Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,109

shoulder. “Thank you, Fia.”

“She’s been debauched,” Fia continued primly. “Drawn away from the path of virtue by the temptations this lad exerted upon her.”

Keir was thunderstruck. “Debauched?”

MacTaggart stared at him gravely. “Do you deny you’ve lain with this lass, MacRae?”

“I deny ’tis any of your fookin’ business!”

Ranald Slorach shook his head glumly. “’Twas London,” he said. “That wicked city put lewd ideas into the lad’s head and corrupted his mind.”

Merritt pressed her lips together and lowered her head, holding in a helpless giggle while the Slorachs and the sheriff continued to discuss the ruination of Keir’s moral character while tarrying too long in the unwholesome environment of London, and the degenerate atmosphere of England in general. She stole a covert glance at Ethan, who was struggling manfully to conceal his own amusement.

“Sheriff,” Ethan broke in, “now that the damage has been done, I believe only marriage will correct it.”

“’Tis right, you are,” MacTaggart said decisively. “The lad must be hob-shackled right away, for the saving of his character.” He looked at Keir. “Go on then, MacRae. Speak your vow.”

Keir turned to face Merritt fully, and took both her hands in his. As he stared into her eyes, his expression changed, softening with tender warmth. “I take you for my wife. I vow I’ll try every day to be the man you deserve. And I’ll love none but you, my heart, until my last waking moment.”

She was caught in that diamond-bright gaze, while every part of her was alive with awareness of him … her skin, her body, her pulse, the marrow of her bones … all harboring the recognition of him not as a separate being, but as part of herself. She’d never imagined such intimacy was possible, an intimacy that had nothing to do with ownership.

I’ll be the extra rib that protects your heart.

You can’t. You are my heart.

She smiled up at him, burning and weightless with joy, wondering how gravity could still be anchoring her to solid ground. “I take you for my husband. I’ll love you with all that I am and all that I have, forever.”

His mouth came to hers.

SHE NEVER REMEMBERED anything specific from the next few minutes, what words were exchanged, or what time it was when everyone else left and she and Keir were finally alone. She did recall he’d heated a hot bath for her, and when they’d climbed into bed, the sheets had been ice-cold, but Keir’s body heat had warmed her rapidly. And she remembered him leaning over her with a lazy smile, his hand moving gently down her body as he said, “Ransom told me we’ll have to confine ourselves mostly to the house and thereabouts for the next few days.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she’d whispered, and drawn his head down to hers.

Chapter 37

BY THE TIME KEIR and Merritt emerged from the house the next day, it was early afternoon.

The weather was cool and gray—dreich, Keir called it—but Merritt’s wool walking dress and sturdy shoes kept her comfortable, and a thick cashmere shawl protected her from the wind. Wallace raced back and forth, playing fetch-the-stick with Keir as they walked.

The distillery and house covered three acres of ground, all of it overlooking the sea. Although the property appeared to exist in romantic isolation, it was only about two miles from Port Charlotte, which, according to Keir, was filled with shops, gardens, and terraced houses.

Wallace followed as Keir took Merritt into the distillery for a tour. She was amazed by the size and complexity of the operation, which used a combination of machinery and gravity to move enormous quantities of grain and liquid. Barley was hoisted to two- and three-story lofts, and funneled to various places in the distillery through iron shoots. There were upper malting floors connected to a massive kiln by gangways, along which bags of dried malt were carried. That had been one of Keir’s early jobs when he was a boy, as he could scurry quickly back and forth along the gangways. After being ground in a giant mill, the dried malt was conveyed by elevator to a grist loft, and eventually mixed with hot water in a sixteen-foot diameter tun that stirred the mash.

“Once the malt is mixed with water,” Keir said, “it cuts down on the grain dust and lowers the risk of explosions.”

Merritt looked at him with wide eyes. “Like the kind that happens in flour mills?”

He nodded. “’Tis the same. But we connected a large metal pipe between the grist elevators