Lady Merritt said. “Assuming the burden of responsibility, taking risks, evaluating problems …” She paused, looking wry. “I’m sorry to say mistakes still happen under my leadership. Your shipment being a case in point.”

  Keir shrugged. “Ah, well. There’s always a knot somewhere in the rope.”

  “You’re a gentleman, Mr. MacRae.” She gave him a smile that crinkled her nose and tip-tilted her eyes. It made him a wee bit dizzy, that smile. It fed sunshine into his veins. He was dazzled by her, thinking she could have been some mythical creature. A fairy or even a goddess. Not some coldly aloof and perfect goddess … but a small and merry one.

  Chapter 2

  THE SKY HAD BEGUN to darken as they went back out to the wharf, and a lamplighter moved along a row of gas lamps. Merritt saw that the barge had departed for Deptford Buoys for another load of whisky. Its cargo had been unloaded and carried to the dock entrance.

  “That’s mine,” MacRae said with a nod to a lone leather traveling trunk, repaired with a number of leather patches, that had been set amid a group of whisky casks.

  Merritt followed the direction of his gaze. “Is there more?” she asked, thinking surely there had to be.

  “No.”

  Afraid she might have given offense, Merritt said hastily, “I call that very efficient packing.”

  MacRae’s lips twitched. “You could call it no’ having very much to pack.”

  As they went to retrieve the trunk, they passed a group of longshoremen and warehousemen gathered around Luke. The sight caused Merritt to glow with pride.

  “My brother’s a very good manager,” she said. “When he started at Sterling Enterprises, he insisted on spending the first month loading and unloading cargo right beside the longshoremen. Not only did he earn their respect, he now understands more than anyone about how difficult and dangerous their work is. Because of him, we’ve installed the latest safety equipment and procedures.”

  “It was also your doing,” MacRae pointed out. “You hold the purse strings, aye? There’s many a business owner who would choose profit over people.”

  “I could never do that. My employees are good, hardworking men, and most of them have families to support. If one of them were injured, or worse, because I didn’t look after their safety …” Merritt paused and shook her head.

  “I understand,” he said. “Distilling is a dangerous business as well.”

  “It is?”

  “Aye, there’s a risk of fire and explosions at nearly every part of the process.” They reached the trunk, and MacRae glanced over the crowd and across the wharf. “My men have gone to Deptford Buoys for the next load of casks, it looks like.”

  “I’m sure you wish you’d gone with them,” Merritt said, trying to sound contrite.

  MacRae shook his head, the creases at the outer corners of his eyes deepening as he looked down at her. “No’ at the moment.”

  Something in his tone implied a compliment, and Merritt felt a little thrill of
pleasure.

  Grasping the trunk’s side handle, MacRae hefted it to his shoulder with ease.

  They proceeded to warehouse number three, where the whisky casks were being loaded, and walked around to a locked door at the side. “This leads to the upstairs flat,” Merritt said, inserting and turning the key until the bolt slid back. “They’ll be your private rooms, of course. You’ll be able to come and go at will. But there’s no connecting door to the warehouse storage. That part of the building can only be accessed when you and I are there with a revenue officer, each of us with our own key.” She led the way up a narrow flight of stairs. “I’m afraid the flat has only cold running water. But you can heat water for a bath on the stove fire plate.”

  “I can wash with cold water the same as hot,” he said.

  “Oh, but not this time of year. You might catch a chill and come down with fever.”

  Now MacRae sounded amused. “I’ve never been ill a day in my life.”

  “You’ve never had fever?” Merritt asked.

  “No.”

  “Never a sore throat or cough?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a toothache?”

  “No.”

  “How remarkably annoying,” Merritt exclaimed, laughing. “How do you explain such perfect health?”

  “Luck?”

  “No one’s that lucky.” She unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. “It must be your diet. What do you eat?”

  “Whatever’s on the table,” MacRae replied, following her into the flat and setting the trunk down.

  Merritt pondered what little she knew about Scottish cuisine. “Porridge, I suppose.”

  “Aye, sometimes.” Slowly MacRae began to investigate the room as they talked. It was simply furnished with a table and two chairs, and a small parlor stove with a single fire plate in the corner.

  “I hope the flat is acceptable,” Merritt said. “It’s rather primitive.”

  “The floor of my house is paved with stone,” he said dryly. “This is an improvement.”

  Merritt could have bitten her tongue. It wasn’t at all like her to be so tactless. She tried to steer the conversation back on course. “You … you were telling me about your diet.”