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

“Oh.” Merritt’s eyes widened. “I don’t think … no, I’m quite sure that’s not it.”

Mr. Slorach spoke then, telling his wife, “Lady Merritt is a widow, you ken.”

“Ahhh.” But Fia looked over her speculatively, as if cataloging details. “Are you gang to Islay, then?”

“Yes.” With each bite of cold fried beef, Merritt felt better and better. In fact, it was giving her a surge of new energy.

When Merritt finished the sausage slice, Fia gave her another, while Mr. Slorach viewed her with increasing concern.

“May I ask who’re you after visiting on the island, milady?” he inquired.

“Mr. MacRae,” Merritt replied.

Slorach nodded slowly. “He came back hame only yesterday. I’ve not seen him yet, as Fia and I were off to visit our daughter in East Tarbert.” He hesitated. “Is there a problem, Lady Merritt? Aught I can help with?”

“I wouldn’t call it a problem,” she said. “Mr. MacRae and I struck up an acquaintance during his stay in England. He left rather suddenly, and … I need to speak to him about a personal matter. Perhaps you could tell me how to find transportation to the distillery once we reach Port Askaig?”

The husband and wife stared at each other with thunderstruck expressions, evidently coming to some dire conclusion about why she would be traveling alone to find Keir after his abrupt departure from England. “I told you, Fia,” Slorach exclaimed in a low voice. “I should ne’er have left him to gallyvant and strollop about that wicked toon. ’Tis corrupted him, London has, as I said it would.”

Fia nodded and told Merritt stoutly, “Dinna be feart, milady, we’ll see to it the lad does the dacent thing by you. We owe it to Elspeth and Lachlan, God rest their souls.”

AS THE SLORACHS accompanied Merritt across the island in a cart pulled by drays, she was struck by Islay’s remote, stark beauty. There were northern and western hills covered with open fetches of heath and arable land, clean white shores scoured by waves, and deep lochs cutting through the rugged terrain. But there were also villages with neat rows of whitewashed houses, and streets overrun with ducks and geese. People milled around shops or stood around wayside taverns talking in small groups. “’Tis always Saturday afternoon on Islay,” Slorach told Merritt cheerfully.

They approached the distillery, a set of large whitewashed buildings built on low-lying peninsular rock, with a perfect view of the cold blue sea. Merritt’s heart began to pound as they followed a drive around the distillery and reached a small, neat house with a gray slate roof, and a fenced-in kitchen garden just visible in the back.

The carriage stopped, and Slorach helped his wife and Merritt down. They started on a path of stepping stones leading to the house. Before they even reached the front door, it opened and a small, silver-gray terrier came bounding out. He stopped a few yards away from Merritt and growled.

“Hello, Wallace,” she said with a faint smile, and stood still as he came to her. The terrier circled around her, sniffing at her skirts. In a moment he gazed up at her with bright eyes and a wagging tail, and let her pet him. “What a handsome boy you are,” she exclaimed, smoothing his fur.

“Merry,” she heard, and looked up to find Keir striding toward her.

“Don’t be angry,” Merritt said, her lips trembling as she tried to smile.

But if there was anger mixed in with Keir’s emotions, it was far outweighed by concern, love, and longing. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, and clasped her head against his chest. “My heart, what are you doing here?” he asked in a low voice. “How did you … My God, dinna tell me you came alone. I know you did. Damn it, Merry …”

Slorach spoke up then. “Fia and I met her on the way back from Tarbert. She was ill on the packet.”

Keir turned pale, and guided Merritt to look up at him. “Ill?”

“Just a bit seasick,” she assured him.

Slorach gave Keir a dark glance. “Fia is of the mind the lass is in a hopeful way.”

Fia nodded firmly, ignoring Merritt’s sputtering protest. “Look at the palms of her hands,” she said. “See you how pink they are, a bit paler in the centers? And do you ken what calmed the heaves? Beef sausage, that’s what.” She gave an emphatic nod, as if that proved a point.

Keir smoothed Merritt’s hair and looked down at her. “You’re a willful lass,” he muttered. “Traveling here by yourself? Of all the crackbrain, reckless notions—” He broke off, scowling. “We’re going to have words over this, Merry, and a sore hearing it will be for you.” But his hands cradled her face as he spoke, and he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her forehead, cheeks, chin, and the tip of her nose.

“I had to come,” Merritt said reasonably, thrilling to the feel of his arms around her. “You forgot to leave the key to the lock. I had no way of removing the bracelet.”

“I meant it to stay on you,” he told her, and pressed his cheek to hers. “To remind you whose heart is in your keeping.”

“I don’t need reminding of that,” she whispered. He ducked his head to kiss the side of her neck.

“Young MacRae,” Slorach demanded, “do you mean to make it right for this puir lady you did wrang by?”