Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) by Lisa Kleypas

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.