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

Kingston gestured for her to enter, and Keir started to rise to his feet.

“No, sit right there,” Seraphina urged, and took the chair next to his. She held a folded length of parchment in her lap. “Phoebe left a note asking me to go through our family genealogy books to see if we had any Scottish ancestors. She found none on your mother’s side at all, and she said you’d be disappointed if there were none on Father’s side.”

Surprised and touched by both sisters’ concern, Keir shook his head with a smile. “Dinna worry about that, Seraphina. I decided ’tis enough to be Scottish in my heart.”

“Still, you wouldn’t mind if I told you we have some Scottish blood, would you?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Because I’ve discovered that we do in fact have a Scot in our family tree! It’s been overlooked because he’s not in our direct line. I had to trace the connection through some female ancestors instead of going only through the male lineage. But we are very clearly indisputably descended from a Scot who was our great-great-great-great-great … well, let’s say eighteen-times-great … grandfather. And just see who it is!” Seraphina unfolded the parchment, which was inscribed with a long vertical chart of connected names. And at the top—

ROBERT I

King of Scots

“Robert the Bruce?” Keir could feel his heart expanding in his chest.

“Yes,” Seraphina said gleefully, leaping up and bouncing on her heels.

Keir stood, laughing, and bent to kiss her cheek. “One drop of Robert the Bruce’s blood will do the job. I could no’ be happier. Thank you, sister.” He tried to hand the chart back to her, but she shook her head.

“Keep that if you like. Isn’t it wonderful news? I have to go tell Ivo we’re Scottish!” She left the room triumphantly.

Keir chuckled as he folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. He glanced at Kingston, who had managed to quell his own smile long enough to finish his brandy.

“I’ll say good-bye to you in private now,” Keir said. “I’ll be leaving at first lark song.”

The duke looked at him alertly. “A day early?”

“’Tis easier that way,” Keir said, and paused bashfully. “I want to thank you for safeguarding the trust on my behalf. You’ve fought for a year without even knowing if you’d find me.”

“I knew I’d find you,” Kingston said quietly. Turning abruptly businesslike, he walked to the other side of the desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a calling card, took up a pen from a carved agate holder, and unstopped an inkwell. “I’m giving you my London address,” he said, writing on the engraved card, “and also the name of a manager at the club, who always knows my whereabouts. Send a telegram if there’s anything you need. Anything at all. I—” He broke off, set the pen down, and took a moment to discipline his features. “It’s difficult to let you leave, knowing Ormonde is going to send someone after you.”

“I’d rather be shot at,” Keir said, taking the card from him, “than spend all day in court as you’ll be doing.”

Kingston responded with a mirthless chuckle.

Keir hesitated for a long moment, and came to a decision. Feeling self-conscious and vaguely idiotic, he reached down past the collar of his shirt, hooked his finger on the chain around his neck, and tugged until he’d fished out the gold key. He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “I wondered … if you still …” His voice trailed into silence as he saw Kingston reach for his waistcoat pocket. The man’s usual adroitness seemed to have deserted him as he worked to unfasten the watch chain. “ ’Tis only a formality,” Keir muttered.

“If it doesn’t unlock,” Kingston said calmly, his face averted, “it’s unimportant. For all we know, she could have sent the wrong key.”

“Aye.” But Keir’s heart had begun to pound fast and hard, resonating high in his throat. Kingston gave him the chain with the heart-shaped lock dangling from it. As Keir took it, he was chagrinned to discover his hands were shaking a little. He fumbled to insert the key, and twisted.

Click.

The tiny, definite sound pierced him. The lock fell open and detached from the chain, as Keir had expected it would. There was no reason to make a fuss. But he kept his head down as his eyes and nose stung and the room became a watery blur. His throat clenched until he had to clear it.

In the next moment, he felt himself caught in a secure, roughly affectionate grip, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other clamping on his shoulder to bring him close in something that wasn’t quite an embrace, but felt like one. And through the ramshackle pattern of his own breathing, he heard Kingston’s vibrant and unsteady voice.

“You’ll always be Lachlan MacRae’s son. But you’re mine too.” A pause, and then he added hoarsely, “You can be mine too.”

“Aye,” Keir whispered, while an unexpected sense of peace stole over him.

MERRITT EMERGED FROM heavy layers of sleep. She was filled with such lassitude that it was difficult even to turn over in bed, as if the blankets had been sewn with lead weights. Her mind awakened by slow degrees, still occupied with a dark, velvety dream of Keir making love to her.

Except … it hadn’t been a dream … had it? No, he’d come to her room in the middle of the night, hushing her when she’d tried to speak, kissing every inch of her skin as he’d removed her nightgown. Her eyes blinked open. As she glanced around the room, she caught sight of her neatly folded nightgown on the nearby chair. Wondering if the maid had seen it, Merritt sank a little lower beneath the covers. To her relief, the housemaid soon left wordlessly and closed the door.