Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) by Lisa Kleypas

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.”

“Well, mostly I was raised on milk, potatoes, dulse, fish—”

“I beg your pardon, did you say ‘dulse’? What is that, exactly?”

“A kind of seaweed,” MacRae said. “As a lad, it was my job to go out at low tide before supper and cut handfuls of it from the rocks on shore.” He opened a cupboard to view a small store of cooking supplies and utensils. “It goes in soup, or you can eat it raw.” He glanced at her over his shoulder, amusement touching his lips as he saw her expression.

“Seaweed is the secret to good health?” Merritt asked dubiously.