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

That caught Keir’s attention. “His name?”

“Dr. Alexander Wood.”

“From what part of Scotland?” Keir asked suspiciously.

“Edinburgh.”

After cursing quietly beneath his breath, he let out a long sigh and said gruffly, “Go on, then.”

Merritt bit back a grin, knowing exactly what Keir was thinking: He couldn’t refuse the hypodermic injection if it had been invented by a fellow countryman—it would reflect badly on the honor of Scotland.

The two women shared a quick glance of relief over his head. Merritt handed Keir the glass of whisky, and he downed it while Garrett filled the syringe. At the doctor’s request, Keir slid lower on the couch until he was laid out flat.

Merritt knelt beside the couch, while Keir rested his chin on his folded arms. She smiled slightly at his stoic acceptance of the situation. It reminded her a little of her father, who had always regarded complaining as the height of unmanliness.

Her attention was caught by the gleam of the thin steel chain around his neck. It led to the little gold object she’d noticed before … not a pendant, but a key. She touched it with her fingertip and gave him a questioning glance.

“A gift from my mither,” he said.

“What does it unlock?” Merritt asked softly.

An unaccountably long hesitation followed before he replied, “I dinna know.”

“Stay relaxed,” Garrett said. “There’ll be a bit of a burn at first, but it will fade quickly as the area turns numb.”

Keir flinched as he felt the needle going in. His eyes half closed, and he held very still.

“Keep breathing,” Merritt whispered.

He let out a controlled breath, his lashes lifting, and his gaze fastened on hers.

Very gently, Merritt reached out to push back a heavy lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. She let her hand linger tenderly on the gold-shimmered waves, knowing if Garrett saw, she would never say a word to anyone.

“There,” Garrett eventually said. “That should do it. I’m going to rinse the wound now. Let me know at once if you feel any discomfort.”

As Garrett rinsed and cleaned the laceration, Keir turned his head to say over his shoulder, “You were right about the injection, Doctor. I can’t feel anything.”

“Excellent. Try not to move.” Garrett picked up a pair of forceps and needle holders. “In my opinion,” she mused as she began on the first suture, “the man who attacked you was no average street thief.”

Keir frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“They’re usually armed with a stout stick or club, not knives. And they rarely work alone—they prefer to rob in company. Then there’s the knife itself: not some cheap blade stamped out by machine, but high-quality steel.” Expertly she tied off the thread, snipped off the excess, and began on the next suture. “It’s risky to use a knife against a big man; if you don’t disable or kill him with the first strike, he’ll turn on you. Moreover, the back is a difficult area of the body to attack effectively; the vital organs are fairly well protected. For example, if you aim for the heart from behind, you’d first have to slide the knife through the ribs. If you tried to sever the spinal cord, the blade would have to go between the vertebrae and lever to the correct angle.”

“He could have tried to reach around and slit my throat,” Keir said.

“Not an easy maneuver with an opponent your size. The most logical choice was to go for the kidney, which would kill you quickly, with the added benefit of having most of the blood remain in your body. Very little fuss or mess. And that appears to be precisely what he attempted. Fortunately, you made it difficult for him.” Garrett wielded the forceps and needle with practiced dexterity. “But that leads to another point: The typical robber would have fled immediately, and searched for other, easier prey. One has to question why he persisted.” She paused. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill you?”

“No one who’d put this much effort into it,” Keir said dryly.

“With your permission, Mr. MacRae, I’d like to take the knife to my husband, who happens to be the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. As a former detective, he’ll know what to make of it.”

“Aye,” Keir said. “Take the knife; I’ve no use for it.”

“When will Ethan return from Scotland?” Merritt asked Garrett.

“Tomorrow, I hope. It’s only a minor bit of investigative work.” Garrett rolled her eyes briefly before continuing. “He could have easily sent one of his special agents to take care of it, but he was asked to go himself, and one can hardly say no to a duke.”

“Duke?” Merritt looked at her alertly.

Realizing the slip she’d just made, Garrett muttered, “Bugger. You didn’t hear that, either of you.”

“I did,” Merritt said, “I heard, and I insist on knowing who sent Ethan to Scotland. As far as I know, the only duke he’s personally acquainted with is Kingston.” Although Garrett refused to reply, Merritt detected the subtle hint of chagrin on her face. “It was,” she exclaimed. “You must tell me what he’s investigating. You know I won’t breathe a word of it—the duke is like family to me.” She would have persisted, but she noticed Keir’s expression had gone taut and blank, like a freshly ironed bedsheet. “Do you feel the stitches?” she asked gently. “Are you in pain?”