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

“Keir,” she managed to say, “we must be careful not to confuse the physical act with deeper feelings.”

He drew back to look down at her with a frown. “I dinna mean when we fooked.”

Merritt flinched as if he’d just dashed cold water in her face. “For heaven’s sake, please don’t put it that way.”

His brows lifted slightly at her vehemence. “How should I say it, then?”

After sorting through various possibilities, she suggested, “Sleeping together?”

Keir looked sardonic. “Neither of us slept a wink.”

“Then … ‘when we had relations.’”

He snorted, obviously loathing that suggestion. “My word means the same thing, and ’tis shorter.”

“The point you were about to make … ?” Merritt prompted.

“Oh, aye. What made the night special was how we talked for hours, just the two of us. The ease of it … like floating on salt water.” A soft distance entered his gaze as he continued. “We were in our own world. I’d never felt that with anyone before, but I knew I could tell you things I’d never told anyone. And when we slept together … that was part of the conversation, only without words.”

Merritt was speechless.

He had to stop saying wonderful, endearing things in that accent, and standing there with that stray lock of gold-burnished hair falling over his eyes … how was a woman supposed to think straight?

She went to him, pulled his head down to hers, and silenced him with her lips. Only as a necessary measure to stop him from talking. Not because she wanted him. Not because the silky, delicious warmth of his mouth was impossible to resist.

Keir’s arms went around her reflexively, his lips sealing over hers. He explored her with avid hunger, stroking and teasing, awakening deep pangs of delight. One of his hands slid low on her spine, keeping her pressed close and tight. His body was so hard, the aggressive shape of him nudging against her, and she went hot all over at the remembered sensation of him filling her.

Mortified by the awareness that she’d gone wet, her intimate flesh throbbing, Merritt struggled out of his arms.

Keir set her free with a breathless laugh. “Careful, lass. One stray jab of your wee elbow would send me to the floor.”

She went to the window and pressed the burning side of her face to a cool glass pane. “This is madness,” she said. “This is how lives are ruined. People are caught up in the pleasure of the moment without stopping to consider the consequences. There are so many reasons we shouldn’t be together, and only one reason we should, and it’s not even a good reason.”

“’Tis the only reason that matters.”

“You know that’s not true, or you wouldn’t have tried so hard to keep from forming an attachment to me.”

“’Tis no’ an attachment,” he said brusquely. “You’re in my blood.” He came to the window and propped one of his shoulders against the frame. Mellow autumn light gilded his inhumanly perfect features.

“I wouldn’t have left on that train today, Merry. I’d have come back even if I hadn’t remembered that night. No’ a minute after the carriage started on the drive, I was ready to leap out of my skin. It felt wrong to be leaving you. Unnatural. My body can only bide so much distance from yours.”

Merritt forced herself to turn away from him and go to the washstand. Clumsily she poured cold water onto a linen hand towel. “I’ve always prided myself on my common sense,” she muttered. “I’ve always had definite views of marriage, and I waited for years until I found a man who met the requirements on my list.”

“You had a list?”

“Yes, of qualities I desired in a partner.”

“Like shopping?” From his tone, it was obvious he found the notion entertaining and nonsensical.

“I was organizing my thoughts,” Merritt said, holding the compress against her sore, swollen eyes. “You wouldn’t give a dinner party without first writing out a menu, would you?”

Keir approached her from behind, reaching around her to brace his hands on either side of the washstand. “I’ve never been to a dinner party,” he said. He bent to kiss the back of her neck, and she felt the shape of his smile against her skin. “How well do I suit your list?” he asked, his breath stirring the tiny wisps of hair at her nape. “Not at all, I’d wager.”

Merritt set down the compress and turned to lean back against the washstand. “The list doesn’t suit you. A whisky distiller from a remote Scottish island was not what I had in mind.”

He grinned at her. “But you couldn’t help yourself.”

“No,” she admitted. “You’re perfect as you are. I wouldn’t want to change you.”

“Life changes everyone,” he pointed out. “I’m no’ proof against that. None of us knows what’s in store.”

That reminded Merritt of a subject that needed to be brought up. She folded her arms against a sudden chill. “Keir,” she asked, “has all your memory returned, or only part of it?”

“’Tis coming back in pieces, like a puzzle. Why?”

“The day I showed you to the warehouse flat, we talked about why I hadn’t had children with Joshua. Do you remember what I told you?”