Devil in Disguise Read online

“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.

  Chapter 20

  KEIR AWOKE THE NEXT morning just as a maid quietly left the room with the wood scuttle. A small fire snapped in the hearth, softening the night’s chill. Sounds drifted from other parts of the house as servants went about their daily chores. He heard a few low-voiced exchanges, a delicate rattle of china or glass, shutters being opened, a carpet being swept. His nose twitched and his mouth watered as he detected the faint hint of something rich and salty frying—bacon, maybe?—and the sweetness of baking bread. Breakfast soon, he thought, his usual appetite asserting itself.

  Carefully he got out of bed and hobbled to the washstand. The left side of his rib cage was as sore and tender as if it had been split by a plowshare. He had a headache and a come-and-go ringing in his ears. But worst of all were his lungs, weak and wheezy, like a ruptured blacksmith’s bellows.

  In a few minutes he made his way to one of the windows. Morning had come with frost on its back, turning the edges of the glass panes white and crystalline. The house was set on high ground above the Challon family’s private cove, with grassy dunes belting the pale crescent of a sand beach, and a fetch of calm blue water. Far outside the estate at Heron’s Point, the busy world of smokestacks and railway terminals went about its business, but here within the boundaries of Kingston’s domain, time moved at a different pace. It was a world—

  That smell in the air was definitely bacon.

  —a world where people had the luxury to read, think, and discuss high-minded subjects.

  He needed to go home to Islay and fill his lungs with cold salt breezes off the sea, and sleep in the house where he’d been raised. Even if he couldn’t manage to cook for himself yet, he had scores of friends and—

  Salty, chewy bacon with crisp edges. God, he was starving.

  —friends and neighbors who would welcome him to their tables. He would go back where he belonged, among his people, where everything was familiar. Not that anyone could rightly complain about recuperating in a duke’s mansion. But a cage was no less of a cage for having been gilded.

  Someone tapped at the door.

  “Come in,” Keir said.

  A housemaid entered, carrying a tray fitted with little legs. “Will you take breakfast in bed, sir?”

  “Aye, thank you.” Realizing he was standing before her in nothing but a nightshirt, he hastened back to the bed. He drew in a sharp breath as he tried to climb in too quickly.

  The maid, a dark-haired girl with a pleasant and capable air, set the tray on a table. “Try to roll into the bed with your back all stifflike,” she suggested. “Me brother once cracked a rib after comin’ back too beery from the tavern. Fell down the stairs. After that, if he forgot and twisted or turned, he said it was like Satan stabbin’ him with a flamin’ pitchfork.”

  “That’s the feel of it,” Keir agreed wryly. Following her advice, he half sat, half rolled onto the mattress, taking care to keep his torso and hips aligned, and pulled up the covers. His mouth watered in anticipation as she brought the tray to him and set it carefully over his lap.

  The food had been prettily arranged on blue and white china and a lace-edged cloth. There was even a wee crystal bud vase with a single yellow chrysanthemum blossom. But the artful presentation of the breakfast didn’t compensate for its stinginess. There was only a small plain custard, a few tidbits of fruit, and a slice of dry toasted bread.

  “Where’s the bacon?” Keir asked in bewilderment.

  The maid looked perturbed. “Bacon?”

  Maybe there was only a limited amount? Maybe it was intended for a special dish?

  “Is there some for having?” Keir asked cautiously.

  “There is, but … Lady Merritt wrote out a special menu for you, and there was nothin’ on it about bacon.�
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  “A man can’t mend without meat,” he said in outrage.

  “If it pleases, sir, I’ll ask for Lady Merritt’s permission.”

  Permission?

  “I’ll have bacon and be damned to her,” he said indignantly.

  The maid took one glance at his face and fled.

  In a few minutes, there came another tap at the door, and Lady Merritt ducked her head into the room. “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “May I come in?”

  Keir replied with a grunt of assent, sitting with his arms folded.

  It was hard to keep scowling when he saw how pretty she was in a bright blue dress with white frills trimming the bodice and sleeves. And the way she smiled … he could literally feel the warmth of it, as if he were stepping from a shadow into sunlight. As she came to the bedside, her light fragrance brushed over his senses as softly as a veil made of tiny flower petals. Her skin looked so smooth, with a bit of a gleam, like textureless gauze. He wondered if it was like that all over, and felt an unruly stirring in his groin.

  “Is there a problem with your breakfast?” she asked sympathetically, looking down at his untouched plate.

  “’Tis no’ a breakfast,” he informed her curtly. “No meat, no eggs, no porridge? ’Tis a snack.”

  “Dr. Kent recommended only plain food for the next few days. He said rich fare might be difficult for you to manage.”

  Keir snorted at the thought. “Difficult for an Englishman, maybe. But I’m after having for a full Scottish breakfast.”

  Her dark eyes twinkled. “What does that consist of?”

  Unfolding his arms, he settled back against the pillows with a nostalgic sigh. “Bacon, sausage patties, ham, fried eggs, beans, potatoes, scones … and maybe a bit of sweet, like clootie dumpling.”

  Her brows lifted. “All that on one plate?”

  “You have to build a mountain of the meat,” he explained, “and arrange the rest around it.”

  “I see.” She regarded him speculatively. “If you’re very sure you can keep it down, I suppose you could try one or two strips of bacon.”

  “I want a full rasher,” he countered.

  “Three strips, and that’s my final offer.” Before he could argue, she added, “I’ll even throw in a coddled egg.”

  “What’s coddled?”

  “Steamed in a little cup.”

  “Aye, I’ll have some of those.”

  “Lovely. After that, the duke’s valet will come around with some clothes, and if you’re feeling up to it, you and I might take a few turns around the upper floor of the house. Later, we’ll make a start on the breathing exercises.”

  “What about the duke and Lady Phoebe?” Keir asked. “What will they be doing?”

  “They’re going out to have lunch with friends and visit some shops along the local esplanade.” Lady Merritt paused, her gaze seeming to wrap around him like velvet. “I told them I wanted to spend a day with you,” she said. “There are sensitive subjects to discuss … and I thought it might be better coming from me.”

  Keir frowned. “If you’re going to tell me all the whisky was destroyed, I already expected that.”

  A fortune, literally vanished into thin air. Badly needed profits, all gone. After spending five years paying off the distillery’s debts, he was financially strapped once again.

  “Would it help if I said the loss was covered by the warehouse insurance policy?” Lady Merritt asked gently.

  “What about the tax due on it?”

  “If the government won’t release you from the tax obligation, the insurance company will have to pay it. Sterling Enterprises’ legal department is quite firm that the tax liability counted as an insurable interest. They may want to litigate in court, but we’ll almost certainly win.”

  Keir nodded slowly as he thought that over. “Even if I had to pay the tax,” he said, “it wouldn’t be the ruin of the distillery, as long as the rest of it was covered.”

  “Good. If you have any difficulties in that regard, I’m sure I can find ways to help.”

  Keir stiffened. No matter how well-intended, the offer of help from a wealthy woman rankled. “I dinna want your money.”

  Lady Merritt blinked in surprise. “I didn’t mean I was going to hand you a sack of cash. I’m a business-woman, not a fairy godmother.”

  The sudden edge to her tone, subtle though it was, was keen enough to lacerate.

  Seeing how her radiance had vanished, Keir felt a chill of regret, and his first thought was to apologize.

  Instead, he kept his mouth shut. It was better not to grow close to her.

  After taking over the distillery upon his father’s death, the first decision Keir had made was to install new safety equipment and procedures. There were too many dangerous elements in a building where drink was made from grain: dust, alcohol vapor, heat, and sparks from static or friction. The only way to avert disaster was to keep those elements as separate and controlled as possible.

  All his instincts warned him to do the same in this situation … create a distance between himself and Lady Merritt … before they started an inferno.

  Chapter 21

  “YOU’RE USING YOUR CHEST,” Merritt said later that day, glancing down at Keir as he reclined on a long, low couch.

  “Aye,” he said dryly. “’Tis where I keep my lungs.”

  Merritt stood over him, a medical book in one hand and a stopwatch in the other, while Keir lay flat on his back. He felt more than a little foolish, not to mention frustrated. The breathing exercises, which had sounded simple in the beginning, had turned out to be unexpectedly challenging, mostly because Merritt seemed to want him to breathe in a way that was anatomically impossible.

  They were in an upstairs family parlor, a wide and spacious room divided into separate areas by groupings of furniture and potted palms. Two sets of French doors opened to an outside balcony that ran almost the full length of the house.

  Earlier, Culpepper had brought Keir a selection of spare clothes belonging to the duke’s two grown sons, Lord St. Vincent and Mr. Challon. The garments were finer than anything he’d worn in his life. Not fancy, but incredibly well made. With the valet’s help, Keir had chosen a shirt made of Egyptian cotton with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a silk-lined waistcoat, stitched so the hem was perfectly smooth instead of curling upward. The trousers were fluid and slightly loose, tailored to allow for greater ease of movement.

  “You’re supposed to take in air from lower down, in the belly,” Merritt said, consulting The Thorax and Its Viscera: A Manual of Treatment, which Dr. Kent had provided.

  “The belly is for filling with food, not air,” Keir said flatly.

  “It’s a special technique called diaphragmatic breathing.”

  “I already have a technique. ’Tis called in-and-oot.”

  She set the book aside and fiddled with the stopwatch. “Let’s try again. Inhale for four seconds, and exhale slowly for eight. As you breathe out, control the air flow by pursing your lips. Like this.” Her mouth cinched into a round, plush shape, the sight throwing his brain into chaos … soft, tender, rose blossoms, cherries, sweet currant wine … he couldn’t help wondering how they would feel on his skin, stroking downward, parting as her sweet tongue flicked out to taste him—

  “Now you try,” Merritt said briskly. “Pucker your lips. Pretend you’re pouting about something.”

  “I dinna pout,” he informed her. “I’m a man.”

  “What do you do when you’re angry but can’t complain?”

  “I toss back a dram of whisky.”

  That drew a grin from her. “How surprising. Pretend you’re blowing out a candle, then.” She held up the stopwatch, thumb poised over the crown stopper. “Are you ready?”

  “I’d rather be sitting up.”

  “According to the book, lying flat helps to focus on the expansion and contraction of the abdomen while increasing the vertical capacity of the chest.” A decisive click of the watch. “Start.
”

  Dutifully Keir inhaled and exhaled at her count.

  Click. Merritt assessed him like a drillmaster determined to train a raw recruit. “Your ribs moved.”

  “They dinna!” he protested.

  Ignoring him, she clicked the watch. “Again.”

  Keir obeyed. Deep breath in, slow breath out.

  Click. Lady Merritt stood over him, shaking her head. “You’re not even trying.”

  Exasperated, Keir muttered, “I am trying, you wee bully.”

  Instantly her face changed, her eyes widening.

  Keir was startled by the feeling of having already experienced this exact moment, as if he’d just fallen through a trapdoor connecting the present and the past.

  “I’ve called you that before,” he said huskily.

  “Yes.” Merritt sounded breathless. “Do you remember anything else?”

  “No, only saying those words to you, and …”

  His heart had begun to thud, the force of it ricocheting everywhere inside and gathering at his groin. Alarm seized him as he realized he was turning hard, his cock stiffening in a series of swift jumps. He sat up with a muffled curse, pain searing through his ribs.

  “What is it?” he heard Merritt ask in concern. “Do be careful—you’ll hurt yourself—here, let me—”

  Her hands were on him, one at his shoulder, the other at his back. The pressure of her palms, gentle but firm, flooded him with lust. Another door seemed to open in his brain, and for a moment all he could think of was being in bed with her, the rush of her breath against his ear, the clasp of female flesh, amazingly silky, supple, powerful pulses working his shaft as he pushed deep and felt her squirm—

  “Dinna touch me,” he said, more roughly than he’d intended.

  Her hands snatched back.

  Keir leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. She was standing too close, her delicately perfumed scent feeding the hard ache of arousal. He was light-headed, suffocating from lack of oxygen. Grimly he focused on the pain of his ribs, letting it tamp down the flare of lust.

  No … he had never been in bed with her. She’d never have let him do such a thing, and God knew he’d never have tried.