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

Merritt wandered to her bedroom. The huge bed was pristinely made with fresh linens and blankets, the counterpane perfectly smooth. She glanced in her bedroom mirror, and was taken aback. Her face was soot-streaked, her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair was straggling down from its pins, and her dress was filthy. Grimacing, she pulled the pins from her hair and set them on her vanity table.

She could hardly catch up with her own thoughts. Her brain seemed to be working at twice its usual speed. She brushed her hair with vigorous strokes, twisted it into a simple chignon, and anchored it with pins. Although she still didn’t know the extent of Keir’s injuries, it was clear he would need a great deal of rest and care while he recovered. There would be a scandal if she kept him at her house. Perhaps she could take him down to the Marsden estate in Hampshire? Yes. It was safe and secluded there, and her family would help her. The idea was vastly comforting. She would take Keir there as soon as possible, depending on what Garrett said about his condition.

Jenny returned with the tea and helped her to wash and change into a clean dress. After gulping down a second cup of tea, Merritt glanced at the clock on the mantel. Forty-five minutes had passed since she’d left Keir with Garrett Gibson. Surely that was enough time to have finished examining him.

She went to the guest room and stopped at the closed door. Her heart leaped with gladness as she heard the sounds of conversation. Keir’s familiar baritone was rusty-sounding and broken with coughing, but he was conscious and able to communicate.

Eagerly she knocked at the door with a single knuckle, pushed it open, and peeked around the edge. “May I come in?” she asked.

Garrett, who was sitting at the bedside, gave her a perturbed glance. “Yes, for a moment.”

Merritt came to the bedside, while a mixture of joy, worry, and longing nearly overwhelmed her. Keir was partially propped up on pillows, regarding her with those cool, light blue eyes. Although battered and bruised, he appeared to be in remarkably good condition, considering what he’d been through.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she told him unsteadily.

Keir hesitated an unaccountably long moment. Instead of replying, he turned to Garrett with a raspy-voiced question.

“Who is she?”





Chapter 13


MERRITT’S STOMACH PLUMMETED.

Who is she? Was he joking? No … he was staring at her as if she were a stranger he didn’t particularly want in the room with him. Was something wrong with his vision?

Garrett made a subtle patting motion in the air, signaling for her to stay calm. “Mr. MacRae,” she asked, “do you not know this lady?”

His baffled, wary gaze returned to Merritt, and he shook his head. “Have we met?”

Her throat wouldn’t work. She nodded, tried again to speak, and couldn’t. Realizing she was still nodding dementedly, she forced herself to stop. Yes, as a matter of fact, you spent most of last night in my bed, making love to me in every position except upside-down. She still felt the trace of intimate soreness, and the strained muscles of inner thighs that had been spread for hours.

And he didn’t recognize her.

“This is Lady Merritt,” Garrett told him in a matter-of-fact tone. “You made her acquaintance a few days ago upon arriving in London.”

“Sterling’s widow,” Keir said in that rough voice, frowning as if the effort to think caused him pain. “I beg your pardon, milady.”

“That’s … quite all right,” Merritt managed to say.

Garrett reached over to adjust an ice bag beside his head. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s time for more oxygen.” She turned the valves on the oxygen cylinder, fiddled with the tubing and attached wash bottle, and placed the cup against his mouth and nose. “Are you able to hold this while I speak to Lady Merritt for a moment?”

“Aye.”

By tacit agreement, the two women went to the threshold. Merritt stood out in the hallway, while Garrett spoke softly through the partially open door. “First … there’s a very good chance he’ll survive.”

“And recover?”

There was a worrisome hesitation before Garrett replied. “As far as I can tell, there are at least two ribs that are either fractured or badly bruised, but either way they’ll heal. The lungs are a more concerning issue. There’s a particular injury associated with explosions—I saw it once during my residency in France when a young soldier was brought to the hospital, and more recently when I treated a patient whose kitchen boiler exploded. Even though there’s no obvious external damage to the chest, the force of the blast bruises the lungs. Mr. MacRae’s case doesn’t seem to be severe, however. With rest and good care, I would expect his lungs and breathing capacity to return to normal in ten to fourteen days.”

“Thank God,” Merritt said fervently.

“The more serious problem is the concussion—a trauma to the brain caused by a blow to the head. It’s a good sign that he’s had no seizures, nor is he slurring his words. However, I need to evaluate him more thoroughly before giving you a realistic prognosis. There could be lasting after-effects such as headaches, problems sleeping, difficulty with things like reading or tallying numbers …”

“And memory loss?”

“Yes. The good news is, he’s perfectly cognizant of who he is and where he lives, and he’s told me the names of family and friends, as well as a few details about his business. But, the last thing he remembers is departing for London. I estimate he’s lost approximately a week’s worth of memories.”