Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels Book 7)

Keir had never suspected it was possible for a woman to wear so much clothing. After they’d gone to Merritt’s bedroom, he’d unfastened the back of her velvet dress and she’d stepped out of it to reveal a profusion of . . . Christ, he didn’t know the names for them . . . frilly lace-trimmed undergarments that fastened with tiny hooks, ribbons, and buttons. They reminded him of the illustrations pasted on the walls of the Islay baker’s shop, of wedding cakes decorated with sugar lace and marzipan pearls, and flowers made of icing. He adored the sight of her in all those pretty feminine things. His fingers itched to touch her. He was worried as hell for her sake, whereas she seemed almost cheerful about the whole thing, as if they were having a wee adventure instead of starting down the path to ruin.

Undressing with deliberate slowness, Keir let her look her fill, allowing her plenty of time to change her mind. When he was fully naked, he turned to face her.

Merritt’s gaze traveled over him from head to toe, lingering briefly at his groin. Her eyes widened, and a tide of deep pink swept over her face.

Keir regarded her with a faint, wry smile as he approached her. “Merry . . . you’ve already given me the best night of my life. I could ask for nothing more.” He lifted a hand to caress her cheek. “If you’ve second thoughts, I’ll go now with a blessing on my lips.”

She turned her face to nudge a smile into his palm, and said, “Don’t even think of leaving. I’m only a little nervous, that’s all.”

Keir was almost shocked by the rush of tenderness he felt. “No, dinna be nervous with me.” He took her against him, nestling her to his chest. “I would never harm you. You’re safer in my arms than anywhere outside them.” He caressed her shining dark hair, and ran his fingertips over her cheek and the neat curve of her ear. Her skin gleamed like a pearl in the light. “We dinna have to rush at it headlong,” he murmured. “There’s time enough to take it slow.”

Merritt was still blushing, but to his delight, she glanced up at him with a little flirting grin. “You just said you were going to throw a leg over and start the bed to banging.”

“I was trying to scare you off,” he admitted. “For your own good.”

“You could never scare me. I know what kind of man you are.”

“Do you, now?” Keir asked, his breath shortening as he felt her small hands beginning to wander over him.

“You’d never use your strength to take advantage of someone weaker. And you’re more of a romantic than you’d like to admit, which is why you feel guilty for sleeping with me. But you’re going to do it anyway, because it’s been a long time since you shared a bed with anyone . . . and you want me.”

God, how he wanted her. It was the most delicious sensation of Keir’s life, standing there naked with her inquisitive fingers traveling shyly over him. He could barely think over the thumping of his heart. “What makes you say it’s been a long time?”

“Just a guess.” Merritt glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling. “Am I wrong?”

Keir’s breath caught as she drew her palms over his backside.

“No’ about that,” he admitted, his eyes half closing. Her touch was almost too pleasurable to bear. “I live on an island, ye ken, where gossip never closes its wings. If there were a lass I tried to sneak up to a hayloft I’d soon find myself at the end of her father’s twenty-bore.” He paused as he felt her chuckle into the mat of hair on his chest. “But there is something you’re wrong about.”

“Oh?”

“I dinna feel guilty about bedding you.” He bent to her lips, shaping them with a long, searing kiss until they clung and trembled. His voice thickened slightly as he continued. “I wouldnae bide the night with you just because I’ve gone lang without a lass. I’ll stay because for the rest of my life, I want a memory of you to keep me warm on a cold night.” He took her sweet mouth again, his fingers spreading over her back, her hips, as he molded her closer against him. The feel of her—all those deep feminine curves contained in stays and laces and layers of cotton—nearly drove him mad. As he sent his tongue deeper, the silky warmth of her was so satisfying he couldn’t restrain a groan of pleasure.

He lifted her to the bed and climbed in after her. A fine bed it was, made of cast iron and brass, with posts as thick as his wrist. It was so sturdy, it didn’t creak beneath his weight. Experimentally he stretched out on it full-length.

Merritt propped up on her elbows and glanced over him. “You have very large . . .” She hesitated. “. . . feet.”

Keir turned on his side to face her, a smile tugging at his lips. “That I do.” He reached out to play with the lace trim at the neckline of her bodice. “Do you like a man with large feet?”

Her blush deepened until even her ears were red. “I’m not sure,” she said, flustered, and his smile deepened.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, “every moment. As if you were a wee dove resting in my hands.” He let his fingertips follow the lace to her shoulder. “What kind of shirt is this?”

“It’s not a shirt, it’s . . . a corset cover. To keep things smooth beneath the dress. It’s difficult to unfasten, there’s a—”

“No, dinna tell me. I’d rather find out for myself.”

Keir found a row of tiny hooks that started beneath her arm and went down her side to her waist, and he undid them one by one. Eventually he eased the garment over her head and tossed it aside. He continued to undress her, gently rolling her body this way and that as he hunted for miniature unseen fastenings. Merritt was quiet except for an occasional gasp as Keir paused to caress newly revealed places . . . the curve of a knee . . . the taut shape of a calf . . . little pink toes.

He eased her drawers down, revealing smoothly muscled thighs and a firm, round bottom. From years of horseback riding, he guessed, recalling she’d grown up on a hunting estate. The thought of how it might feel to have her straddle him, the grip of her thighs as she rode him, made him dizzy with lust. He caressed her legs, fondling his way up to the small triangle of neatly trimmed curls. Although he was dying to play with them, he continued to browse over her, marveling at the beautiful curves, the fine skin. Everywhere, her body was sweet from bath soap and touches of perfume.

“You’re the bonniest thing I’ve ever seen, Merry,” he said huskily, cupping one of her breasts and stroking his thumb over the tender peak. “You steal my breath away.”

He moved with the care of a man handling some volatile substance, leaning over her to catch the tip of her breast with a slow, open kiss. She gasped, her hands coming to his head as he sucked the nipple into a hard, delicately textured bud. He framed both breasts in his hands and feasted on the lush curves, using his lips, tongue, the light grazes of his teeth.

Quivers ran along her body, and he followed them with his fingertips, his lips, down to the tender niche between her thighs. His fingers traced the softly closed slit until she panted and writhed. Staring into her dilated eyes, he realized she was already close to the edge.

“No’ so fast, darlin’,” Keir whispered. “Bide for a while, and let me love you longer.”

He watched her lashes lower, trembling against her cheeks as she felt him part the folds of her sex, tickling the petaled edges. He stroked down to the entrance of her body and let his finger slip inside her by gradual degrees. The silky flesh pulsed and closed on his finger as if trying to draw him deeper, wetness emerging to ease his way.

She began to breathe in whimpers, trying to hold them back. He loved the sounds she made, her ladylike composure dissolving in sensation. Withdrawing his touch slowly, he bent to kiss her stomach. His lips skimmed down to the enticing triangle of curls, and her hands came to his head with an uneasy flutter as if to push him away.

“No, let me,” Keir murmured between her thighs. “I love this part of you, like the sweet heart of a rose. Merry, honey-love . . . dinna ask me to spend the rest of my life never knowing the taste of you.”

She subsided in a daze. He gripped the sides of her body carefully, keeping her in place as he parted her with his tongue and stroked the sides of the soft furrow. Entranced by the vulnerable shape of her, he lapped at the edges of softly unfurled lips and tickled them lightly. The delicate flesh was unbelievably hot, almost steaming. He blew a stream of cooling air over it, and relished the sound of her moan. Gently he licked up through the center, a long glide through silk and salty female dampness. She squirmed, her thighs spreading as he explored her with flicks and soft jabs. The slower he went, the more agitated she became. He paused to rest the flat of his tongue on the little pearl of her clitoris to feel its frantic throbbing, and she jerked and struggled to a half-sitting position.

Pausing, Keir lifted his head. “What is it, muirninn?”

Red-faced, gasping, she tried to pull him over her. “Make love to me.”

“’Tis what I’m doing,” he said, and dove back down.

“No—Keir—I meant now, right now—” She quivered as he chuckled into the dark patch of curls. “What are you laughing at?” she asked.

“At you, my wee impatient bully.”

She looked torn between indignation and begging. “But I’m ready,” she said plaintively.

Keir tried to enter her with two fingers, but the tight, tender muscle resisted. “You’re no’ ready,” he mocked gently. “Wheesht now, and lie back. ’Tis one time you won’t be having your way.” He nuzzled between her thighs and sank his tongue deep into the heat and honey of her. She jerked at the feel of it, but he made a soothing sound and took more of the intimate flavor he needed, had to have, would never stop wanting. Moving back up to the little bud where all sensation centered, he sucked at it lightly until she was gasping and shaking all over. He tried to work two fingers inside her again, and this time they were accepted, her depths clenching and relaxing repeatedly. As he stroked her with his tongue, he found a rhythm that sent a hard quiver through her. He kept the pace steady and unhurried, making her work for it, making her writhe and arch and beg, and it was even better than he’d imagined, having her so wild beneath him, hearing her sweet little wanton noises.

There was a suspended moment as it all caught up to her . . . she arched as taut as a drawn bow . . . caught her breath . . . and began to shudder endlessly. A deep and primal satisfaction filled him at the sounds of her pleasure, and the sweet pulsing around his fingers. He drew out the feeling, patiently licking every twitch and tremor until at last she subsided and went limp beneath him.

Even then, he couldn’t stop. It felt too good. He kept lapping gently, loving the salty, silky wetness of her.

Her weak voice floated down to him . . . “Oh, God . . . I don’t think . . . Keir, I can’t . . .”

He nibbled and teased, breathing hotly against the tender cove. “Put your legs over my shoulders,” he whispered. In a moment, she obeyed. He could feel the trembling in her thighs. A satisfied smile flicked across his mouth, and he pressed her hips upward to a new angle. Soon he’d have her begging again, he thought, and lowered his head with a soft growl of enjoyment.

Much of that night was a dark, sweet blur of sensuality, but some details caught in Merritt’s memory like barbed quills, never to be dislodged. The smell of cold rain coming in through the window . . . the satiny locks of Keir’s hair sliding through her fingers . . . the incredible fullness and heaviness of his possession.

He was so very gentle, despite his power and size, his fingertips sliding over her in light, beguiling patterns. His focus on her, his awareness of every sound, pulse, shiver, was absolute. His low voice tickled her ear as he murmured how beautiful she was, how good she felt, how hard she made him . . . and all the while, the thick shaft kept sinking deeper and deeper.

By the time he filled her completely, she was feverish with need. A little sob of anticipation escaped her as he began to move. But every thrust was long and agonizingly slow, withholding the last bit of stimulation she needed. He held her more closely now, his weight on her from pelvis to breasts, while his hips rolled and circled, drawing up new surges of feeling. His mouth lowered to one of her breasts, licking and gently gnawing at the erect nipple. Squirming in frustration, she pushed her hips upward, but he pulled back reflexively.

“No, love. I could hurt you.”

“You won’t. Please . . . Keir . . .”

“Please what?”

“I need more.”

His laugh, a smolder of sound, could have come from the devil himself. “I dinna think you can take more than this, darlin’.”

“I can.” She strained against him.

“This deep?” he asked, reaching places in her that had never been touched before.

She shook at the pleasure of it. “Oh, God. Yes.”

His hands grasped her hips, keeping them angled firmly upward as he pumped in a steady rhythm. Slow in . . . slow out . . .

“Faster,” she said desperately.

“No’ yet,” he whispered.

“Please,” she begged.

His low, dark voice curled in her ear. “There’s a saying we have about whisky: Slow fire makes sweet malt.”

She whimpered as he rolled his hips gently, his hardness caressing everywhere inside. The deliberate pace didn’t alter, no matter how she tried to drive herself harder onto the rigid length of him. Every time she began to plead for more, his mouth came to hers in another one of those obliterating kisses.

None of this was what she’d expected. Her husband had been a considerate lover, doing everything she liked and giving her exactly what she wanted. Keir, however, was doing the exact opposite. He delighted in tormenting her until she didn’t recognize herself in the frantic creature she’d become. He was absolutely wicked, shameless, making love to her in ways that felt unimaginably good, always holding satisfaction just out of reach.

“You give me so much pleasure, darlin’ . . . more than a body can stand. The way you hold me so tight inside . . . like that . . . I can feel you pulling at me. Your wee, hungry body wants me deeper, aye? Put your hands on me . . . anywhere . . . ah, how I love your sweet touch . . .”

After what seemed like hours of sweet torture, he fell silent and pinned her down to keep her still, and she realized he was fighting to keep from climaxing. That excited her unbearably, and she couldn’t stop her body from clamping and pulsing on the hard invasion, over and over.

Keir buried his face in the pillow with a primitive grunt, then he turned his head and told her, “Stop that, you wee wanton.”

“I can’t help it,” she said faintly, which was true.

After a moment, he muttered, “Damn it, lass, you’re like to pull the marrow from my bones.” But his mouth curved against her ear.

His arms wrapped around her, and he rolled easily to his back, taking her with him.

Surprised and flummoxed, Merritt floundered a little as he gently pushed her up and arranged her legs to straddle him. “What are you doing?”

“Putting you to work,” he said, “since you’re so set on wringing me dry.”

She looked at the brawny male beneath her and shook her head slightly.

A brief laugh escaped him as he saw her confusion. “You’re a horsewoman, aye?” he asked, and nudged upward with his hips. “Ride.”

Genuinely shocked at finding herself in the dominant position, Merritt braced her hands on his chest for balance. Her first tentative movement was rewarded by an encouraging lift of his hips. It sent him even deeper than before, the angle seeming to open something inside her, and she quivered in sensitive reaction. Hot and excited and mortified, she understood what he wanted. As she began to move, she gradually lost her self-consciousness and found a rhythm, her sex rubbing and pumping against his. Every downstroke sent pleasure through her, every sensation connected to the thick length of him.

Panting heavily, Keir reached up to cup her breasts, his thumbs stroking the stiff peaks. “Merry, love . . . I’m going to come soon.”

“Yes,” she gasped, a tide of heat approaching fast.

“You’ll . . . you’ll have to pull away, if you dinna want me to release inside you.”

“I want it,” she managed to say. “Stay in me. I want to feel you come . . . Keir . . .”

He began to pump fast and hard, his hands grasping her hips to keep her in place. His eyes half closed, the passion-drowsed intensity of his gaze pushing her over the edge. The release went on and on, new swells and crests washing over her, leaving her moaning and shivering in their wake. She felt his hands grip her thighs as he bucked beneath her once, twice, and held fast.

When he subsided, trembling like a racehorse held in check, she lay on top of him with their bodies still fused. Feeling euphoric, she nuzzled the dark golden fleece on his chest.

Keir let out a long sigh and relaxed beneath her. “Temptress,” he said after a while, his voice low and lazy. “Are you satisfied, now you’ve had your way with a poor green lad from Islay?”

With great effort, Merritt levered herself higher on his body and touched her nose to his. “Almost.”

Keir’s chest moved beneath her as he chuckled. He turned until she was on her back, and carefully stroked a few loose locks of hair away from her face. Just before he kissed her, he whispered, “’Tis a good thing the night’s not over, then.”

The bells of St. George’s were ringing. Keir blinked and emerged from sleep as he heard the sound, recalling they clanged at a quarter before six every morning, to awaken the East End workers. Time to leave, while he could still slip out unseen.

He lay still, absorbing the feel of Merritt snuggled against him from behind. Her knees were drawn up neatly beneath his, a slender arm draped across his waist. Her breath came in soft, even rushes against his back.

How sweet it felt to lie there with her warm little body tucked against him, his mind still full of the night’s pleasures. A faint smile crossed his lips. He’d exhausted them both in his efforts to wrest a lifetime’s worth of joy from a few short hours. And yet he still wanted her.

At first, he’d wanted, selfishly, to satisfy her so completely that she’d never forget him. To ensure he would always be the man she wanted most in her bed. But he’d been caught in a trap of his own making. I’m the one who’ll never forget. For me it will always be you, Merry, love, the woman I’ll want until my last breath.

Carefully he eased out of the warm bed and paused with a shivering stretch in the cold air. He hunted for his clothes, dressed in the semidarkness, and discovered his mended coat had been hung inside the door on the handle. His personal items had been tucked into one of the pockets. He checked his wallet, not for currency, but to look for the slip of paper with the typed names. To his satisfaction, it was still there.

A washstand had been built into the corner of the room. The pallid glow of an outside streetlamp slipped through the window as he drew back one of the curtains. He washed his face, brushed his hair, and rinsed his mouth with cold water. As he turned to the bed, his stomach felt leaden at the thought of saying good-bye. He didn’t know what to say to her.

All he knew was that after he left, he’d have to learn how to live with his heart beating somewhere far away.

The first hint of daybreak frosted the shadowed room and gleamed on Merritt’s bare shoulders and back. She lay on her stomach with her face turned toward him, and he saw that her eyes were open. A bittersweet smile curved her lips as she took in the sight of him standing there fully dressed.

Silently Keir willed her not to say something that would unravel him.

To his infinite relief, she said in a voice still thick from sleep, “Don’t forget about my pat on the arse.”

The touch of humor made him smile. He felt a rush of gratitude, realizing Merritt was not a woman to make a scene, or part with someone on an uncomfortable note. It was one of the many graces of her character that she would try to make this easier for him.

Keir approached the bed and slowly drew the covers aside to reveal her naked backside. He ran his palm over her bottom, bent to press a kiss on one full, sweet curve, and finished with the gentlest of pats.

After pulling the covers carefully back over her, he left without another word or glance. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, and it gave him as bad a feeling as he’d ever felt.

He walked through the chilled mist of morning, heading back to the warehouse flat to bathe and change into fresh clothes. Last night’s storm had temporarily whisked away the city’s haze of pollution, turning the sky soft blue and washing the roads clean of their usual pungent dust and debris.

In the past, whenever he’d slept with a woman, his mood was jaunty. Ready to take on the world. But not this time. Some protective layer had been removed, leaving his senses raw and sharpened. He was exhausted, and yet at the same time, unfamiliar energy vibrated through him as if he’d been strung with piano wires.

He went through the motions of the day, meeting with a spirit merchant, and later with the exciseman, Gruinard, who explained the procedure of transferring bonded whisky from the warehouse to the purchaser. Delivery forms and transfer applications to be filled out, assessments of duties to be paid, registries to be signed, permits and certificates to be issued.

As Keir struggled to pay attention to the mind-numbing details, he had to stifle a yawn that made his eyes water.

Gruinard chuckled, not unkindly, at the sight. “A bit ‘sewn up,’ as they say, after a night gallivanting about London? Can’t say I blame you. I was once a young buck myself.”

As evening approached, Keir went to the waterside tavern, where he saw some of the Sterling warehousemen he’d worked alongside. They called out to him heartily and insisted he sit at their table. A round of ale was poured, and someone handed him a glass filled to the brim.

“We always start with a toast to the good lady,” one of them, an Irishman named O’Ceirin, told him.

Keir looked at him blankly. “The queen?”

The group laughed heartily, and O’Ceirin explained, “No, ye plank-noggin, we drink to the lady who saved our livings and kept her husband’s company when she might have sold it.” The Irishman raised his glass. “Fill up, lads, to the health and long life of Lady Merritt.”

With a hearty chorus of approvals, the warehousemen drank deeply. Keir finished half his glass in one gulp, and tried not to show the utter gloom that had enveloped him. He was scarcely aware of ordering food, but a plate of green peas and flavorless boiled meat was set before him. After forcing down a few bites, he finished his ale and took his leave.

The warehouse was dark and quiet as Keir returned to his flat. After sitting heavily in the chair near the stove, he glanced morosely at the adjoining room, where the small, solitary bed awaited. It might as well have been a torture rack. How could he be so tired and yet so reluctant to go to bed? His body was cold everywhere except for the wound on his back, which glowed with heat. It was tender, oddly tight, pulsing with a precise and regular throb. He sat there, staring blindly at the little stove, and considered lighting it to warm the flat. No. Everything was too much effort.

Heaving a sigh, Keir finally let himself think about Merritt.

He couldn’t believe he’d have to go the rest of his life without her. He wanted, needed, to see her one last time. Just for one minute. A half minute. Ten seconds. God, he was sick with longing. If he could just have a glimpse at her, he’d never ask for anything else in his life.

Maybe . . . he could go to her? No, don’t be a witless arse. He’d barely managed leaving her once. Leaving her twice would be the death of him.

But even knowing that, Keir found himself rising to his feet and reaching for his coat. His heart thudded with anticipation. He would just ask after her well-being. Even if she didn’t come to the door—if she were abed and he could only speak to the footman—that was still better than sitting here doing nothing.

He left the flat and began down the staircase leading to the outside door. But his steps slowed as he saw a cloud of smoke at the bottom of the stairwell.

Fire. A chill of alarm went through him in a flash, raising gooseflesh. He was stinging all over.

There was no such thing as a small warehouse fire. The stairwells and elevator shafts acted like chimneys, funneling flames and heat upward to spread the inferno across the wide-open floors.

With a curse, he barreled down the rest of the stairs and reached for the door handle.

It was gone.

Keir stared at the doorplate incredulously. The handle hadn’t fallen off, it had been neatly removed, with the bolt turned to the locking position. Someone had deliberately trapped him in here.

A warehouse for bonded goods was designed to be as secure as a bank vault. The door, wrapped in steel sheets and attached with industrial hardware, could not be broken.

A dull roar came through the wall between the stairwell and the building’s storage area. The sound of fire. Soon it would reach thousands of casks of whisky.

He was fucked.

Cursing, Keir turned and raced back up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. He went back into the flat, fumbling slightly as he unlocked the door. He ran to the window, pulled back the fastening bar, and opened it wide. A glance down the side of the building revealed nothing in the way of stairs or fire escapes.

Three stories yawned between him and the hard-paved ground, with no way to break or soften his fall.

Very fucked.

He focused on a one-story transit shed, built approximately ten feet away from the warehouse. If he could manage to reach it, the distance of the fall would be cut by a third. But without a running start, Keir wasn’t sure he could jump that far. And even if he could, he probably wouldn’t survive hitting the shed’s metal roof.

On the other hand, it was preferable to being roasted like an egg.

Breathing hard, Keir levered himself up to the window and stood carefully on the sill, gripping the jamb for balance.

It occurred to him that he’d probably end up being buried in England . . . far from his parents’ graves and the island he loved.

Someone wanted him dead, and he’d never know why. The thought charged him with fury.

And he jumped.