Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,25
kiln fired with peat. By the time Keir had reached the part where the malt was crushed by metal rollers and poured into a giant metal vat called a mash tun, the housemaid had brought the rest of the supplies.
Merritt coaxed him into leaning against the sloped side of the couch so she could wash the bloodstains from his back. Although he was tense at first, he gradually relaxed at the feel of the hot cloth stroking over his skin. A spell of intimacy descended as he continued to talk about the distillery, while Merritt cleaned the area around the wound. Silently she admired his powerful shoulders and the wealth of muscle layered along his back in deep oblique slants. His skin was tough but satiny, gleaming like pale gold in the firelight.
She wasn’t quite sure how this had happened. A chain of events had somehow led to having a large, half-naked Scotsman in her parlor. She was astonished to reflect she’d already seen more of Keir’s body—and become more familiar with it—than she had with Joshua before their wedding. Even more surprising was how natural this felt. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed taking care of someone. Oh, she had family, friends, and a thousand employees to look after, but that wasn’t the same as having her own person.
Not that this man was hers, of course.
But it felt like he was.
“Are you listening?” she heard him ask.
Briefly Merritt consulted the small portion of her brain that had been paying attention. “You were just describing how you run the liquor into the pot stills.”
“Aye. Then it’s heated from beneath to start the vapor rising …”
How perfectly the hair had been trimmed at the back of his neck, a precise line she longed to trace with her fingertips. Gooseflesh had risen on his skin in the wake of the damp cloth, and she drew the blanket over the beautiful expanse of his back.
She looked up as she heard the front door opening and muffled voices coming from the entrance foyer.
The footman came to the parlor door, and said, “Dr. Gibson is here, milady.”
Merritt rose quickly to her feet. Seeing that Keir was preparing to stand as well, she said, “No, lie still.”
Garrett Gibson entered the parlor, hefting the bulky doctor’s bag with ease, as if her wand-slim arms had been reinforced with steel threads. She had the tidy, clean-scrubbed freshness of a schoolgirl, with a wealth of chestnut hair pinned up in braids from which no strands were permitted to stray. Her incisive green eyes softened with affection as she set down the bag and exchanged a brief embrace with Merritt.
Only a woman with great confidence and determination could manage to become the first—and so far, only—licensed female physician in England. Garrett possessed both qualities in abundance. Since no medical school in England would admit a woman, she had studied the French language so she could earn a medical degree at the Sorbonne in Paris. Upon her return to England, she’d acquired her medical license by finding a loophole that the British Medical Association closed as soon as they realized she’d managed to slip through.
Merritt had become friendly with Garrett over the course of many social occasions, but this was the first time she’d ever required her professional services. Ordinarily Merritt would have sent for the older physician her family had always relied on, but Garrett had been trained in the most modern and advanced surgical techniques.
“Thank you for coming,” Merritt exclaimed. “Forgive me for having interrupted your evening—I do hope I haven’t made your husband cross.”
“Not at all,” Dr. Gibson assured her. “Ethan had to take a train up to Scotland to attend to some business that suddenly cropped up. Little Cormac is already down for the night, and he’s in the nanny’s care.”
Merritt turned to introduce her to Keir, and frowned as she saw he’d risen to his feet.
He gave her an obstinate glance, pulling the blanket more closely around his shoulders.
“Dr. Garrett Gibson, this is Mr. MacRae,” Merritt said, “who shouldn’t be standing, since he was just stabbed in an alley.”
Dr. Gibson came to Keir quickly, who gave her a hard stare. “Have a seat, my friend. In fact, why don’t you lie on your front and let me have a look at the injury?”
“’Tis more of a scratch than a stab,” Keir muttered, lowering himself to the couch. “All it needs is a dab of whisky and a bandage.”