Page 58 of Worth Any Price (Bow Street #3)

“MacRae is as angry as a baited bear,” Luke Marsden warned as he entered the office. “If you’ve never been around a Scotsman in a temper, you’d better brace yourself for the language.”

Lady Merritt Sterling looked up from her desk with a faint smile.

Her brother was a handsome sight, with his windblown dark hair and his complexion infused with color from the brisk autumn air.

Like the rest of the Marsden brood, Luke had inherited their mother’s long, elegant lines.

Merritt, on the other hand, was the only one out of the half-dozen siblings who’d ended up short and full-figured.

“I’ve spent nearly three years managing a shipping firm,” she pointed out. “After all the time I’ve spent around longshoremen, nothing could shock me now.”

“Maybe not,” Luke conceded. “But Scotsmen have a special gift for cursing. I had a friend at Cambridge who knew at least a dozen different words for testicles.”

Merritt grinned. One of the things she enjoyed most about Luke, the youngest of her three brothers, was that he never shielded her from vulgarity or treated her like a delicate flower.

That, among other reasons, was why she’d asked him to take over the management of her late husband’s shipping company, once she’d taught him the ropes.

He’d accepted the offer without hesitation.

As the third son of an earl, his options had been limited, and as he’d remarked, a fellow couldn’t earn a living by sitting around looking picturesque.

“Before you show Mr. MacRae in,” Merritt said, “you might tell me why he’s angry.”

“To start with, the ship he chartered was supposed to deliver his cargo directly to our warehouse. But the dock authorities turned it away because all the berths were full. So it was just unloaded four miles inland, at Deptford Buoys.”

“That’s the usual procedure,” Merritt said.

“Yes, but this isn’t the usual cargo.”

She frowned. “It’s not the timber shipment?”

Luke shook his head. “Whisky. Twenty-five thousand gallons of extremely valuable single malt from Islay, still under bond. They’ve started the process of bringing it here in barges, but they say it will take three days for all of it to reach the warehouse.”

Merritt’s frown deepened. “Good Lord, all that bonded whisky can’t sit at Deptford Buoys for three days!”

“To make matters worse,” Luke continued, “there was an accident.”

Her eyes widened. “What kind of accident?”

“A cask of whisky slipped from the hoisting gear, broke on the roof of a transit shed, and poured all over MacRae. He’s ready to murder someone—which is why I brought him up here to you.”

Despite her concern, Merritt let out a snort of laughter. “Luke Marsden, are you planning to hide behind my skirts while I confront the big, mean Scotsman?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “You like them big and mean.”

Her brows lifted. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“You love soothing difficult people. You’re the human equivalent of table syrup.”

Amused, Merritt leaned her chin on her hand. “Show him in, then, and I’ll start pouring.”

It wasn’t that she loved soothing difficult people.

But she definitely liked to smooth things over when she could.

As the oldest of six children, she’d always been the one to settle quarrels among her brothers and sisters, or come up with indoor games on rainy days.

More than once, she’d orchestrated midnight raids on the kitchen pantry or told them stories when they’d sneaked to her room after bedtime.

She sorted through the neat stack of files on her desk and found the one labeled “MacRae Distillery.”

Not long before her husband, Joshua, had died, he’d struck a deal to provide warehousing for MacRae in England. He’d told her about his meeting with the Scotsman, who’d been visiting London for the first time.

“Oh, but you must ask him to dinner,” Merritt had exclaimed, unable to bear the thought of a stranger traveling alone in an unfamiliar place.

“I did,” Joshua had replied in his flat American accent. “He thanked me for the invitation but turned it down.”

“Why?”

“MacRae is somewhat rough-mannered. He was raised on a remote island off the west coast of Scotland. I suspect he finds the prospect of meeting the daughter of an earl overwhelming.”

“He needn’t worry about that,” Merritt had protested. “You know my family is barely civilized!”

But Joshua replied that her definition of “barely civilized” was different from a rural Scotsman’s, and MacRae would be far more comfortable left to his own devices.

Merritt had never dreamed that when she and Keir MacRae finally met, Joshua would be gone, and she would be the one managing Sterling Enterprises.

Her brother came to the doorway and paused at the threshold. “If you’ll come this way,” he said to someone outside the room, “I’ll make introductions and then—”

Keir MacRae burst into the office like a force of nature and strode past Luke, coming to a stop on the other side of Merritt’s desk.

Looking sardonic, Luke went to lean against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “On the other hand,” he said to no one in particular, “why waste time with introductions?”

Merritt stared in bemusement at the big, wrathful Scotsman.

He was an extraordinary sight, more than six feet of muscle and brawn dressed in a thin wet shirt and trousers that clung as if they’d been glued to his skin.

An irritable shiver, almost certainly from the chill of evaporating alcohol, ran over him.

Scowling, he reached up to remove his flat cap, revealing a shaggy mop of hair, several months past a good cut.

The thick locks were a beautiful cool shade of amber shot with streaks of light gold.

He was handsome despite his unkempt state. Very handsome. His blue eyes were alert with the devil’s own intelligence, the cheekbones high, the nose straight and strong. A tawny beard obscured the line of his jaw—perhaps concealing a weak chin?—she couldn’t tell. Regardless, he was a stunner.

Merritt wouldn’t have thought there was a man alive who could fluster her like this.

She was a confident and worldly woman, after all.

But she couldn’t ignore the flush rising from the high-buttoned neck of her dress.

Or the way her heart had begun to pound like a clumsy burglar trampling the flower bed.

“I want to speak to someone in charge,” he said brusquely.

“That would be me,” Merritt said with a quick smile, coming around the desk. “Lady Merritt Sterling, at your service.” She extended her hand.

MacRae was slow to respond. His fingers closed over hers, cool and slightly rough.

The sensation raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and she felt something uncoil pleasantly at the pit of her stomach.

“My condolences,” he said gruffly, releasing her hand. “Your husband was a good man.”

“Thank you.” She took a steadying breath.

“Mr. MacRae, I’m so sorry for the way your delivery has been botched.

I’ll submit paperwork to make sure you’re exempted from the landing charges and wharfage rates, and Sterling Enterprises will handle the lighterage fees.

And in the future, I’ll make sure a berth is reserved on the day your shipment is due. ”

“There’ll be no fookin’ future shipments if I’m to be put out of business,” MacRae said. “The excise agent says every barrel of whisky that hasn’t been delivered to the warehouse by midnight will no longer be under bond, and I’m to be paying duties on it immediately.”

“What?” Merritt shot an outraged glance at her brother, who shrugged and shook his head to indicate he knew nothing about it.

This was deadly serious business. The government’s regulations about storing whisky under bond were strictly enforced, and violations would earn terrible penalties.

It would be bad for her business, and disastrous for MacRae’s.

“No,” she said firmly, “that will not happen.” She went back behind the desk, took her chair, and sorted rapidly through a pile of authorizations, receipts, and excise forms. “Luke,” she said, “the whisky must be transported here from Deptford Buoys as fast as possible. I’ll persuade the excise officer to give us at least ’til noon tomorrow.

Heaven knows he owes us that much, after the favors we’ve done him in the past.”

“Will that be enough time?” Luke asked, looking skeptical.

“It will have to be. We’ll need every barge and lighter vessel we can hire, and every able-bodied man—”

“No’ so fast,” MacRae said, slapping his palms firmly on the desk and leaning over it.

Merritt started at the sound and glanced up into the face so close to hers. His eyes were a piercing shade of ice blue, with faint whisks at the outer corners, etched by laughter and sun and sharp windy days.

“Yes, Mr. MacRae?” she managed to ask.

“Those clodpates of yours just spilled one hundred and nine gallons of whisky over the wharf, and a good portion over me in the bargain. Damned if I’ll be letting them bungle the rest of it.”

“Those weren’t our clodpates,” Luke protested. “They were lightermen from the barge.”

To Merritt, her brother’s voice sounded as if it were coming from another floor of the building. All she could focus on was the big, virile male in front of her.

Do your job , she told herself sternly, ripping her gaze from MacRae with an effort.

She spoke to her brother in what she hoped was a professional tone.

“Luke, from now on, no lightermen are to set foot on the hoisting crane platform.” She turned back to MacRae.

“My employees are experienced at handling valuable cargo,” she assured him.

“They’ll be the only ones allowed to load your whisky onto the crane and stock it in the warehouse. No more accidents—you have my word.”

“How can you be sure?” MacRae asked, one brow lifting in a mocking arch. “Will you be managing the operation yourself?”