Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels Book 7)

London, 1880

“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?”

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 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?”

“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.