Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,99

have been that as a child, she’d sometimes been disappointed about all the rules her mother hadn’t known and couldn’t have cared less about.

When Merritt had asked her the proper dinnertime etiquette for when one discovered something like a bit of bone or a cherry stone in a mouthful of food, Mama had said cheerfully, “Hanged if I know. I just sneak it back to the edge of the plate.”

“Should I use a fork or fingers?”

“There’s not really a right way to do it, darling, just be discreet.”

“Mama, there’s always a right way.”

In retrospect, however, her mother’s irreverence might have been one of her greatest gifts as a parent. Such as the day when Merritt had run crying to her because a group of boys hadn’t wanted her to play rounders with them.

Lillian had hugged and comforted her, and said, “I’ll go tell them to give you a turn.”

“No, Mama,” Merritt had sobbed. “They don’t want me to play because I’m not good at it. I mostly can’t hit the ball, and when I do, it doesn’t go anywhere. They said I have baby arms.” The indignity of that had been intolerable.

But Mama, who’d always understood the fragility of a child’s pride, had curved her fingers around Merritt’s upper arm and said, “Make a muscle for me.” After feeling Merritt’s biceps, her mother had lowered to her haunches until their faces were level. “You have very strong arms, Merritt,” she’d said decisively. “You’re as strong as any of those boys. You and I are going to practice until you’re able to hit that blasted ball over all their heads.”

For many an afternoon after that, Mama had helped her to learn the right stance, and how to transfer her weight to the front foot during the swing, and how to follow through. They had developed her eye-hand coordination and had practiced until the batting skills felt natural. And the next time Merritt played rounders, she’d scored more points than anyone else in the game.

Of the thousands of embraces Mama had given her throughout childhood, few stood out in Merritt’s mind as much as the feel of her arms guiding her in a batting stance. “I want you to attack the ball, Merritt. Be fierce.”

Not everyone would understand, but “Be fierce” was one of the best things her mother had ever told her.

Suddenly the right course of action became clear in Merritt’s mind. She switched her attention to Ethan Ransom. “Ethan,” she asked, “are you carrying a pistol?”

“I might be,” he said.

“Would you come out to the balcony with me, please?”

Ethan followed readily as Merritt headed to one of the sets of French doors. The balcony, furnished with a few pieces of wicker furniture woven in filigree designs, extended the entire length of the house’s main section.

Ethan came to stand at the railing with her, surveying a paved terrace with steps that led to acres of velvety green lawn. A stone retaining wall extended from the house, finishing in an urn-shaped planter spilling over with ivy. There was a fountain surrounded by stone benches, and a collection of decorative objects … a reflective gazing globe on a wrought iron base … a pair of French style obelisks … a bronze armillary on a sandstone pedestal … and a whimsical pair of pottery rabbits set on the stone wall.

As Keir came to Merritt’s other side, she glanced up at him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to Ethan. “May I see the pistol?” she asked.

Looking perplexed, Ethan reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver with a short barrel and heavy cartridge. Deftly he opened the cartridge gate, pulled out an extractor rod, and removed the cylinder and its central pin from the frame. He handed the frame to her and set the cylinder and pin on the balcony railing.

The revolver was chambered for .442 rounds, which meant there was only room for five. “These are large caliber bullets for such a short gun,” Merritt remarked.

“It’s designed to stop someone at close range,” Ethan said, absently reaching up to rub a spot on his chest. “Being hit by one of those bullets feels like a kick from a mule.”

“Why is the hammer bobbed?”

“To keep it from catching on the holster or clothing, if I have to draw it fast.”

Keeping the muzzle of the gun pointed away from him, Merritt reassembled the revolver, slid the extractor rod into place, and locked it deftly.

“Well done,” Ethan commented, surprised by her assurance.