Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels Book 7)

The click of a china teacup on a saucer awakened Merritt from a deep sleep. She stretched and blinked, discovering the bedroom curtains had been drawn back to admit deep slants of afternoon sun. A blaze of coppery red hair caught her gaze, and she pushed up to a sitting position as she saw someone at the little tea table in the corner.

“Phoebe!”

Lady Phoebe Ravenel turned and came to her with a laugh of delight.

They had known each other their entire lives, growing up together, sharing secrets, joys, and sorrows. Phoebe was strikingly beautiful, as tall and willowy as Merritt was short and solid. Like Merritt, she had been widowed a few years ago, although in Phoebe’s case, the loss had not been unexpected. Her first husband, Henry, had suffered from a prolonged wasting disease, and had passed away before the birth of their second son. Then West Ravenel had come into Phoebe’s life, and they had married after a courtship so brief, it hardly even qualified as whirlwind.

“Oh, it’s been too long,” Merritt exclaimed as they embraced. “I’ve missed you so! Letters are never enough.”

“Especially considering how seldom you write,” Phoebe teased, and laughed at Merritt’s expression.

“If you knew how hard I’ve been working! No time for letters, books, or tea with friends . . . no naps or shopping . . . I’ve been living like a medieval peasant.”

Phoebe chuckled. “I meant to come sooner, but it’s been madness at the estate. We’re going into harvest, and I’ve been busy with the baby—”

“Where is she?” Merritt asked eagerly. She hadn’t yet seen Phoebe’s daughter, Eden, who’d been born six months earlier. “You’ve brought her, I hope.”

“Had to,” Phoebe replied wryly, gesturing to her button-front bodice, strained by the full bosom of a nursing mother. “She’s not yet weaned. At the moment, she’s with the nursemaid upstairs. I left the boys at home with West, but they may join us later, depending on how long I stay.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Tell me what’s been happening,” Phoebe said, going to the small table. “I’ll pour tea.”

Merritt hesitated with a nonplussed laugh. “There’s too much. I’m at a loss for words.”

“You? You’re never at a loss for words.”

“I’m not sure how to start.”

“Start with anything. No—start with the man you brought here. According to my father’s note, he’s a businessman who was injured in the warehouse fire. Which I was very sorry to hear about, by the way.”

Merritt twisted to stack the pillows against the headboard. “Have you seen your father yet?”

“No, I’ve only just arrived. He’s meeting with a pair of solicitors from London, and I told the butler not to interrupt him, and then I came straight to your room. You’re the one I wanted to talk with anyway.” Phoebe brought her a cup of tea and went to perch on the corner of the mattress.

“You’ll definitely want to talk with your father too, dear.”

“About what?”

“Mr. MacRae, the injured man.” Merritt paused to take a bracing gulp of tea. “He’s a distiller from Scotland. One of the little islands off the west coast. He hired my company to ship and store his whisky in the bonded warehouse. But while my men were moving the cargo, a cask of single malt broke on a freight shed roof and soaked him. He came to my office in wet clothes, all muscles and smolder. I hardly knew where to look.”

“I think you knew exactly where to look,” Phoebe said, her light gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “Is he handsome?”

“A stunner. Tall and big-chested, with blue eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. And his accent . . .”

“Irresistible?”

“Oh, yes. There’s something about a Scottish burr that makes it seem as if a man is either about to recite poetry or toss you over his shoulder and carry you away.”

“Maybe both at the same time,” Phoebe said dreamily, sipping her tea.

Merritt grinned and resumed the story, leaving nothing out. It was an incredible relief to confide in Phoebe, who would understand anything. But the torrent of words slowed when it came to telling her friend about the night she’d spent with Keir.

“. . . and then . . .” Merritt said, her gaze carefully averted, “. . . I asked him to stay the night. With me. In my bedroom.”

“Of course you did,” Phoebe said reasonably.

“You’re not shocked?”

“Why would I be? You’ve occupied a solitary bed for a long time, and you were in the company of a ruggedly handsome bachelor with a Scottish accent. I’d be shocked if you hadn’t asked him to stay.” Phoebe paused. “My goodness, I hope you didn’t think West and I were as chaste as unsunned snow during our courtship.”

“No, but it’s not quite the same. At least you knew West beforehand, and your families were acquainted.”

Phoebe chewed lightly on her lower lip as she considered that. “I didn’t know him all that well,” she pointed out. “But I learned a great deal about him in a very short time. As you know, West is not what anyone would call shy and retiring.”

Merritt smiled. “I adore men who talk. The taciturn ones are no fun at all.”

Phoebe gave Merritt an expectant glance. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Tell me about the night you spent together. How was it?”

Merritt felt color rise in her face as she pondered how to describe those intimate hours. Hesitantly she said, “I wouldn’t want to compare him to my husband.”

“No, one mustn’t. It’s different, that’s all.”

“Yes.” Merritt paused. “It was astonishing. He was so assured . . . masterful . . . but very gentle. I was so lost in him and what he was doing, I stopped thinking at all. Phoebe . . . do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone in only a week?”

“Who am I to say?” Phoebe parried, taking the empty cup from her and going to replenish it.

“Oh, don’t be waffly, tell me your opinion.”

Phoebe glanced over her shoulder with lifted brows. “Aren’t you the one who’s always said opinions are tiresome?”

“Yes, when I had the luxury. But now I’m a businesswoman.” Merritt’s mouth pressed into a glum hyphen. “My interior life used to be flowers, party decorations, and quartet music. Now it’s all purchase orders and typewriter ribbons and dusty office furniture.”

“Surely not dusty, dear.” Phoebe brought her a fresh cup of tea. “Very well, here’s what I think: It’s possible to have strong feelings for someone in only a week, but as for full-blown, deep, true love . . . no. There’s been no courtship. You haven’t spent enough time together. You haven’t talked. Love happens through words.”

“Drat.” Recognizing the truth of that, Merritt scowled and drank her tea.

“Furthermore, the sleeping together is a complication. Once you’ve done it, it’s almost impossible to talk without the interference of sensuality.”

“What if he doesn’t remember?” Merritt asked.

Phoebe gave her a baffled glance. “What?”

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one sees or hears, did it really fall?”

“Was the tree drinking?”

“No, it was a concussion.” Merritt told Phoebe about the explosion on the docks, and finding Keir unconscious and injured, and Dr. Gibson’s diagnosis. “He’s lost at least a week of memory,” she finished, “and there’s no guarantee he’ll recover it. Now after talking with you, I’m beginning to think that may be for the best.”

“You’re not going to tell him you slept together?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be helpful at all. Just the opposite: He might think of it as a trap.”

“Merritt, you’re the catch of London. With your looks, wealth, and connections, there are countless men who would love to be caught in any trap you cared to set.”

“Keir’s different. He’s not fond of town, to put it mildly. He’s not impressed by luxury or appearances. He loves his simple life on the island, and doing things out in nature.”

“And you dislike nature,” Phoebe said sympathetically.

“‘Dislike’ is too strong a word. Nature and I have an understanding—we try not to interfere with each other. It’s a peaceful coexistence.”

Phoebe looked skeptical. “Dear, no matter how attractive this man is, I can’t envision you existing happily on a remote Scottish island.”

“It’s possible,” Merritt argued. “I’m a woman of many facets.”

“You don’t have a single facet that wants to live in a hut.”

“I didn’t say he lived in a hut!”

“Five pounds says it has a stone floor and no indoor plumbing.”

“I never take bets,” Merritt said loftily.

“Which means you think I’m right.”

Merritt’s reply was forestalled by the sound of muffled shouting and a thump or two—like something being thrown against a wall. It seemed to be coming from the direction of Keir’s room. Instantly alarmed, she set aside her teacup and saucer and sprang out of bed.

“What in heaven’s name is that?” Phoebe asked.

“I think it’s Mr. MacRae,” Merritt said in alarm.