Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,8
say ‘thriving.’ No’ yet.” At her questioning glance, he explained, “After my father passed away—five years ago, come January—I took charge of the distillery, and discovered Da had been as bad at business as he was good at making whisky. The books were a shamble, and we were deep in debt. Now the debts have been paid, and the distillery equipment upgraded. But with so much to be done, I’ve had no time for sweethearting. To be sure, I’ve no’ met the woman who could tempt me away from a single life.”
Merritt’s brows lifted. “What kind of woman will she be?”
“I expect I’ll know when I find her.” MacRae took up the trunk and carried it to the bedroom.
“Shall I light the stove, and put on a kettle of water for you to wash with?” Merritt called after him.
Silence.
After a moment, MacRae leaned around the side of the archway to regard her with a frown.
“Thank you, milady, but I won’t be needing that.”
“Oh, dear. Well, washing with cold water will be better than nothing, I suppose.”
“I’m no’ going to wash,” he said shortly.
“It will take only a few minutes.”
“I’ve no reason to go to the docks all primpit up.”
“I wouldn’t call it primping,” Merritt said. “Just basic hygiene.” Seeing his stony expression, she added, “Arguing about it will take the same amount of time as actually doing it.”
“I can’t wash with you in the flat; there’s no door between this room and the next.”
“Very well, I’ll wait outside.”
MacRae looked outraged. “Alone?”
“I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“The wharf is crawling with navvies and thieves!”
“Oh, come, you’re making too much of it. I’ll wait on the stairs, then.” Now determined, Merritt fetched a large enameled jug from an open shelf, set it in the cast-iron sink, and reached for the pump handle. “But first, I’ll fill this with water.”
“That pump won’t work unless you prime it first,” MacRae informed her with a scowl.
“Yes it will,” she said brightly. “This is a modern design, with a special valve that maintains a permanent prime.” She took hold of the lever and pumped energetically. The cylinder sputtered and creaked and began to vibrate with accumulating pressure. She was perplexed as the spout remained dry. “Hmm. The water should be coming out by now."
“Milady, wait—” He headed toward her in swift strides.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Merritt said, putting more effort into pumping the lever. “I’ll have it started soon.”
But the lever became almost impossible to push down, and then it seemed to lock at an upright angle, while the entire assembly groaned and shuddered.
She let out a yelp and hopped backward as pressurized water spewed from the cylinder cap.
Fast as a leopard, MacRae reached the pump and grappled with it, averting his face from the forceful spray. With a grunt of effort, he screwed the cylinder cap on more tightly, then struck the assembly base with the heel of his hand. The last of the water gurgled and gushed from the faucet into the sink.
Merritt hurried to fetch a dishcloth from the cabinet. “I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, coming back to him. “I had no idea that would happen, or I’d never have—” She broke off with a squeak of surprise as he shook his head like a wet dog, sending droplets everywhere.
MacRae turned toward her. With dismay, Merritt saw the water had gone down his front. The shirt was plastered over his torso, and his face and hair were dripping.
“Oh, dear,” she said, apologetically holding out the dry dishcloth. “You’re all drookit again. Here, take this and …” Her voice faded as he ignored the offering and kept coming toward her. Mildly alarmed, she leaned back to avoid contact with his wet body. Her breath caught as he gripped the edge of the sink on either side of her.
“You,” he said flatly, “are a wee bully.”
Merritt parted her lips to protest, but as she looked up at him, she saw amusement sparkling in his eyes.
Somewhere amid a chaos of heartbeats and nerves, she felt laughter trying to break through, and the more she tried to hold it back, the worse it became.
“Poor man … you haven’t been dry since you s-set foot in England …”
Gasping, she began to dab at his face with the dishcloth, and MacRae held still. Water dripped from the locks hanging over his eyes, a few drops landing on her. She reached up to push his hair back. It felt like rich satin, the ends curling slightly against her fingers.