Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,23
Eight forty-five.
“Bother,” she said glumly. “I shouldn’t have tried to coerce the poor man into coming.” She frowned and sighed. “More cake for me, I suppose.”
The cheerful jangle of the mechanical twist doorbell vibrated through the silence.
Merritt’s nerves jangled with relief and excitement, and she could barely restrain herself from leaping up like a schoolgirl. She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and went from the parlor to the entrance foyer. Her footman, Jeffrey, had answered the door and was speaking to someone on the other side of the threshold.
“You may show in my guest,” she said lightly.
Jeffrey turned to her with a perturbed expression. “He won’t come in, milady.”
Puzzled, Merritt went to the doorway and motioned for the footman to step back.
There MacRae was, disheveled and hatless, but breathtakingly handsome. To her pleased surprise, his hair had been cut and shaped to his head in short layers of amber and gold. He had the cool, sensual allure of a lost angel painted by Cabanel.
Was it her imagination, or did he seem a bit pale? Was he nervous? Was he ill?
“Come with me,” she urged.
But MacRae shook his head, looking uncomfortable and apologetic. “I can’t stay. But I dinna want you to be kept waiting … if you were expecting me …”
“I was definitely expecting you.” Merritt glanced over him with concern. He was pale, his eyes dilated into dark pools. “Come sit with me,” she urged, “even if only for a few minutes.”
“My apologies, milady, but … I have to go back to the flat.”
Realizing something was wrong, Merritt kept her voice gentle. “May I ask why?”
“There was a wee scruffle on the way here, and I … need to rest a spell.”
“Scruffle,” she repeated, looking at him more closely. “You were in a fight?”
MacRae’s mouth twisted with chagrin. “As I was walking away from the wharf, a thief pushed me into an alley. I drove him off.”
Merritt’s worried gaze traveled over him from head to toe. There was a liquid drop of red on the pale stone of the outside landing, right next to his shoe. Was that … blood? Another drop landed beside the first with a tiny splat.
Galvanized by sudden panic, she moved forward to take hold of him. “You’re coming in. Yes, you are. Don’t even think of arguing.” Afraid he might not be entirely steady on his feet, she began to slide an arm around him. Her hand encountered a wet patch on the back of his waistcoat. She didn’t have to look to know what it was.
“Jeffrey,” she said over her shoulder to the footman, trying to sound calm despite her alarm.
“Yes, milady?”
“We need Dr. Gibson. Don’t send a message—go find her in person, and tell her to come without delay.”
Jeffrey responded with a nod and left promptly.
MacRae looked down at her in exasperation. “For God’s sake, I dinna need a doctor—”
“You’re bleeding.”
“’Tis just a wee scratch.”
“A scratch from what?” she demanded.
“A knife.”
“In other words, you have a stab wound?” She towed him toward the parlor, her worry exploding into fear.
“I’ve been hurt worse during peat cutting, and carried on with the work of a day. I need to pour a splash of whisky on it, is all.”
“You need to be seen by a doctor.” Merritt paused at the parlor doorway to grasp a bellpull and ring vigorously for the housemaid. By the time she and MacRae had reached the couch, the young woman had appeared at the doorway.
“Milady?” the maid asked, taking in the scene with a wide-eyed glance.
“Jenny, fetch clean towels and cotton blankets as quickly as you can.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The housemaid scampered away.
MacRae scowled down at Merritt. “You’re making a mickle into a muckle.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, having no idea what a muckle was, and reached up to tug off his coat.
“Wait.” MacRae reached inside the coat pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle with flat sides. “For you,” he said. “The Priobairneach. And well it was for me that you asked me to bring it, or—” He broke off, evidently thinking better of what he’d been about to tell her.
“Or what?” Merritt asked suspiciously, setting the bottle aside. She saw a slit in his coat fabric that could only have been made by a very sharp blade. “My God,” she exclaimed in alarm, “you were almost killed!”
“The blade struck the bottle,” he said, wincing as Merritt tugged the coat down and pulled the sleeves from his arms.