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

“Eden.”

To both women’s surprise, Keir reached out for the baby. Phoebe hesitated briefly before transferring the infant to his arms.

Keir settled the baby comfortably against one broad shoulder and began patting her tiny back in a steady rhythm. “Poor wee bairnie,” he murmured. “Now, now … dinna fret ye … dinna greet … fold your wings, birdikin, and nestle wi’ me for a bit …”

Merritt’s jaw dropped as she watched the big, rugged Scot begin to wander about the room with the baby. Merritt and Phoebe exchanged a look of astonishment as Eden’s wailing broke into snuffles.

A low sound caused the hairs on the back of Merritt’s neck to lift and tingle, and she realized Keir was singing softly to the baby in Scots. A haunting melody, sung in a dark and tender baritone that turned every bone in Merritt’s body molten. It was a miracle she didn’t sink into a puddle on the floor.

The baby went quiet.

“My God, Merritt,” Phoebe whispered with a wondering smile. “He’s marvelous.”

“Yes.” Merritt felt almost ill with yearning.

It was only now that she finally accepted the impossibility of ever being with him. Any faint, foolish hope she’d nurtured dissolved like a cloud of smoke. Even if every other obstacle between them were somehow overcome … Keir would want a family. Seeing him with the baby made that clear. He would want his own children, the one thing she could never give him. And even if he were willing to make such a sacrifice, she would never allow it. This man deserved a perfect life.

Especially after all that had been taken from him.

As Keir made his way back to them, Merritt painstakingly tucked away all signs of her despair, although it kept threatening to spill out like clothes from an overpacked valise.

“Thank you,” Phoebe said fervently at the sight of her daughter slumbering against the crook of Keir’s neck.

“Sometimes a new pair of arms does the trick,” Keir replied matter-of-factly.

“How did you learn to do that?” Phoebe asked.

“I have friends with bairnies of their own.” Keir paused, his expression a bit sheepish as he continued. “I suppose I have a knack for putting them to sleep. There’s no magic to it. Only a bit of patting and singing and walking.”

“What were you singing?” Merritt asked. “A lullaby?”

“An old song from the islands, about a selkie.” Seeing the word was unfamiliar, he explained, “A changeling, who looks like a seal in the water but takes the form of a man on land. In the song he woos a human maiden, who gives birth to his son. Seven years later, he comes back to take the child.” Keir hesitated before adding absently, “But before they leave, the selkie tells the mother he’ll give the boy a gold chain to wear on his neck, so she’ll recognize him if they meet someday.”

“Are she and her son ever reunited?” Merritt asked.

Keir shook his head. “Someone brings her the gold chain one day, and she realizes he’s dead. Shot by—” He broke off as he saw Merritt’s face begin to crumple. “Och,” he exclaimed softly. “No … dinna do that …”

“It’s so terribly sad,” she said in a watery voice, damning herself for being emotional.

A chuckle broke from Keir as he moved closer. “I won’t tell you the rest, then.” His hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb wiping at an escaping tear. “’Tis only a song, lass. Ah, you’ve a tender heart.” His blue eyes sparkled as he looked down at her. “I warn you, no more tears or I’ll have to put you on my shoulder and pat you asleep as I did the bairnie.”

It left Merritt temporarily speechless, that he sincerely seemed to believe she would regard that as a threat.

She heard a quiet sound of amusement from Phoebe, who knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Let’s sit by the fire and chat,” Phoebe suggested brightly, “and I’ll send for tea. I want to hear about your island, Mr. MacRae, and what it was like growing up there.”





Chapter 22


ON THE FOURTH DAY after Keir had recovered from the fever, he was well enough to walk down to the beach cove with Merritt. A sunken lane led from the house to a path that opened onto a beach of fine sand, spread beneath a blue taffeta sky. Farther on the west side, the shore graded to pebble and shingle before rising into a white chalk cliff. The beach had a well-tended look, as if someone had sifted and cleaned the sand, and filed the edges of the tide pools. Even the grasses of the dunes were orderly, as if someone had run a giant comb through them.

Although Keir would always prefer his island to anywhere else in the world, he had to admit this place had its own magic. There was a softness about the air and sun, a trance of mist that made everything luminous. Lowering to his haunches, he ran his palm back and forth over the fine golden sand, so different from the caster-sugar grains of the beaches on Islay.

At Merritt’s quizzical glance, he dusted his hands and smiled crookedly. “’Tis quiet,” he explained. “On the shore near my home, it sings.”

“The sand sings?” Merritt asked, perplexed.

“Aye. When you move it with your foot or hand, or the wind blows over it, the sand makes a sound. Some say it’s more like a squeak, or whistle.”