Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels Book 7)

After donning her robe and slippers, Merritt sprinted along the hallway with Phoebe close behind. As they neared Keir’s room, they saw Kingston approaching from the other direction.

“Father,” Phoebe exclaimed.

“Hello, darling,” the duke said pleasantly. “I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting with the solicitors.”

“We just finished.” Kingston reached for the door. “What the devil is this all about?”

“I have no idea.” Merritt hurried into the room.

They found Keir sitting up in bed, cursing at Culpepper, the duke’s elderly valet. “You’ll no’ go by me again, you damned doaty auld ball sack!”

Merritt’s heart was wrenched with worry as she heard the wheeze in Keir’s breath. “What’s the matter?” she asked, hastening to the bedside.

“I’ve been skinned like a hare for stewing!” Keir said wrathfully, turning to her.

Merritt was dumbstruck at the sight of his clean-shaven face.

Dear God. He was beyond handsome. The cushioning thick beard was gone, revealing the brooding masculine beauty of a fallen angel. His features were strong but elegantly refined, the cheekbones high, the mouth full and erotic. She could hardly believe she’d slept with this dazzling creature.

“They shaved off my beard while I was drooged,” Keir told her indignantly, reaching out to clamp a hand on her skirts and tug her close.

The duke responded with an innocent look. “You’ll have to forgive my valet,” he said smoothly. “I instructed him to do a bit of grooming and tidying. It appears he assumed I meant a shave as well. Isn’t that right, Culpepper?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the old man replied dutifully.

“Culpepper tends to be impetuous,” Kingston continued. “He needs to work on controlling his impulses.”

Keir flushed with outrage. “He’s no’ a brash wee laddie, he’s ninety-eight fookin’ years old!”

“You may go now,” the duke said to his valet.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Merritt focused all her attention on Keir. “Try to relax and take deep breaths,” she said urgently, leaning over him. “Please. Look at me.” Staring into his eyes, she inhaled slowly, willing him to follow. His gaze locked with hers, and he struggled to breathe along with her. To her relief, the rough panting began to ease. She dared to reach out and push back a heavy lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “I’m so sorry about your beard. I’m sure it will grow back quickly.”

“’Tis the principle,” he grumbled. “I was off my head and dinna know what was happening.”

Merritt clicked her tongue sympathetically, her hand sliding briefly to the hard, clean angle of his jaw. “They shouldn’t have done such a thing without asking. If I’d been here, I wouldn’t have allowed it.” She was thrilled to feel him lean subtly into the pressure of her hand.

“In any case,” she heard Kingston remark casually, “one can’t deny it’s an improvement.”

Merritt twisted to send him a threatening glance over her shoulder, willing him not to antagonize Keir further. “It was a very nice beard,” she said.

The duke arched a brow. “It looked like something I had to wrestle away from the dog last week.”

“Uncle Sebastian,” Merritt exclaimed in exasperation.

Keir’s attention, however, was fixed not on Kingston, but on the frozen figure by the doorway. “Who’s that?” he demanded.

Merritt followed his gaze to Phoebe, whose face was carefully blank. What a shock it must be for her, to be confronted with a man who looked so eerily similar—almost identical—to her father as a young man. “Dear,” she said apologetically to Phoebe, “about that story I was telling you . . . there was a part I hadn’t yet reached.”

Her friend replied slowly, staring at the duke. “I think perhaps my father should explain it to me.”

“I will,” Kingston said, giving his daughter a reassuring smile. “Come with me.” He ushered her from the room, saying, “We’ll leave Merritt with her fiancé.”

“What?” came Phoebe’s bewildered voice, just before he closed the door.

In the raw silence, Merritt brought herself to meet Keir’s baffled, accusing gaze.

“Fiancé?” he repeated. “Why did he call me that?”

Wishing she could throttle Kingston, Merritt said uneasily, “You see . . . I had to resort to . . . erm . . . a small prevarication.”

Despite his weakened condition, Keir was easily able to pull her down beside him with a commanding tug. One of his hands settled beneath her arm to lock her in place. “I dinna know what that means,” he said, “but it sounds like a fine-feathered word for lying.”

“It is,” she admitted in a sheepish tone. “And for that I’m very sorry. But saying we were betrothed was the only way I could accompany you here, to take care of you.”

Keir leaned back against the pillows, leveling a surly glance at her. “Why?”

“It wouldn’t be proper, since we’re both—”

“No, I meant why did you want to?”

“I . . . I suppose I felt responsible because you were injured while staying in my company’s warehouse.”

“No one would ever believe I’d offer for you. ’Tis a daft notion.”

Surprised and offended, Merritt asked, “Do you find me so unappealing?”

Keir seemed startled by the question. “No, of course not. You’re . . .” He paused, staring at her as if mesmerized. The hand beneath her arm had slipped a bit lower, his long thumb beginning to stroke the side of her breast in a caress he didn’t seem to be aware of. “You’re as bonnie as a wild rose,” he said absently. Merritt shivered beneath the gently erotic touch, the tip of her breast gathering into a hard peak. Suddenly realizing what he was doing, Keir snatched his hands from her. “But I’d never take a wife so far above me.”

Merritt’s heart was beating high in her throat, making it difficult to speak. “We’re all woven from the same loom,” she said. “That’s what my father says. He married an American. My great-grandmother was a laundress, as a matter of fact.”

Keir shook his head dismissively. “You’re a highborn lady with fine ways.”

Merritt frowned. “You make it sound as if I were some pampered creature who could barely lift a teacup. I’ve had to work very hard. I run a shipping company, a very large one—”

“Aye, I know.”

“—and I’ve spent a great deal of time managing men who are far less civilized than you. I can be as tough as nails when the situation calls for it. As for the betrothal . . . I’ll take the blame for breaking it off. I’ll say I changed my mind.”

Looking irritable, Keir reached up to stroke his jaw, and swore softly as he seemed to realize anew that his face was bare. “I need to see to the running of my own business,” he muttered. “My men will have worrit when I dinna return on schedule. Do they know what happened?”

“I’m not sure. They may have sent an inquiry to the Sterling office. I’ll ask my brother.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” he decided, “or the day after.”

“But you can’t,” Merritt exclaimed. “Your lungs need at least another week to heal. I have a list of breathing exercises for you to start on. And your ribs are either fractured or badly bruised. According to the doctor—”

“I’ll heal as well at home as I would here.” Keir paused. “Where is ‘here,’ by the way?”

“We’re at the duke’s estate in Sussex. In a seaside resort town called Heron’s Point.”

At the mention of the duke, Keir fastened a brooding gaze on the window, and let out a long sigh. “I look like him,” he eventually said, his tone grim.

Merritt’s reply was gentle. “Very much so.”

“Does he think I’m . . .” Keir didn’t seem able to finish the sentence.

“He’s almost certain of it. He’s had an investigator searching for evidence.”

“I dinna care what he finds. I had a father. There’ll be no replacing Lachlan MacRae.”

“Of course not,” she said. “He was your father in all the ways that truly mattered.” She smiled absently as she recalled one of the stories he’d told her about his parents. “How could anyone replace the man who stayed up late to mend the cuff of your Sunday shirt?”

Keir had told her over dinner that when he was a boy, his mother had made him a shirt out of blue broadcloth, meant to be worn only to church or formal occasions. But Keir had disobeyed and worn it on a Saturday, when he’d gone to sweep and clean the coppersmith’s shop for a shilling. He’d been trying to catch the eye of the man’s daughter, and had hoped the new shirt would improve his chances. Unfortunately a cuff had caught on a nail while he was working, and had torn almost completely off the sleeve. Fearing his mother’s disapproval, Keir had confessed the crime to his father. But Lachlan had come to the rescue, for he’d known how to sew.

“Dinna trooble yourself, lad,” Lachlan had reassured him. “I’ll stay up a wee bit later than usual, mend the cuff, and you can wear it to church tomorrow, with your mither none the wiser.”

The plan would have worked brilliantly, except when Keir had dressed for church the next morning, he’d discovered that Lachlan had accidentally stitched the sleeve closed. It had been impossible to slide a hand through it. The shamefaced conspirators, father and son, had gone to confess to Elspeth. Her annoyance had soon been swept away in convulsive giggles as she’d inspected the sealed shirt cuff. She’d laughed for days, and had told her friends about it, and the story had been joke fodder among the women for years. But both Keir and Lachlan had agreed it was worth looking foolish, for Elspeth to have taken such enjoyment in it.

“How do you know about that?” Keir asked, his eyes narrowed.

“You told me, during dinner in London.”

“We were at a dinner?”

“You came to my home. It was just the two of us.”

Keir didn’t seem sure what to make of that.

“We were exchanging stories about our families,” Merritt continued. “After you told me about the shirt cuff, I told you about the time I spilled ink on a map in my father’s study.”

He shook his head, looking baffled.

“It was a rare two-hundred-year-old map of the British Isles,” Merritt explained. “I’d gone into my father’s study to play with a set of inkwell bottles, which I’d been told not to do. But they were such tempting little etched glass bottles, and one of them was filled with the most resplendent shade of emerald green you’ve ever seen. I dipped a pen in it, and accidentally dribbled some onto the map, which had been spread out on his desk. It made a horrid splotch right in the middle of the Oceanus Germanicus. I was standing there, weeping with shame, when Papa walked in and saw what had happened.”

“What did he do?” Keir asked, now looking interested.

“He was quiet at first. Waging a desperate battle with his temper, I’m sure. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he said in a thoughtful tone, ‘Merritt, I suspect if you drew some legs on that blotch, it would make an excellent sea monster.’ So I added little tentacles and fangs, and I drew a three-masted ship nearby.” She paused at the flash of Keir’s grin, the one that never failed to make her a bit light-headed. “He had it framed and hung it on the wall over his desk. To this day, he claims it’s his favorite work of art.”

Amusement tugged at one corner of his mouth. “A good father,” he commented.

“Oh, he is! Both my parents are lovely people. I wish . . . well, I don’t suppose there’ll be a chance for you to meet them.”

“No.”

“Keir,” she continued hesitantly, “I’m not in a position to speak for the duke, but knowing him as I do . . . I’m sure he would never want to replace your father, or take anything from you.”

No response.

“As for the duke’s past,” Merritt continued, “I don’t know what you may have heard. But it would only be fair to talk to him yourself before making judgments . . . don’t you think?”

Keir shook his head. “It would be a waste of time. My mind is set.”

Merritt gave him a chiding smile. “Stubborn,” she accused mildly, and took the empty glass from him. “You should rest for a bit. I’ll find some proper clothing for you and come back later to help you dress.”

His frown reappeared. “I dinna need help.”

Thankfully, years of working in the rough-and-tumble environment of the South London docks had taught Merritt patience. “You’ve been ill,” she pointed out calmly, “and you’re recovering from serious injury. Unless you want to risk falling and causing yourself more harm, you should probably let someone assist you.”

“No’ you. Someone else.”

That stung, but Merritt steeled herself not to show it. “Who, then?”

Keir heaved a sigh and muttered, “The auld ball sack.”

“Culpepper?” Merritt exclaimed, baffled. “But you were so cross with him. Why would you prefer his help to mine?”

“’Tis no’ proper for you to do it.”

“My dear man, you’re shutting the door after the house was robbed. There’s not an inch of you I haven’t seen by now.”

His color heightened. “No man wants a woman to see him in the a’thegither when he’s gone ill and unwashed for days.”

“You have not gone unwashed. If anything, you’ve been water-logged. I’ve cold-sponged you constantly since we arrived.” Smiling wryly, she went to the threshold and paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll send Culpepper later, if that’s what you prefer.”

“Aye.” Keir paused before muttering, “Thank you, milady.”

“Merritt.”

“Merritt,” he repeated . . . and gave her an arrested glance that jolted her heart.

Why was he staring at her like that? Had he remembered something? Her fingers clenched over the doorknob until her palm throbbed around the cool polished brass.

“’Tis a bonnie name,” he finally said distantly, and turned his gaze to one of the windows, silently dismissing her.