Devil in Disguise Page 7

“You may show in my guest,” she said lightly.

  Jeffrey turned to her with a perturbed expression. “He won’t come in, milady.”

  Puzzled, Merritt went to the doorway and motioned for the footman to step back.

  There MacRae was, disheveled and hatless, but breathtakingly handsome. To her pleased surprise, his hair had been cut and shaped to his head in short layers of amber and gold. He had the cool, sensual allure of a lost angel painted by Cabanel.

  Was it her imagination, or did he seem a bit pale? Was he nervous? Was he ill?

  “Come with me,” she urged.

  But MacRae shook his head, looking uncomfortable and apologetic. “I can’t stay. But I dinna want you to be kept waiting … if you were expecting me …”

  “I was definitely expecting you.” Merritt glanced over him with concern. He was pale, his eyes dilated into dark pools. “Come sit with me,” she urged, “even if only for a few minutes.”

  “My apologies, milady, but … I have to go back to the flat.”

  Realizing something was wrong, Merritt kept her voice gentle. “May I ask why?”

  “There was a wee scruffle on the way here, and I … need to rest a spell.”

  “Scruffle,” she repeated, looking at him more closely. “You were in a fight?”

  MacRae’s mouth twisted with chagrin. “As I was walking away from the wharf, a thief pushed me into an alley. I drove him off.”

  Merritt’s worried gaze traveled over him from head to toe. There was a liquid drop of red on the pale stone of the outside landing, right next to his shoe. Was that … blood? Another drop landed beside the first with a tiny splat.

  Galvanized by sudden panic, she moved forward to take hold of him. “You’re coming in. Yes, you are. Don’t even think of arguing.” Afraid he might not be entirely steady on his feet, she began to slide an arm around him. Her hand encountered a wet patch on the back of his waistcoat. She didn’t have to look to know what it was.

  “Jeffrey,” she said over her shoulder to the footman, trying to sound calm despite her alarm.

  “Yes, milady?”

  “We need Dr. Gibson. Don’t send a message—go find her in person, and tell her to come without delay.”

  Jeffrey responded with a nod and left promptly.

  MacRae looked down at her in exasperation. “For God’s sake, I dinna need a doctor—”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “’Tis just a wee scratch.”

  “A scratch from what?” she demanded.

  “A knife.”

  “In other words, you have a stab wound?” She towed him toward the parlor, her worry exploding into fear.

  “I’ve been hurt worse during peat cutting, and carried on with the work of a day. I need to pour a splash of whisky on it, is all.”

  “You need to be seen by a doctor.” Merritt paused at the parlor doorway to grasp a bellpull and ring vigorously for the housemaid. By the time she and MacRae had reached the couch, the young woman had appeared at the doorway.

  “Milady?” the maid asked, taking in the scene with a wide-eyed glance.

  “Jenny, fetch clean towels and cotton blankets as quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The housemaid scampered away.

  MacRae scowled down at Merritt. “You’re making a mickle into a muckle.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, having no idea what a muckle was, and reached up to tug off his coat.

  “Wait.” MacRae reached inside the coat pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle with flat sides. “For you,” he said. “The Priobairneach. And well it was for me that you asked me to bring it, or—” He broke off, evidently thinking better of what he’d been about to tell her.

  “Or what?” Merritt asked suspiciously, setting the bottle aside. She saw a slit in his coat fabric that could only have been made by a very sharp blade. “My God,” she exclaimed in alarm, “you were almost killed!”

  “The blade struck the bottle,” he said, wincing as Merritt tugged the coat down and pulled the sleeves from his arms.

  After she tossed the coat to a nearby table, she hurriedly unfastened the waistcoat and started on the half placket of his shirt.

  Disconcerted to find himself being undressed in the parlor, MacRae began to lift his hands, although she couldn’t tell whether he intended to help or stop her.

  “Let me do it, Keir,” Merritt said tautly.

  He went still at her use of his first name. His hands lowered to his sides.

  She pulled the waistcoat away from him, and bit her lip as she saw the blood-soaked shirt over his back.

  “England is hard on a man’s clothes,” Keir ventured.

  “It certainly is on yours.” She pointed to the couch, a long, low piece with a sloped head and a half back. “Sit right there.”

  He hesitated. “If the lads on Islay saw all this fuss over a wee scratch on my back, they’d toss me into Machir Bay like fish bait.”

  “Sit,” Merritt said firmly. “I’ll use physical force if necessary.”

  Looking resigned, Keir obeyed.

  Carefully Merritt eased the sleeves from his arms and removed the shirt, exposing a sleek expanse of muscle and sinew. A fine steel chain around his neck led to the center of his chest, where a tiny gold pendant shone among the glinting fleece.

  She turned to rummage in a nearby embroidery basket for some linen napkins she’d never gotten around to monogramming. As she knelt to hold the compress against the wound, she saw to her relief that the blood wasn’t gushing, only oozing slowly.

  “I’ll warrant this isn’t what you’d be doing if a fine English gentleman had come to dinner,” he muttered.

  “It certainly would be, had the English gentleman been attacked with a knife.”

  The housemaid hurried back into the room, and nearly dropped a large bundle of supplies at the sight of the half-naked man on the couch. Merritt took a blanket from her, spread it over the upholstery, and helped Keir lean against the sloped head of the couch. After draping another blanket over him, she wedged a small cushion behind him to hold the compress in place. Keir submitted with a wry quirk of his lips, as if she were making too much of the situation. In a moment, however, the weight of the blanket and the warmth of the nearby fire caused him to relax with a sigh and close his eyes.

  “Jenny,” Merritt said, turning back to the housemaid, “we’ll need a can of hot water and …” Her voice faded as she realized the girl was mesmerized by Keir MacRae to the exclusion of all else. One could hardly blame her.

  Keir looked like a drowsing lion in the firelight, all tawny and golden. His loose-limbed posture was unconsciously graceful, with the edge of the blanket dipping enough to reveal the broad winged shape of his collarbone and the sharply hewn musculature of his chest and shoulders. Flickers of firelight played among the newly shorn locks of his hair, picking out streaks of champagne and topaz. He could have been a young Arthur, a warrior-king just returned from battle.

  “Jenny,” Merritt repeated patiently.

  The housemaid recalled herself with a start, tearing her gaze away from the figure on the couch. “Ma’am?”

  “We’ll need a can of hot water, some carbolic soap from the medicine cabinet, and a washbasin.”

  Jenny gave her a sheepish glance, bobbed a quick curtsy, and hurried out of the parlor.

  Merritt’s gaze fell on the small bottle of whisky Keir had brought. She took it to the parlor sideboard and poured two drinks, approximately an ounce each.

  Wordlessly she returned to the couch. At the sound of her approach, Keir opened his eyes, saw the glass of whisky she extended, and took it gratefully. He downed it in a gulp and let out a controlled sigh.

  Merritt sat beside him and took a cautious sip. The whisky went down her throat like smooth fire, leaving a soft, smoky glow. “It’s very nice,” she said. “Much smoother than the whisky I’ve tried before.”

  “It was made in tall copper still,” he said. “As the wh
isky vapor floats upward, the copper draws away the heavy compounds. The longer the vapor spends with the copper, the more it unburdens itself. Like a good conversation.”

  Merritt smiled and took another sip. It was light, warm, bracing—no wonder people liked it so much. “Tell me how your whisky is made,” she said. “What do you start with?”

  “We cart in the barley and soak it in water from a local spring …” He went on to explain how they spread it onto malting floors to let it germinate, then dried it in a massive eighty-foot-long kiln fired with peat. By the time Keir had reached the part where the malt was crushed by metal rollers and poured into a giant metal vat called a mash tun, the housemaid had brought the rest of the supplies.

  Merritt coaxed him into leaning against the sloped side of the couch so she could wash the bloodstains from his back. Although he was tense at first, he gradually relaxed at the feel of the hot cloth stroking over his skin. A spell of intimacy descended as he continued to talk about the distillery, while Merritt cleaned the area around the wound. Silently she admired his powerful shoulders and the wealth of muscle layered along his back in deep oblique slants. His skin was tough but satiny, gleaming like pale gold in the firelight.

  She wasn’t quite sure how this had happened. A chain of events had somehow led to having a large, half-naked Scotsman in her parlor. She was astonished to reflect she’d already seen more of Keir’s body—and become more familiar with it—than she had with Joshua before their wedding. Even more surprising was how natural this felt. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed taking care of someone. Oh, she had family, friends, and a thousand employees to look after, but that wasn’t the same as having her own person.

  Not that this man was hers, of course.

  But it felt like he was.

  “Are you listening?” she heard him ask.

  Briefly Merritt consulted the small portion of her brain that had been paying attention. “You were just describing how you run the liquor into the pot stills.”

  “Aye. Then it’s heated from beneath to start the vapor rising …”

  How perfectly the hair had been trimmed at the back of his neck, a precise line she longed to trace with her fingertips. Gooseflesh had risen on his skin in the wake of the damp cloth, and she drew the blanket over the beautiful expanse of his back.

  She looked up as she heard the front door opening and muffled voices coming from the entrance foyer.

  The footman came to the parlor door, and said, “Dr. Gibson is here, milady.”

  Merritt rose quickly to her feet. Seeing that Keir was preparing to stand as well, she said, “No, lie still.”

  Garrett Gibson entered the parlor, hefting the bulky doctor’s bag with ease, as if her wand-slim arms had been reinforced with steel threads. She had the tidy, clean-scrubbed freshness of a schoolgirl, with a wealth of chestnut hair pinned up in braids from which no strands were permitted to stray. Her incisive green eyes softened with affection as she set down the bag and exchanged a brief embrace with Merritt.

  Only a woman with great confidence and determination could manage to become the first—and so far, only—licensed female physician in England. Garrett possessed both qualities in abundance. Since no medical school in England would admit a woman, she had studied the French language so she could earn a medical degree at the Sorbonne in Paris. Upon her return to England, she’d acquired her medical license by finding a loophole that the British Medical Association closed as soon as they realized she’d managed to slip through.

  Merritt had become friendly with Garrett over the course of many social occasions, but this was the first time she’d ever required her professional services. Ordinarily Merritt would have sent for the older physician her family had always relied on, but Garrett had been trained in the most modern and advanced surgical techniques.

  “Thank you for coming,” Merritt exclaimed. “Forgive me for having interrupted your evening—I do hope I haven’t made your husband cross.”

  “Not at all,” Dr. Gibson assured her. “Ethan had to take a train up to Scotland to attend to some business that suddenly cropped up. Little Cormac is already down for the night, and he’s in the nanny’s care.”

  Merritt turned to introduce her to Keir, and frowned as she saw he’d risen to his feet.

  He gave her an obstinate glance, pulling the blanket more closely around his shoulders.

  “Dr. Garrett Gibson, this is Mr. MacRae,” Merritt said, “who shouldn’t be standing, since he was just stabbed in an alley.”

  Dr. Gibson came to Keir quickly, who gave her a hard stare. “Have a seat, my friend. In fact, why don’t you lie on your front and let me have a look at the injury?”

  “’Tis more of a scratch than a stab,” Keir muttered, lowering himself to the couch. “All it needs is a dab of whisky and a bandage.”

  There was a smile in Dr. Gibson’s voice as she replied. “Whisky can indeed be used as an antiseptic, but I’d recommend it only as a last resort, since pouring it into an open wound could damage exposed tissue. I’d much rather pour it into a glass and drink it neat over ice.”

  “You like whisky?” Keir asked.

  “Love it,” came her prompt reply, which Merritt could see had earned his instant liking.

  “Mr. MacRae is a distiller from Islay,” she told Garrett. “He’s visiting London on business.”

  “Will you tell me exactly what happened?” Garrett asked Keir, and listened to his account of the attack while she washed her hands over the basin. “I’m surprised the thief tried to rob a man of your size,” she commented, extending her soapy hands while Merritt poured clean water over them. “You’re not what anyone could consider an easy mark.”

  “And the devil knows I dinna have the look of a man carrying valuables,” Keir said wryly.

  Garrett knelt beside the couch to examine the wound, gently manipulating the skin around it. “A single-edged blade,” she commented. “Quite sharp. It made a V-shaped notch and gouged a little shelf beneath the skin—as if you began to turn just as the knife struck.”

  “Aye,” came his muffled reply.

  “Well done,” the doctor said, still inspecting the wound. “Had you not reacted so quickly, the blade would very likely have severed an artery near your kidney.”

  Merritt was chilled by the realization of how close he’d come to death. “He dropped the knife in the scruffle,” Keir said.

  “Tis in my coat pocket.”

  Garrett’s eyes were bright with interest. “May I see it?”

  At Keir’s nod, Merritt went to his discarded coat and carefully fished the knife from the pocket. She brought it to Garrett, who deftly pried it open.

  “A stag handle with a slip joint closure,” the doctor observed aloud, “and a three-inch drop point steel blade fortified with nickel bolsters.”

  “You’re an expert on knives?” Merritt asked.

  Garrett sent her a brief grin. “Not an expert, but I am keen on them. My husband, on the other hand, is a connoisseur and has an extensive collection.” Her attention returned to the knife, and she squinted at the metal-capped pommel. “How curious. There’s a serialized number here—along with what appears to be a hand-stamped identifying number. It could be British army issue. Or navy, if this is a marlinspike …” She pried out a skinny steel hook. “A hoof pick,” she said triumphantly. “Definitely army. Cavalry or mounted infantry.”

  Keir gave her a dubious glance. “The man in the alley was no’ in uniform.”

  “He may have been a former soldier, or this knife could have been stolen from one.” Garrett folded the knife. “Now, as for the wound … I’m afraid it’s going to need stitches.”

  Keir responded with a resigned nod. “I’ve already had a dram of whisky,” he said. “If you’ve no objection, I’ll take another.”

  “Certainly.”

  Merritt picked up his empty glass and took it to the sideboard. By the time she returned with the drink, Garrett had taken various items from
her bag and laid them out on a clean cloth. After soaking a wad of absorbent cotton with antiseptic solution, the doctor swabbed around the wound.

  So far, Keir had tolerated the process without comment. But as the doctor picked up a tiny glass syringe, unscrewed a little metal cap at the end, and attached a long, thin needle, it was clear he didn’t like the looks of it at all.

  “Whatever that is,” he said, “I dinna need it.”

  “A hypodermic syringe,” Garrett explained matter-of-factly. “I’m going to inject a solution into the wound to numb the area.”

  Keir reacted with a quick double blink. “No, you won’t,” he said firmly.

  Garrett appeared momentarily nonplussed, then gave him a reassuring smile. “I know the prospect of an injection can seem a bit intimidating. But it’s only a quick sting, and then it’s done.” Seeing the obstinacy on his face, she continued gently, “Mr. MacRae, I’m going to have to clean the wound before closing it with sutures. The process will be unpleasant for both of us if you won’t let me give you a pain-relieving injection first.”

  “Do what you must,” he returned, “but no injection.”

  Garrett frowned. “The choice is either one swift poke of a needle, or several minutes of excruciating pain. Which sounds preferable?”

  “Excruciating pain,” he said stubbornly.

  Garrett’s gaze met Merritt’s in a silent plea for help.

  “Keir,” Merritt said gently, “you can trust Dr. Gibson. It will make her job easier if you’re able to keep still.”

  “I’ll be as still as a spiked gun,” he promised.

  “You’re going to be poked by a needle anyway,” Merritt pointed out.

  “No’ a hypodermic one.” He cast a surly glance at the syringe, which Merritt had to admit privately did look rather menacing.

  “I’m very experienced at administering injections,” Garrett assured him. “If you’ll just let me—”

  “No.”

  “You won’t even have to look at it. You can turn your head and hum a little song while I—”

  “No.”

  “The hypodermic syringe has been in use for more than twenty years,” Dr. Gibson protested. “It’s safe and highly effective. It was invented by a brilliant physician who used the sting of a bee as his model.” Trying to think of some way to convince him, she added, “A Scottish physician.”