“You’re using your chest,” Merritt said later that day, glancing down at Keir as he reclined on a long, low couch.
“Aye,” he said dryly. “’Tis where I keep my lungs.”
Merritt stood over him, a medical book in one hand and a stopwatch in the other, while Keir lay flat on his back. He felt more than a little foolish, not to mention frustrated. The breathing exercises, which had sounded simple in the beginning, had turned out to be unexpectedly challenging, mostly because Merritt seemed to want him to breathe in a way that was anatomically impossible.
They were in an upstairs family parlor, a wide and spacious room divided into separate areas by groupings of furniture and potted palms. Two sets of French doors opened to an outside balcony that ran almost the full length of the house.
Earlier, Culpepper had brought Keir a selection of spare clothes belonging to the duke’s two grown sons, Lord St. Vincent and Mr. Challon. The garments were finer than anything he’d worn in his life. Not fancy, but incredibly well made. With the valet’s help, Keir had chosen a shirt made of Egyptian cotton with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a silk-lined waistcoat, stitched so the hem was perfectly smooth instead of curling upward. The trousers were fluid and slightly loose, tailored to allow for greater ease of movement.
“You’re supposed to take in air from lower down, in the belly,” Merritt said, consulting The Thorax and Its Viscera: A Manual of Treatment, which Dr. Kent had provided.
“The belly is for filling with food, not air,” Keir said flatly.
“It’s a special technique called diaphragmatic breathing.”
“I already have a technique. ’Tis called in-and-oot.”
She set the book aside and fiddled with the stopwatch. “Let’s try again. Inhale for four seconds, and exhale slowly for eight. As you breathe out, control the air flow by pursing your lips. Like this.” Her mouth cinched into a round, plush shape, the sight throwing his brain into chaos . . . soft, tender, rose blossoms, cherries, sweet currant wine . . . he couldn’t help wondering how they would feel on his skin, stroking downward, parting as her sweet tongue flicked out to taste him—
“Now you try,” Merritt said briskly. “Pucker your lips. Pretend you’re pouting about something.”
“I dinna pout,” he informed her. “I’m a man.”
“What do you do when you’re angry but can’t complain?”
“I toss back a dram of whisky.”
That drew a grin from her. “How surprising. Pretend you’re blowing out a candle, then.” She held up the stopwatch, thumb poised over the crown stopper. “Are you ready?”
“I’d rather be sitting up.”
“According to the book, lying flat helps to focus on the expansion and contraction of the abdomen while increasing the vertical capacity of the chest.” A decisive click of the watch. “Start.”
Dutifully Keir inhaled and exhaled at her count.
Click. Merritt assessed him like a drillmaster determined to train a raw recruit. “Your ribs moved.”
“They dinna!” he protested.
Ignoring him, she clicked the watch. “Again.”
Keir obeyed. Deep breath in, slow breath out.
Click. Lady Merritt stood over him, shaking her head. “You’re not even trying.”
Exasperated, Keir muttered, “I am trying, you wee bully.”
Instantly her face changed, her eyes widening.
Keir was startled by the feeling of having already experienced this exact moment, as if he’d just fallen through a trapdoor connecting the present and the past.
“I’ve called you that before,” he said huskily.
“Yes.” Merritt sounded breathless. “Do you remember anything else?”
“No, only saying those words to you, and . . .”
His heart had begun to thud, the force of it ricocheting everywhere inside and gathering at his groin. Alarm seized him as he realized he was turning hard, his cock stiffening in a series of swift jumps. He sat up with a muffled curse, pain searing through his ribs.
“What is it?” he heard Merritt ask in concern. “Do be careful—you’ll hurt yourself—here, let me—”
Her hands were on him, one at his shoulder, the other at his back. The pressure of her palms, gentle but firm, flooded him with lust. Another door seemed to open in his brain, and for a moment all he could think of was being in bed with her, the rush of her breath against his ear, the clasp of female flesh, amazingly silky, supple, powerful pulses working his shaft as he pushed deep and felt her squirm—
“Dinna touch me,” he said, more roughly than he’d intended.
Her hands snatched back.
Keir leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. She was standing too close, her delicately perfumed scent feeding the hard ache of arousal. He was light-headed, suffocating from lack of oxygen. Grimly he focused on the pain of his ribs, letting it tamp down the flare of lust.
No . . . he had never been in bed with her. She’d never have let him do such a thing, and God knew he’d never have tried.
As he fought to bring the unruly desire under control, he became aware of a reedy squalling that grew more and more insistent. A baby’s cry. Lifting his head, he looked at the doorway, where Lady Phoebe Ravenel stood with a fussy infant in her arms.
Bugger me, he thought grimly.
The long, involved conversation he’d had with Merritt after breakfast had been full of revelations about the duke’s long-ago affair with Cordelia, Lady Ormonde, and its consequences—one of which was very likely Keir himself. Which meant the red-haired woman at the threshold could very well be his half sister, and the wailing imp in her arms his niece.
Having been raised by elderly parents, Keir had never expected a sibling. His rowdy pack of friends were his brothers, and the men at the distillery were his extended family. It was strange to think of having a sister. It shocked him, in fact, to realize that for the first time in his life, here was someone . . . a woman . . . with whom he might have a blood tie. And not just any woman, but an aristocratic lady. There was nothing for them to talk about, no experiences they had in common.
But as he stared at Lady Phoebe, she seemed like any ordinary young mother on Islay, who hadn’t had quite enough sleep and couldn’t always tell what her baby wanted. There was a smart, bright look about her—canty, a Scot would say, a word that suggested the dancing flicker of a candle flame.
“I’m so sorry,” Phoebe said, with a comical grimace, trying to soothe the fretting baby. “I thought we might stop by for a brief visit, but my daughter seems to have made other plans. Perhaps we’ll try again later.”
She was nervous, Keir thought. Just as he was. His gaze moved to the infant, squirming unhappily amid a bundle of white ruffles, her plump stockinged legs churning like a windmill. One of her little white shoes was missing. He couldn’t help smiling at the large pink bow on her head, which had been fastened around a wild tuft of carroty-red hair in a valiant attempt to tame it.
“Dinna rush off yet,” he said, and rose to his feet.
Anxious to help, Merritt hurried to Phoebe and the baby. “Is she hungry?” she asked.
Phoebe gave a frustrated shake of her head. “No, I fed her recently. Sometimes she has these spells, and there’s nothing to be done about it.” Looking rueful, she added, “Apparently I was the same.”
“Let me take her,” Merritt suggested. “I’ll walk her up and down the hallway while you and Mr. MacRae chat.”
“I think we’ll all be better off if I cart her off to the nursery.” Phoebe cast a regretful glance at Keir as he joined them. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. MacRae. The baby’s out of sorts and I can’t—”
“What’s her name?” he asked.
“Eden.”
To both women’s surprise, Keir reached out for the baby. Phoebe hesitated briefly before transferring the infant to his arms.
Keir settled the baby comfortably against one broad shoulder and began patting her tiny back in a steady rhythm. “Poor wee bairnie,” he murmured. “Now, now . . . dinna fret ye . . . dinna greet . . . fold your wings, birdikin, and nestle wi’ me for a bit . . .”
Merritt’s jaw dropped as she watched the big, rugged Scot begin to wander about the room with the baby. Merritt and Phoebe exchanged a look of astonishment as Eden’s wailing broke into snuffles.
A low sound caused the hairs on the back of Merritt’s neck to lift and tingle, and she realized Keir was singing softly to the baby in Scots. A haunting melody, sung in a dark and tender baritone that turned every bone in Merritt’s body molten. It was a miracle she didn’t sink into a puddle on the floor.
The baby went quiet.
“My God, Merritt,” Phoebe whispered with a wondering smile. “He’s marvelous.”
“Yes.” Merritt felt almost ill with yearning.
It was only now that she finally accepted the impossibility of ever being with him. Any faint, foolish hope she’d nurtured dissolved like a cloud of smoke. Even if every other obstacle between them were somehow overcome . . . Keir would want a family. Seeing him with the baby made that clear. He would want his own children, the one thing she could never give him. And even if he were willing to make such a sacrifice, she would never allow it. This man deserved a perfect life.
Especially after all that had been taken from him.
As Keir made his way back to them, Merritt painstakingly tucked away all signs of her despair, although it kept threatening to spill out like clothes from an overpacked valise.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said fervently at the sight of her daughter slumbering against the crook of Keir’s neck.
“Sometimes a new pair of arms does the trick,” Keir replied matter-of-factly.
“How did you learn to do that?” Phoebe asked.
“I have friends with bairnies of their own.” Keir paused, his expression a bit sheepish as he continued. “I suppose I have a knack for putting them to sleep. There’s no magic to it. Only a bit of patting and singing and walking.”
“What were you singing?” Merritt asked. “A lullaby?”
“An old song from the islands, about a selkie.” Seeing the word was unfamiliar, he explained, “A changeling, who looks like a seal in the water but takes the form of a man on land. In the song he woos a human maiden, who gives birth to his son. Seven years later, he comes back to take the child.” Keir hesitated before adding absently, “But before they leave, the selkie tells the mother he’ll give the boy a gold chain to wear on his neck, so she’ll recognize him if they meet someday.”
“Are she and her son ever reunited?” Merritt asked.
Keir shook his head. “Someone brings her the gold chain one day, and she realizes he’s dead. Shot by—” He broke off as he saw Merritt’s face begin to crumple. “Och,” he exclaimed softly. “No . . . dinna do that . . .”
“It’s so terribly sad,” she said in a watery voice, damning herself for being emotional.
A chuckle broke from Keir as he moved closer. “I won’t tell you the rest, then.” His hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb wiping at an escaping tear. “’Tis only a song, lass. Ah, you’ve a tender heart.” His blue eyes sparkled as he looked down at her. “I warn you, no more tears or I’ll have to put you on my shoulder and pat you asleep as I did the bairnie.”
It left Merritt temporarily speechless, that he sincerely seemed to believe she would regard that as a threat.
She heard a quiet sound of amusement from Phoebe, who knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Let’s sit by the fire and chat,” Phoebe suggested brightly, “and I’ll send for tea. I want to hear about your island, Mr. MacRae, and what it was like growing up there.”
