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

Thanks to the injection Dr. Gibson had given him, Keir barely felt the wound on his back as he sat in a sturdy upholstered dining chair. The footman, Jeffrey, came to set covered dishes on the table, which had been overlaid with heavy white linen. After filling long-stemmed glasses with water and wine, the footman left them in privacy. Having expected him to hover around them during the entire meal, Keir was gratified to learn they would serve themselves.

He found himself relaxing deeply, steeped in Merritt’s effortless charm. He’d never talked so much during a meal. The stew had been made with chunks of beef, potatoes, and turnips simmered in burgundy wine until they melted at the lightest pressure of the tongue. There was a salad of crisp lettuce greens and chopped mint leaves, and wedges of cottage bread, the interior laced with holes to catch every drop of salted butter.

As they talked, Merritt entertained him with stories of her childhood in Hampshire as the oldest of six siblings. Her father, the earl, loomed large in those stories, as a loving parent and a man of great authority and responsibility. His marriage to Lillian Bowman, an American heiress, had been an improbable match, but the union had turned out to be a remarkably happy one. Merritt’s mother was a lively and lighthearted woman, the kind of mother who had romped outside with her children and splashed in puddles with them, and encouraged their flights of fancy.

At Merritt’s coaxing, Keir told her about growing up on Islay, and a boyhood spent running about with a pack of rowdy friends. The group had frequently ended up in scrapes and misadventures that had earned all of them good hidings when they went home. All except Keir, whose father, Lachlan, had never laid a hand on him. His mother, Elspeth, had fretted over that: The neighbors had advised that without proper discipline, the lad would end up spoiled. But Lachlan always reasoned that a teenage boy had little enough good sense as it was; a clout upside the head might knock it right out of him.

One day when Keir had come home with bruises and a blackened eye from fighting with his friend Neil, Lachlan had said he reckoned Keir had already had enough battering, and he wouldn’t add to it. But he did want an explanation. Keir had told him Neil had bragged that his father was the strongest man on the island and would win in a fight against anyone else’s father. Especially Keir’s father, Neil had added pointedly, who was older than everyone else’s. So Keir had given Neil a thrashing to settle the matter. To Elspeth’s annoyance, Lachlan had been so pleased, he hadn’t even scolded the boy, declaring he’d been obliged to defend the family honor.

Merritt chuckled at the story. “You were an only child?” she asked.

“Aye. They were never able to have bairns of their own, so they … took me in.”

“You were an orphan?”

“Abandoned.”

Keir wasn’t sure why he’d told her that. It was something he rarely, if ever, discussed with anyone. But those coffee-dark eyes were so warm and interested, he couldn’t seem to hold back.

Merritt took a sip of her wine before asking gently, “Do you know anything about the woman who gave birth to you?”

“No, and I dinna need to.”

Merritt’s dark eyes seemed to look right inside him. “The gold key …”

Keir smiled slightly at her perceptiveness. “She left it with me at the orphanage. I wear it because … I suppose ’tis a small way of honoring her. I owe her that much at least, after the pain I caused her.”

A tiny crinkle appeared between her fine brows. “Do you mean childbirth?”

“That, and the sorrow of having to give away her bairn.” He paused reflectively. “I think I was one of many men who hurt her, one way or another. A lass who was protected and loved would no’ have found herself in such circumstances.”

An east wind gusted through a half-open window, whisking in the invigorating freshness of ocean brine and spindrift. It had begun to rain, the drops coming down with the weight of pennies.

Merritt went to the long cabinet, gesturing for Keir to stay seated. She brought back a coffee service on a silver tray. There was the pleasure of watching her prepare coffee for him, adding sugar and a dollop of heavy cream that billowed up to the steaming black surface. She passed the cup and saucer to him, along with a small plate bearing a yellow slice of marmalade cake.

As Keir ate every crumb and washed it down with coffee, he was steeped in the bittersweet awareness that for the rest of his life, the memory of this evening was the one he would return to over and over. Nothing would ever come close to the pleasure she gave him.

The mantel clock began a series of delicate chimes. Midnight.

Time had never been so unwelcome an intruder. But it was better that the night end now. With one hunger sated, his body was now ready to assuage another. He needed to remove himself from temptation.

“Merritt—”

“More coffee?” she suggested brightly.

Keir caught her hand as she reached for the pot. “I’ll be taking my leave now,” he said softly.

“But it’s raining.”

That kindled a faint smile. He forbore to point out what she already knew: A Scot was hardly one to be daunted by rain.

He tried to say her name, but it came out as “Merry.” A word of joy, shaped in longing.

Their hands folded together slowly, compactly, more thrilling than any physical connection he’d had in his life.