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

“I can’t wash with you in the flat; there’s no door between this room and the next.”

“Very well, I’ll wait outside.”

MacRae looked outraged. “Alone?”

“I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“The wharf is crawling with navvies and thieves!”

“Oh, come, you’re making too much of it. I’ll wait on the stairs, then.” Now determined, Merritt fetched a large enameled jug from an open shelf, set it in the cast-iron sink, and reached for the pump handle. “But first, I’ll fill this with water.”

“That pump won’t work unless you prime it first,” MacRae informed her with a scowl.

“Yes it will,” she said brightly. “This is a modern design, with a special valve that maintains a permanent prime.” She took hold of the lever and pumped energetically. The cylinder sputtered and creaked and began to vibrate with accumulating pressure. She was perplexed as the spout remained dry. “Hmm. The water should be coming out by now."

“Milady, wait—” He headed toward her in swift strides.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Merritt said, putting more effort into pumping the lever. “I’ll have it started soon.”

But the lever became almost impossible to push down, and then it seemed to lock at an upright angle, while the entire assembly groaned and shuddered.

She let out a yelp and hopped backward as pressurized water spewed from the cylinder cap.

Fast as a leopard, MacRae reached the pump and grappled with it, averting his face from the forceful spray. With a grunt of effort, he screwed the cylinder cap on more tightly, then struck the assembly base with the heel of his hand. The last of the water gurgled and gushed from the faucet into the sink.

Merritt hurried to fetch a dishcloth from the cabinet. “I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, coming back to him. “I had no idea that would happen, or I’d never have—” She broke off with a squeak of surprise as he shook his head like a wet dog, sending droplets everywhere.

MacRae turned toward her. With dismay, Merritt saw the water had gone down his front. The shirt was plastered over his torso, and his face and hair were dripping.

“Oh, dear,” she said, apologetically holding out the dry dishcloth. “You’re all drookit again. Here, take this and …” Her voice faded as he ignored the offering and kept coming toward her. Mildly alarmed, she leaned back to avoid contact with his wet body. Her breath caught as he gripped the edge of the sink on either side of her.

“You,” he said flatly, “are a wee bully.”

Merritt parted her lips to protest, but as she looked up at him, she saw amusement sparkling in his eyes.

Somewhere amid a chaos of heartbeats and nerves, she felt laughter trying to break through, and the more she tried to hold it back, the worse it became.

“Poor man … you haven’t been dry since you s-set foot in England …”

Gasping, she began to dab at his face with the dishcloth, and MacRae held still. Water dripped from the locks hanging over his eyes, a few drops landing on her. She reached up to push his hair back. It felt like rich satin, the ends curling slightly against her fingers.

“I’m not a bully,” she told him, continuing to wipe his face and throat. A few more giggles burst out, making her clumsy. “I was being h-helpful.”

“You like telling people what to do,” he accused softly, his gaze tracing over her features.

“Not at all. Oh, I feel so misjudged.” But she was still laughing.

MacRae smiled, a flash of spendthrift charm amid the tawny beard. His teeth were very white. He was so gorgeous that Merritt’s fingers went nerveless and she dropped the dishcloth. Her insides were singing with giddy excitement.

She waited for him to step back. But he didn’t. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stood so close to a man that she’d felt the touch of his breath on her skin.

A question hung suspended in the silence.

The temptation to touch him was too overwhelming to resist. Slowly, almost timidly, she reached up to his bearded jaw.

Her stomach went light and she felt oddly weightless, as if the floor beneath her feet had suddenly disappeared. The illusion seemed so real that she gripped his arms reflexively, his muscles whipcord-taut beneath the wet layer of his shirt. She looked up into his eyes, the searing pale blue of hottest flame.

Her touch had spurred his breathing into a new, ragged rhythm.

“Milady,” he said gruffly, “I’ll be relying on your common sense now. Because at the moment, I have none.”

Merritt’s mouth had gone dry. Attraction pulsed all through her, making her fingers tighten rhythmically on his arms like the kneading of a cat’s paws. “Wh-what about the honor of Scotland?” she managed to ask.

His head dipped lower, and she felt the brush of his lips and the coarse velvet of his beard against her forehead. An erotic sensation, rough and smooth all at once. She closed her eyes and wilted against the sink.

“The problem is … Scotsmen have a weakness.” His murmur went through her skin and thrummed at the quick of her body, as if her spine had been replaced by a violin string.

“They do?”

“Aye … for bonnie dark-haired lasses who try to boss them.”

“But I wasn’t,” she protested faintly, and felt the curve of his smile.