Page 59 of Worth Any Price (Bow Street #3)

The way he asked, sarcasm wrapped in silk, elicited an odd little pang of recognition, as if she’d heard him say something in just that tone before. Which made no sense, since they’d never met until this moment.

“No,” she said, “my brother will manage it from start to finish.”

Luke let out a sigh as he realized she’d just committed him to working through the night. “Oh, yes,” he said acidly. “I was just about to suggest that.”

Merritt looked at MacRae. “Does that meet with your approval?”

“Do I have a choice?” the Scotsman countered darkly, pushing back from the desk. He tugged at the damp, stained fabric of his shirt. “Let’s be about it, then.”

He was cold and uncomfortable, Merritt thought, and he reeked of cask-strength single malt. Before he returned to work, he needed the opportunity to tidy himself. “Mr. MacRae,” she asked gently, “where are you staying while you’re in London?”

“I was offered the use of the flat in the warehouse.”

“Of course.” A small, utilitarian set of rooms at their bonded warehouse had been installed for the convenience of vintners and distillers who wished to blend and bottle their products on the premises. “Has your luggage been taken there yet?”

“’Tis still on the docks,” MacRae replied curtly, clearly not wanting to be bothered with trivial issues when there was so much to be done.

“We’ll collect it right away, then, and have someone show you to the flat.”

“Later,” he said.

“But you’ll need to change your clothes,” Merritt said, perturbed.

“Milady, I’m going to work through the night beside longshoremen who won’t give a damn how I look or smell.”

Merritt should have let the matter go. She knew that. But she couldn’t resist saying, “The docks are very cold at night. You’ll need a coat.”

MacRae looked exasperated. “I have only the one, and ’tis drookit.”

Merritt gathered “drookit” meant thoroughly soaked.

She told herself that Keir MacRae’s well-being was none of her concern, and there was urgent business requiring her attention.

But... this man could use a bit of looking after.

Having grown up with three brothers, she was well familiar with the surly, hollow-eyed look of a hungry male.

Luke was right , she thought wryly. I do like them big and mean.

“You can’t very well leave your luggage sitting out in public,” she said reasonably. “It will only take a few minutes for me to fetch a key and show you to the flat.” She slid a glance to her brother, who joined in obligingly.

“Besides, MacRae,” Luke added, “there’s nothing you can accomplish until I’ve had a chance to organize the men and hire extra barge crew.”

The Scotsman pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You can’t show me to the flat,” he told Merritt firmly. “No’ without a chaperone.”

“Oh, no need to worry about that, I’m a widow. I’m the one who chaperones others.”

MacRae gave Luke an expectant stare.

Luke wore a blank expression. “Are you expecting me to say something?”

“You will no’ forbid your sister to go off alone with a stranger?” MacRae asked him incredulously.

“She’s my older sister,” Luke said, “and she employs me, so... no, I’m not going to tell her a damned thing.”

“How do you know I won’t insult her virtue?” the Scotsman demanded in outrage.

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 mo ment, 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.