barrels rolled across the floor and a large storage crate had broken into splinters on the spot where she had stood. The broken contents looked like porcelain, although it was difficult to tell from the hundreds of tiny shards mixed with packing hay.
She turned back to face the snowy cravat of her rescuer. Taking a deep, shuddery breath, she inhaled his uniquely masculine fragrance. Shattered cargo, her near miss, even Philippe's presence receded in her consciousness as she became wholly occupied with the sensation of her breasts flattened against his waistcoat and her lower body pressed against the hardness of his thighs. She could not seem to lift her gaze from the patch of white cloth in front of her.
Her feet dangled several inches above the floor while feelings she had never before experienced coursed through her body. She felt safe in this man's arms despite the stirrings that she did not wish to examine too closely. He had saved her from certain injury and possible death. Why, he was a knight-errant.
She raised her face, giving him a no-doubt-stunned smile. "Thank you."
His expression registered no emotion. "As I said, women do not belong in a warehouse."
It took all of two seconds for his words to register. The snake. Actually, he had said "a lady," and it occurred to her that she should let go of him before he decided beyond doubt that she wasn't one. She unlocked her hands from behind his neck and pushed against his chest.
He lowered her to the ground, allowing her body to slide in a most indecent manner along his. He held her for a timeless moment, her body still pressed to his, her hands against his chest. She waited, the air locked in her chest, not knowing what to expect. This man, this situation, was completely out of her experience. Were all Englishmen this compelling?
He released her and she stumbled backward, beset with conflicting emotions. She wanted to run from the danger she sensed in him, but she also wanted to jump back into his arms and experience that delicious sensation just once more. Before she could do either, Philippe caught her attention.
"Mademoiselle Thea, comment ça va? That this should happen in my warehouse. It is an abomination!" Philippe grabbed her hand, going off in a torrent of French.
He turned to the Englishman without letting go of her hand. "Mr. Drake, we owe you a great debt for saving our Mademoiselle Thea. Mr. Merewether will be most grateful."
"Good." Drake's glance flicked briefly to Philippe. "Perhaps he will be inclined to grant me what I need."
Thea stared at Drake's profile and wondered at his words. He exuded an aura of self-sufficiency. That he should need something from the owner of a shipping firm on a small island like theirs seemed incongruous.
Drake followed the gentle sway of Thea's hips as she led the way into Mereweather's office. His body twitched at the sight. He frowned. Who was she? In his experience, ladies did not frequent warehouses. In fact, most would have heart palpitations at the thought of coming within a hundred feet of the rough men who worked in them. Could she be Merewether's lightskirt?
Drake's mind and body rebelled at the idea. What was the matter with him? It shouldn't make any difference to him if she sold her tantalizing body on the docks to sailors when they came to port—but it did. Her dress, a vibrant blue muslin, was too well made for a dock whore. It clung to her back in a small damp patch, and he felt an urge to reach out and run his finger along the soft fabric.
He could still feel the aftereffects of the jolt he had experienced when he first saw her. The heart-shaped face, framed by chestnut curls piled high on her head, had been set in an expression of perfect bliss. Her dress had been lifted well above her ankles, and he could not miss the fact that the chit wore no stockings. Or that she had perfectly formed ankles and calves. The kind of legs a man ached to have wrapped around his body.
Suddenly, the object of his musings turned to face him, her blue eyes reflecting apologetic regret. "It appears Mr. Merewether is not here. Why don't you sit down and I will have refreshments brought while we wait?"
He shifted his gaze around the office, looking for a place to sit. A large mahogany desk occupied one side of the room, papers strewn across its top. Kitty-corner to it reposed a table whose surface was all but covered with numerous maps and charts. Crates and barrels, partially opened, were shoved up against two walls. Yet, under the window, on the opposite side of the room from the desk, a small sofa and two armchairs were arranged in a cozy grouping around a polished tea table. His gaze flicked back to Thea. Was she responsible for the little oasis in the chaos?
It beckoned to him, but he needed to see Merewether. He could not afford the time to take refreshments. "Thank you, but I must decline. I need to speak to Merewether immediately."
She raised her brows. "I assure you if either myself or Philippe knew where he was right now, we would take you to him. The truth is, he could be just about anywhere on the island, and the best course of action would be to stay right here and wait."
Drake's hands tightened into fists at his sides. "I cannot wait. The matter I must discuss with him is of the utmost urgency."
His honor depended on it.
Her eyes widened at his adamant tone, then she nodded briskly. Turning to the warehouse manager, she spoke rapidly. "Philippe, please send someone to the house and inquire if Mr. Merewether has been there. I believe we should also send someone to inquire at the dock, in town, and if that does not flush him out, we will send runners to the local plantations."
Philippe agreed and left.
She turned back to Drake. "I will ask Whiskey Jim if he has seen Mr. Merewether. Kindly wait here; we will locate him for you as quickly as possible." She did not wait for his agreement, but turned to leave.
What a managing bit of goods. Ignoring her instructions, he followed her out of the office. He had no intention of cooling his heels waiting for her to return with Merewether.
Rarely did Drake, with his long legs, have to increase his pace to keep up with another, but Thea walked like no lady he knew. She strode ahead of him, her spine straight and her arms swinging in rhythm with her strides, putting him in mind of a military officer on parade.
He questioned his theory that she was Mereweather's paramour. She could be the man's daughter. She had not called him Papa, but some children were excessively formal. However, excessive formality did not meet with a woman who exposed her legs for all and sundry. Drake shook off the musings and focused instead on his problem.
This trip had been rife with challenges, the most recent being an exploding boiler.
If he didn't reach Liverpool by the date set on his policy with Lloyd's of London, not only would he forfeit the policy premium, but he would also let down the investors whom he had convinced to share in the venture with him. He accepted that it was no longer a matter of money. He had made plenty of that. Enough to buy and sell his father many times over.
Reaching port on time had become a matter of pride.