Devil in Disguise Page 15

  “Oh, it’s been too long,” Merritt exclaimed as they embraced. “I’ve missed you so! Letters are never enough.”

  “Especially considering how seldom you write,” Phoebe teased, and laughed at Merritt’s expression.

  “If you knew how hard I’ve been working! No time for letters, books, or tea with friends … no naps or shopping … I’ve been living like a medieval peasant.”

  Phoebe chuckled. “I meant to come sooner, but it’s been madness at the estate. We’re going into harvest, and I’ve been busy with the baby—”

  “Where is she?” Merritt asked eagerly. She hadn’t yet seen Phoebe’s daughter, Eden, who’d been born six months earlier. “You’ve brought her, I hope.”

  “Had to,” Phoebe replied wryly, gesturing to her button-front bodice, strained by the full bosom of a nursing mother. “She’s not yet weaned. At the moment, she’s with the nursemaid upstairs. I left the boys at home with West, but they may join us later, depending on how long I stay.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Tell me what’s been happening,” Phoebe said, going to the small table. “I’ll pour tea.”

  Merritt hesitated with a nonplussed laugh. “There’s too much. I’m at a loss for words.”

  “You? You’re never at a loss for words.”

  “I’m not sure how to start.”

  “Start with anything. No—start with the man you brought here. According to my father’s note, he’s a businessman who was injured in the warehouse fire. Which I was very sorry to hear about, by the way.”

  Merritt twisted to stack the pillows against the headboard. “Have you seen your father yet?”

  “No, I’ve only just arrived. He’s meeting with a pair of solicitors from London, and I told the butler not to interrupt him, and then I came straight to your room. You’re the one I wanted to talk with anyway.” Phoebe brought her a cup of tea and went to perch on the corner of the mattress.

  “You’ll definitely want to talk with your father too, dear.”

  “About what?”

  “Mr. MacRae, the injured man.” Merritt paused to take a bracing gulp of tea. “He’s a distiller from Scotland. One of the little islands off the west coast. He hired my company to ship and store his whisky in the bonded warehouse. But while my men were moving the cargo, a cask of single malt broke on a freight shed roof and soaked him. He came to my office in wet clothes, all muscles and smolder. I hardly knew where to look.”

  “I think you knew exactly where to look,” Phoebe said, her light gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “Is he handsome?”

  “A stunner. Tall and big-chested, with blue eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. And his accent …”

  “Irresistible?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s something about a Scottish burr that makes it seem as if a man is either about to recite poetry or toss you over his shoulder and carry you away.”

  “Maybe both at the same time,” Phoebe said dreamily, sipping her tea.

  Merritt grinned and resumed the story, leaving nothing out. It was an incredible relief to confide in Phoebe, who would understand anything. But the torrent of words slowed when it came to telling her friend about the night she’d spent with Keir.

  “… and then …” Merritt said, her gaze carefully averted, “… I asked him to stay the night. With me. In my bedroom.”

  “Of course you did,” Phoebe said reasonably.

  “You’re not shocked?”

  “Why would I be? You’ve occupied a solitary bed for a long time, and you were in the company of a ruggedly handsome bachelor with a Scottish accent. I’d be shocked if you hadn’t asked him to stay.” Phoebe paused. “My goodness, I hope you didn’t think West and I were as chaste as unsunned snow during our courtship.”

  “No, but it’s not quite the same. At least you knew West beforehand, and your families were acquainted.”

  Phoebe chewed lightly on her lower lip as she considered that. “I didn’t know him all that well,” she pointed out. “But I learned a great deal about him in a very short time. As you know, West is not what anyone would call shy and retiring.”

  Merritt smiled. “I adore men who talk. The taciturn ones are no fun at all.”

  Phoebe gave Merritt an expectant glance. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Tell me about the night you spent together. How was it?”

  Merritt felt color rise in her face as she pondered how to describe those intimate hours. Hesitantly she said, “I wouldn’t want to compare him to my husband.”

  “No, one mustn’t. It’s different, that’s all.”

  “Yes.” Merritt paused. “It was astonishing. He was so assured … masterful … but very gentle. I was so lost in him and what he was doing, I stopped thinking at all. Phoebe … do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone in only a week?”

  “Who am I to say?” Phoebe parried, taking the empty cup from her and going to replenish it.

  “Oh, don’t be waffly, tell me your opinion.”

  Phoebe glanced over her shoulder with lifted brows. “Aren’t you the one who’s always said opinions are tiresome?”

  “Yes, when I had the luxury. But now I’m a business-woman.” Merritt’s mouth pressed into a glum hyphen. “My interior life used to be flowers, party decorations, and quartet music. Now it’s all purchase orders and typewriter ribbons and dusty office furniture.”

  “Surely not dusty, dear.” Phoebe brought her a fresh cup of tea. “Very well, here’s what I think: It’s possible to have strong feelings for someone in only a week, but as for full-blown, deep, true love … no. There’s been no courtship. You haven’t spent enough time together. You haven’t talked. Love happens through words.”

  “Drat.” Recognizing the truth of that, Merritt scowled and drank her tea.

  “Furthermore, the sleeping together is a complication. Once you’ve done it, it’s almost impossible to talk without the interference of sensuality.”

  “What if he doesn’t remember?” Merritt asked.

  Phoebe gave her a baffled glance. “What?”

  “If a tree falls in the forest and no one sees or hears, did it really fall?”

  “Was the tree drinking?”

  “No, it was a concussion.” Merritt told Phoebe about the explosion on the docks, and finding Keir unconscious and injured, and Dr. Gibson’s diagnosis. “He’s lost at least a week of memory,” she finished, “and there’s no guarantee he’ll recover it. Now after talking with you, I’m beginning to think that may be for the best.”

  “You’re not going to tell him you slept together?”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be helpful at all. Just the opposite: He might think of it as a trap.”

  “Merritt, you’re the catch of London. With your looks, wealth, and connections, there are countless men who would love to be caught in any trap you cared to set.”

  “Keir’s different. He’s not fond of town, to put it mildly. He’s not impressed by luxury or appearances. He loves his simple life on the island, and doing things out in nature.”

  “And you dislike nature,” Phoebe said sympathetically.

  “‘Dislike’ is too strong a word. Nature and I have an understanding—we try not to interfere with each other. It’s a peaceful coexistence.”

  Phoebe looked skeptical. “Dear, no matter how attractive this man is, I can’t envision you existing happily on a remote Scottish island.”

  “It’s possible,” Merritt argued. “I’m a woman of many facets.”

  “You don’t have a single facet that wants to live in a hut.”

  “I didn’t say he lived in a hut!”

  “Five pounds says it has a stone floor and no indoor plumbing.”

  “I never take bets,” Merritt said loftily.

  “Which means you think I’m right.”

  Merritt’s reply was forestalled by the sound of muffled shouting and a thump or two—like something being thrown a
gainst a wall. It seemed to be coming from the direction of Keir’s room. Instantly alarmed, she set aside her teacup and saucer and sprang out of bed.

  “What in heaven’s name is that?” Phoebe asked.

  “I think it’s Mr. MacRae,” Merritt said in alarm.

  Chapter 19

  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 e
ventually 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.”