Page 29 of The Dravenhearst Brides

Dearest Pa,

I thought you should know

I know I wrote you only yesterday, but

I’ve decided to sign the marital addendum

—unfinished, from the desk of Margot Dravenhearst

Margot was in the dining room, waiting for him. She’d been waiting all day, actually, but her husband had done a superb job of making himself scarce. Now it was suppertime—past suppertime, if the distant chime of the grandfather clock told her anything—and he had yet to appear.

Margot stood before the dining room windows, peering over the hill toward the distillery as dusk rapidly bled into night. She tapped her toe on the mahogany floor.

He was avoiding her.

They had things to discuss—bootleggers, celibacy, and inheritance law to start—and he was hiding like a child.

Determined, Margot turned on her heel and strode from the room. Down the hall. Into the foyer. She yanked open the door and stalked into the night.

The lights were on in the farthest rickhouse, Beau curled up outside. The dog lifted his head when Margot arrived, perhaps sensing danger. Dutifully, the pup rose and shook himself, then trotted inside behind her.

It was hot as hell in the rickhouse, the bricks retaining heat from the fading summer day. Margot’s skin dampened with perspiration; her blood simmered in her veins.

Merrick stood at the far end of the aisle, his back turned. Five mason jars were lined up on a wooden beam, one that kept side-lying barrels in the rick. Two jars were empty, three held trace dregs of amber liquid. Bourbon.

Had he been down here drinking all this time?

She slowly closed the distance, watching Merrick work a cork stopper out of a barrel.

He slipped a long copper tube inside the hole.

His thumb moved atop the cylinder before withdrawing it from the barrel.

Positioning the tube over an empty jar, he released his thumb, and a thimbleful of bourbon emptied into the glass.

Margot blinked, fascinated.

Merrick lifted the jar to his nose and sniffed delicately. He swirled twice, then turned the jar on its side without spilling a drop. Sniffed again.

Margot froze. There was something about watching him like this, his every move smooth and practiced. So focused he didn’t notice her presence.

He tipped the glass to his lips and took a small sip, eyes closed. His throat bobbed on the swallow. The tip of his tongue peeked out through his lips at the end.

It’s art, she realized, the way Merrick tastes bourbon. So reverent, it was near seductive.

She wondered, faintly, if his veins ran copper, blood tinted with bourbon. His eyes certainly did, those tawny butterscotch irises. When he turned those whiskey eyes her way, she was half convinced she’d summoned them.

“Margot?” He put the mason jar down, eyebrows raised. “What’re you doing down here?”

She blushed, suddenly feeling like a voyeur who’d interrupted something private. By watching him taste, she’d invaded a sacred space.

“It’s late,” she murmured, stepping closer. Did she dare reach for his arm? “Your supper has gone cold.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a busy day. I’ve been working in the stillhouse, getting the fermentation tanks clean and ready to run. Alastair’s grain will be here by August, so I need to be ready to start making mash again.”

“Bourbon mash? But it’s still illegal.”

“Won’t be for long.” He offered her a heartened grin. “Illinois, Iowa, and Connecticut just voted for repeal. The California and West Virginia legislatures have called for a vote in two weeks. That’s fifteen states swinging from dry to wet. It’s finally happening, Margot!”

“But not Kentucky yet.” She hated to utter even a single word that would wipe the hope off his face, but she had to. Illegal was illegal. Had he learned nothing last night?

“Not yet,” he admitted. “But they will. I’ve got to begin production. Even starting now, I have no hope of meeting the initial demand. I’ve sold off almost all my inventory over the last thirteen years. This is the only rickhouse with bourbon still in the barrels. I’ve been tasting tonight and—”

“Sold?” She had to stop him. “I think you mean bootlegged.”

Merrick’s mouth slammed shut, settling into his trademark scowl.

“We need to talk about last night, Merrick,” she said. “I’ve been waiting all day to discuss it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” His eyes were flat.

“I think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?” Surely she was worth that much to him.

“I didn’t realize I had to run my business decisions by you.

” He dunked the copper tube into the barrel and filled a jar halfway with bourbon.

He tipped it to his lips. There was none of the grace, none of the magic, she’d seen moments before.

This was swallowing to get corked, not to taste.

“If we’re headed down this road, I’m going to need a hell of a lot more to drink. ”

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she ambled closer. “How does it work?”

“It’s called a whiskey thief.” He held the tube out for her inspection. “For thieving samples from barrels. It’s simple—pressurized and released by your thumb.”

“A whiskey thief…how appropriate,” she murmured. “This is how you spend your days—drinking and thieving? No wonder you fell in with bootleggers.”

Merrick leaned against a barrel, folding his arms. “I can’t change the choices I made before you, Margot. My deal with Capone’s men was struck more than a decade ago.”

“A decade? Ten years of lawbreaking.” The thought made her faint. “Weren’t you worried about getting caught?”

“Not as worried as I was about losing the distillery. Bills don’t pay themselves.”

“What about a medicinal license?” He’d spoken of it the night they first met. She knew he had a deal with the George T. Stag Distillery, a perfectly legal one.

“That’s a small loophole, not nearly enough to keep an entire estate afloat.

It’s the only reason I was able to keep my bourbon barrels here, though, rather than turning them over to the government when the Volstead Act passed.

” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s very complicated, and the finer details don’t matter—”

“They matter to me!” Her cheeks flushed, her voice rising. Beau startled at her feet. “Those men last night, those…thugs…” She spat the word. “They’re dangerous. They could hurt you, kill you.”

“Concerned, love?” He tilted his head, his scowl turning charming, almost mocking. “I’m touched.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You can’t…joke and charm this away. I won’t let you. This is serious, Merrick. You’re done dealing with them, right? It’s over?”

“Yes. Of course.” His expression turned more sincere. He took both her forearms in his hands. “I promise. The debt is settled. No more sneaking out. No more bootlegging. Not ever again.”

She searched his face for any trace of deceit, relieved when she came up empty. “Okay.” She blew out a slow exhale. “Now, about the other thing…”

“What other thing?” But a flicker in his eye told her he knew. Or suspected.

He’s going to make me say it. “You said something last night that surprised me.” She waited again, hoping he’d speak up.

He didn’t.

“Something about…celibacy?”

Every muscle in his body tightened.

“And?” He lowered his eyes, refusing to meet hers.

“And I…well, I wondered if…how…” She trailed off. This was so painful. “Is that a…a lifestyle choice?” A permanent one?

He laughed at her, ironic and bitter. It punched her in the gut, the tenor of that laugh.

“I only wondered because—”

“Because you want children?” he supplied, his eyes finally snapping to hers. Gold on fire.

“Well, yes…and…”

“And?”

And because I want you.

Margot licked her lips, tasting the words but refusing to say them. She hated him a little for expecting her to. She wanted him to say it first, to make her feel safe. He was usually so good about it, but not with this. Not with his heart.

“Why are you making this so hard for me?” Her frustration overflowed. The rickhouse was unbearably hot. “This is your issue. The least you could do is explain.”

“My issue?”

“Yes. Yours,” she said. “All red-blooded men have…needs. I’ve been wondering why you’ve barely touched me all these weeks. And now, come to find out—”

His lips slammed over hers before she could say another word. Hot and fierce. Demanding and powerful. Tasting like bourbon and salty sweat.

He sucked every ounce of oxygen from her lungs. Pulled her heartbeat straight out of her chest. Her pulse pounded in her temples. Dizzying.

“Yes, Margot.” He pulled his lips away but drove her backward until her spine hit a rack of barrels. His chest rose and fell in a pant. “I have needs. Needs I’ve handled myself all these years. Alone. Needs I’ve been perfectly capable of handling, of controlling, until I met you.”

She barely breathed. Lips parted, unable to speak.

“I saw you at those parties in Louisville, and you were…” His eyes glittered.

He bit his lip. “You didn’t see me, but I saw you.

I saw you from the goddamn start! I was desperate—that’s the reason I was in those ballrooms to begin with.

But it was never about the money with you, not completely. Not for me.”

“The Collingsworth gala…and the Feinstein’s?” Margot asked, recalling the references he’d made the night they met. He’d known what she’d worn to both parties, right down to the pearl necklace.

“Yes.” His gaze snapped to hers. “Yes. The most beautiful woman in the room both nights. How on earth could I miss you?”

“I—”

“You were never mine to have, Margot, but goddammit, I saw you. And now, after everything…” He groaned, a sound of the most tortured longing.

“I want you so badly, I can’t think straight.

I’ve never…I didn’t expect it, and I sure as hell don’t know what to do with it…

because I’m not supposed to have this. I made my peace with it decades ago, no more Dravenhearst brides.

” His eyes were wide, vulnerable. “No more heirs. No more goddamn misery in this godforsaken house.”

Oh.