Devil in Disguise

by Lisa Kleypas

  “He could have tried to reach around and slit my throat,” Keir said.

  “Not an easy maneuver with an opponent your size. The most logical choice was to go for the kidney, which would kill you quickly, with the added benefit of having most of the blood remain in your body. Very little fuss or mess. And that appears to be precisely what he attempted. Fortunately, you made it difficult for him.” Garrett wielded the forceps and needle with practiced dexterity. “But that leads to another point: The typical robber would have fled immediately, and searched for other, easier prey. One has to question why he persisted.” She paused. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill you?”

  “No one who’d put this much effort into it,” Keir said dryly.

  “With your permission, Mr. MacRae, I’d like to take the knife to my husband, who happens to be the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. As a former detective, he’ll know what to make of it.”

  “Aye,” Keir said. “Take the knife; I’ve no use for it.”

  “When will Ethan return from Scotland?” Merritt asked Garrett.

  “Tomorrow, I hope. It’s only a minor bit of investigative work.” Garrett rolled her eyes briefly before continuing. “He could have easily sent one of his special agents to take care of it, but he was asked to go himself, and one can hardly say no to a duke.”

  “Duke?” Merritt looked at her alertly.

  Realizing the slip she’d just made, Garrett muttered, “Bugger. You didn’t hear that, either of you.”

  “I did,” Merritt said, “I heard, and I insist on knowing who sent Ethan to Scotland. As far as I know, the only duke he’s personally acquainted with is Kingston.” Although Garrett refused to reply, Merritt detected the subtle hint of chagrin on her face. “It was,” she exclaimed. “You must tell me what he’s investigating. You know I won’t breathe a word of it—the duke is like family to me.” She would have persisted, but she noticed Keir’s expression had gone taut and blank, like a freshly ironed bedsheet. “Do you feel the stitches?” she asked gently. “Are you in pain?”

  He shook his head and lowered his chin to his forearm, staring at nothing.

  After Garrett had finished the sutures and applied a bandage of adhesive plaster, she began to pack her supplies in the leather bag.

  “Will you have a whisky before you leave?” Merritt asked.

  The doctor looked wistful, but shook her head with a smile. “Thank you, but I can’t. I’m in ‘a hopeful way,’ as Ethan puts it.”

  “Are you? How wonderful,” Merritt exclaimed. “Congratulations, my dear!” Somewhere inside, she was relieved to discover that the private jab of heartache she’d always felt in the past upon hearing such news from friends and relations was now only a faint twinge. With a show of delighted interest, she asked when the baby was expected to arrive, and how Garrett was feeling.

  Keir sat up and drew a blanket loosely around himself, listening to the conversation without comment. Glancing at him briefly, Merritt found his thoughtful gaze on her, taking in every nuance of her reaction. A flush of warm feeling spread over her as she realized he was concerned that Garrett’s news might have been difficult for her.

  After seeing Garrett out, Merritt returned to the parlor and began to gather Keir’s discarded clothes. “I’ll ask my maid to put these in to soak,” she said, “and mend the slit in your coat. She’s very skilled with a needle.”

  “I can’t go home with no shirt to my back,” he pointed out.

  “Don’t even think of putting those soiled clothes back over your nice clean wound,” Merritt said, appalled. “We’ll find something else for you to wear.” She reached for his coat. “As for this, I’ll clear out the pockets and give it to Jenny.”

  “Merritt,” Keir said uneasily, rustling and stirring on the couch. “I’d rather—”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” she said, emptying the inside pocket of the coat and setting the personal items on the table: a penknife, a few coins, the key to the flat, a map, a handkerchief, and a worn leather folding wallet with an outer pocket for tickets or notes. A folded slip of paper fell from the wallet, and she began to tuck it back in. “We’ll keep all your things right here, and . . .” Her voice faded as she saw the imprint of typed letters on the parchment.

  It was a carefully torn strip of the page she had typed at the office.

  Mr. Keir MacRae Lady Merritt Sterling

  “Oh,” Merritt heard herself whisper, while her heartbeats went scattering like pearls from a broken necklace. It was only a scrap of paper and ink . . . but she understood what it meant.

  Keir’s face was partially averted, his color high. As the silence lengthened, he brought himself to meet her gaze with a faint, bleak smile.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” he said.

  Merritt knew he was right.

  Common sense told her this couldn’t be real—it couldn’t be trusted. It was happening too fast. It wouldn’t lead to anything that would be good for either of them.

  Don’t think, don’t touch, talk, smell, or taste. Go into a dark room, lock the door, close the shutters against the sun.

  But it was too late for any of that.

  How long would it take, how many years, before she felt this way about someone again? Maybe five . . . maybe twenty.

  Maybe never.

  Fortunately, a woman of common sense always knew when to throw caution to the wind.

  She went to Keir in a few strides, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

  Chapter 8

  The moment Merritt had discovered the slip of paper from his wallet, Keir had expected her to react with outrage, or even worse, pity. Anything but this. Bewildered, he absorbed the feel of her, the tender mouth, the feminine warmth. The full, sweet curves of her body were covered in blue velvet trimmed with soft lace that tickled his bare skin.

  His senses were filled with her. He had to have more of her weight on him, more closeness. Ignoring the pull of the cut on his back, he lifted one of his legs to the couch and settled her between his thighs. The pressure felt so good, there where he was hot and rigid, he couldn’t hold back a low groan.

  Mistaking the sound for pain, Merritt broke the kiss and tried to pull away, but he clamped a hand over her bottom to keep her there.

  “Wait,” she said breathlessly, “be careful—your back—you’ll hurt yourself—” She reached down to adjust the folded linen compress, and the way she fussed with the placement of it, that attentive interest, aroused him even more. He pulled her higher against his body and locked his mouth to hers again. She began to breathe in rhythmic gasps, the way she would if he were inside her. The tip of her tongue ventured inside his mouth, a flick of sensation that went straight to his groin. He’d never been so hard in his life.

  Somewhere in the molten cauldron that had formerly been his brain, Keir realized one of them had to put a stop to this, now. Since Merritt didn’t seem inclined to do that any time soon, he would have to be the responsible one. It took a Herculean effort to pull his mouth from hers, but then she followed the movement, trying to maintain the kiss. Amused and steaming, Keir dove his face into the shadowed alcove created by her neck and jaw, and breathed in the fragrance of blood-heated perfume. He felt her quiver at the brush of his beard against her tender skin. God. He wanted to spend hours kissing every inch of her. Instead he lay still beneath her delicious female weight, fighting for control.

  Merritt’s head lifted. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, the black bristle of her lashes shadowing drowsy darkness.

  She dampened her lips, and spoke as if she’d just awakened from a long sleep. “I’ve heard that Scots are the most passionate of men.”

  A slow smile crossed his lips. He let a fingertip play with the wisps of hair around her ear, delighting in her squirm of response. “Aye . . .’tis true that Scots have more passion than men of other lands. But I’ll no’ be the one to demonstrate it to you.”

  “What if . . .” Merritt pa
used to take an extra breath, her gaze slightly unfocused. “What if I wanted you to?”

  He shook his head, knowing she wasn’t thinking straight. “It would be a mistake.”

  “People should make mistakes,” she said. “It builds character.” She tried to kiss him again, but he pulled his head back.

  “You dinna want to make this particular mistake with me, lass.” Keir fingered the lobe of her ear gently. “I won’t carry that bit of paper if you dinna wish it.” He didn’t need it: Her name had been permanently engraved on his heart.

  The comment seemed to make her shy. “I don’t mind if you want to keep it. But . . . why did you?”

  Keir shrugged. “’Tis no’ my way to take a feeling apart and examine the workings of it.”

  Merritt tilted her head, regarding him intently. “Did you want it as a trophy, perhaps? To remind you someday of a conquest you once made?”

  Keir’s smile vanished. He didn’t think she really believed that, but the suggestion—the very idea of it—filled him with indignation. “No. I’m no’ a brute who would think of you as a thing to be won.”

  Seeming to realize he was genuinely offended, Merritt said hastily, “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I may have rough ways, but I know how to be gentle with a woman—”

  “Yes. Of course. I shouldn’t have put it that way—”

  “—and as for needing a reminder—” Keir’s indignation deepened into outrage. “Do you think me so shallow-pated I’d need reminding of a woman I once held in my arms? How could I forget you? The most—”

  He was interrupted as Merritt took his face in her hands and kissed him again. There was more he’d meant to say, but her mouth was too luscious to resist. He opened to her, hungry for the sweet, damp softness, unable to keep from taking as much of her as he could. His erection awakened with fresh vigor. Dazed with lust, he closed his hand in the velvet skirts and began to pull them upward, then realized what he was doing.

  He broke the kiss, gasping. “No more,” he said hoarsely, “or I’m like to devour you on the spot.”

  Merritt nodded and lowered her flushed face to his chest, nuzzling her lips and cheek into the springy fleece. Her fingertips followed the fine chain around his neck, down to the little gold key, and she played with it idly. Her warm breath filtered through the curls, fanning his nipple, as she asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “Aye, I’ve just said so.”

  Her cheek curved against his chest. “I meant for dinner.”

  Despite the pangs of desire, Keir’s empty stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “I’ll have Cook warm some stew,” Merritt continued before he could reply, “and I’ll fetch a clean shirt for you. My footman accidentally dragged a sleeve through fresh ink last week, and even though we washed it twice, we couldn’t remove the stain entirely. I think it’s still in a basket of things we’re collecting for the needy.”

  Keir let out a breath of amusement. “I believe I qualify.”

  Merritt began to lift herself away from him, hesitated, and gently drew her palm over his chest. A wash of color warmed her fair skin. “You’re a beautiful man,” she said a bit bashfully.

  Her touch sent a thrill of pleasure through him. He had to steel every muscle to keep from arching against her hand. It was indecent, how much he wanted her.

  In a hushed voice he replied, “’Tis glad I am you find me so, darlin’. But there’s nothing in the world half so braw and lovely as you.”

  “Braw?”

  “Something very fine. You’re braw like sunlight on the sea, or a poem set to music.”

  Merritt smiled as she left the couch and restored her clothes. He adored the way she settled her bodice and skirts in place with deft little tugs. “Stay right there,” she told him. “I’ll have everything ready in just a moment.”

  She hurried off, a woman who loved arranging things.

  Keir sat up and rubbed his face slowly. It was the worst mistake he’d ever made, agreeing to come to dinner at her house. It was madness.

  And yet he was so damned happy to be here, with her, he could hardly breathe.

  Chapter 9

  They dined at a small round table in an upstairs parlor. The air was lit by candles and lamps with frosted glass shades. Thankfully, the room wasn’t cluttered with little delicate figurines and ornaments. It was clean and simple, with oak paneling and windows swathed in blue velvet curtains. At least half of one wall was occupied by a long, low cabinet stocked with decanted liquor and glassware. Dishes of olives, almonds, and celery sticks on cracked ice had been set out.

  Thanks to the injection Dr. Gibson had given him, Keir barely felt the wound on his back as he sat in a sturdy upholstered dining chair. The footman, Jeffrey, came to set covered dishes on the table, which had been overlaid with heavy white linen. After filling long-stemmed glasses with water and wine, the footman left them in privacy. Having expected him to hover around them during the entire meal, Keir was gratified to learn they would serve themselves.

  He found himself relaxing deeply, steeped in Merritt’s effortless charm. He’d never talked so much during a meal. The stew had been made with chunks of beef, potatoes, and turnips simmered in burgundy wine until they melted at the lightest pressure of the tongue. There was a salad of crisp lettuce greens and chopped mint leaves, and wedges of cottage bread, the interior laced with holes to catch every drop of salted butter.

  As they talked, Merritt entertained him with stories of her childhood in Hampshire as the oldest of six siblings. Her father, the earl, loomed large in those stories, as a loving parent and a man of great authority and responsibility. His marriage to Lillian Bowman, an American heiress, had been an improbable match, but the union had turned out to be a remarkably happy one. Merritt’s mother was a lively and lighthearted woman, the kind of mother who had romped outside with her children and splashed in puddles with them, and encouraged their flights of fancy.

  At Merritt’s coaxing, Keir told her about growing up on Islay, and a boyhood spent running about with a pack of rowdy friends. The group had frequently ended up in scrapes and misadventures that had earned all of them good hidings when they went home. All except Keir, whose father, Lachlan, had never laid a hand on him. His mother, Elspeth, had fretted over that: The neighbors had advised that without proper discipline, the lad would end up spoiled. But Lachlan always reasoned that a teenage boy had little enough good sense as it was; a clout upside the head might knock it right out of him.

  One day when Keir had come home with bruises and a blackened eye from fighting with his friend Neil, Lachlan had said he reckoned Keir had already had enough battering, and he wouldn’t add to it. But he did want an explanation. Keir had told him Neil had bragged that his father was the strongest man on the island and would win in a fight against anyone else’s father. Especially Keir’s father, Neil had added pointedly, who was older than everyone else’s. So Keir had given Neil a thrashing to settle the matter. To Elspeth’s annoyance, Lachlan had been so pleased, he hadn’t even scolded the boy, declaring he’d been obliged to defend the family honor.

  Merritt chuckled at the story. “You were an only child?” she asked.

  “Aye. They were never able to have bairns of their own, so they . . . took me in.”

  “You were an orphan?”

  “Abandoned.”

  Keir wasn’t sure why he’d told her that. It was something he rarely, if ever, discussed with anyone. But those coffee-dark eyes were so warm and interested, he couldn’t seem to hold back.

  Merritt took a sip of her wine before asking gently, “Do you know anything about the woman who gave birth to you?”

  “No, and I dinna need to.”

  Merritt’s dark eyes seemed to look right inside him. “The gold key . . .”

  Keir smiled slightly at her perceptiveness. “She left it with me at the orphanage. I wear it because . . . I suppose ’tis a small way of honoring her. I owe her t
hat much at least, after the pain I caused her.”

  A tiny crinkle appeared between her fine brows. “Do you mean childbirth?”

  “That, and the sorrow of having to give away her bairn.” He paused reflectively. “I think I was one of many men who hurt her, one way or another. A lass who was protected and loved would no’ have found herself in such circumstances.”

  An east wind gusted through a half-open window, whisking in the invigorating freshness of ocean brine and spindrift. It had begun to rain, the drops coming down with the weight of pennies.

  Merritt went to the long cabinet, gesturing for Keir to stay seated. She brought back a coffee service on a silver tray. There was the pleasure of watching her prepare coffee for him, adding sugar and a dollop of heavy cream that billowed up to the steaming black surface. She passed the cup and saucer to him, along with a small plate bearing a yellow slice of marmalade cake.

  As Keir ate every crumb and washed it down with coffee, he was steeped in the bittersweet awareness that for the rest of his life, the memory of this evening was the one he would return to over and over. Nothing would ever come close to the pleasure she gave him.

  The mantel clock began a series of delicate chimes. Midnight.

  Time had never been so unwelcome an intruder. But it was better that the night end now. With one hunger sated, his body was now ready to assuage another. He needed to remove himself from temptation.

  “Merritt—”

  “More coffee?” she suggested brightly.