Devil in Disguise

by Lisa Kleypas

  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 a
nd 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.

  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.

  “No, milady, that would be whisky. My men and I take a wee dram every day.” Seeing her perplexed expression, he continued, “Whisky is the water of life. It warms the blood, keeps the spirits calm, and the heart strong.”

  “I wish I liked whisky, but I’m afraid it’s not to my taste.”

  MacRae looked appalled. “Was it Scotch whisky?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Whatever it was, it set my tongue on fire.”

  “It was no’ Scotch, then, but rotgut. Islay whisky starts as hot as the devil’s whisper . . . but then the flavors
come through, and it might taste of cinnamon, or peat, or honeycomb fresh from the hive. It could taste of a long-ago walk on a winter’s eve . . . or a kiss you once stole from your sweetheart in the hayloft. Whisky is yesterday’s rain, distilled with barley into a vapor that rises like a will-o’-the-wisp, then set to bide its time in casks of good oak.” His voice had turned as soft as a curl of smoke. “Someday we’ll have a whisky, you and I. We’ll toast health to our friends and peace to our foes . . . and we’ll drink to the loves lost to time’s perishing, as well as those yet to come.”

  Merritt stared at him, mesmerized. Her heart had begun to beat much too fast, and her face had turned hot for the second time that evening. “We’ll drink to the loves yet to come for your sake,” she managed to say, “but not mine.”

  MacRae’s head tilted as he regarded her thoughtfully. “You dinna want to fall in love?”

  Merritt turned to wander around the flat. “I’ve never cared for the phrase ‘falling in love,’ as if love were a hole in the ground. It’s a choice, after all.”

  “Is it?” MacRae began to wander as well. He paused at the open archway of the main room to view the connecting bedroom, which contained a bed, dresser, and washstand. In one corner, a folding screen concealed a portable tin slipper tub and a modern water closet.

  “Yes, a choice one must make according to common sense. I waited to marry until I found someone I knew would never break my heart.” Merritt paused with a bleak smile before adding, “Of course, my heart was broken anyway, when his steamer sank in the mid-Atlantic. Nothing would ever be worth going through that again.”

  She looked up to find MacRae’s gaze on her, as pale and bright as a flicker of moonlight. He made no comment, but there was something curiously comforting about the way he looked at her, as if there were nothing she could say that he wouldn’t understand.