To Defy a Highland Duke

by Cameron, Collette

  Honor? Pride?

  Perhaps. But perhaps it was something more.

  “Keane, son, must we introduce ourselves to yer guests?” Uncle Bothan chided, his grizzled eyebrows contorting high on his prominent forehead.

  “No’ at all, Uncle.” Necessity required Keane to introduce his uncle and cousin. Stifling his annoyance and reluctance, he did so as succinctly as possible.

  “My lady,” Lorne said, bowing low over the hand Marjorie dutifully extended. “I’d be honored if ye’d agree to dance with me after dinner.”

  Marjorie’s practiced smile didn’t falter, nor did it light her magnificent eyes. She smoothly withdrew her hand and promptly gathered her daughters near. “I regret I cannot make such a promise, Mr. Buchannan. I do not know how long it will take for my daughters to settle this evening, and I shall not leave them if they’re ill-at-ease.”

  She flashed Keane a swift glance, a spark of defiance in her eyes.

  Ah, she’d meant that as a warning for him, as well.

  He hadn’t taken her for one to hold a grudge. But then, they’d only met once before, and neither had been on their best behavior.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Keane agreed with forced cheer and a jaunty smile, mainly to irk Lorne.

  As expected, his cousin dredged up a disapproving scowl, his mouth turned downward into a sullen pout. Such petulance from a grown man was nauseating. He behaved like a coddled child denied a sweetmeat.

  “Please feel free to request a tray if ye feel the need,” Keane told Marjorie, redoubling his efforts to peeve his peeved cousin. “Though, of course, we’ll miss yer company as we sup.”

  Astonishment and perhaps a little gratitude riddled the look she cut him from beneath ginger-tipped lashes. He’d managed to surprise her.

  “Och, well, she canna remain in the nursery the entire week,” Uncle Bothan insisted. He winked, his sly gaze sliding between her and Lorne. “My son wishes to further yer acquaintance, my lady.”

  And what Lorne wanted he generally took. Without regard to what anyone else might desire.

  Alarm flickered in Marjorie’s eyes, and she practically shrank into herself.

  A violent urge to protect her had Keane stepping forward and offering his arm. “Permit me to escort ye to yer chamber.”

  Something akin to jealous growl escaped Lorne before Uncle leveled him a quelling glare and slapped him upon his back. “I could use a wee dram. How about ye, son?”

  As if they hadn’t indulged in several not-so-wee tots already, as their slightly bloodshot eyes attested.

  Lorne grumbled his acquiescence before spearing Keane a rancorous scowl and marching off with his sire, all starch and stiff-legged offense. Two years older than Keane, Lorne often behaved like a recalcitrant pup—a trait wholly unbecoming in a grown man.

  “My lady?” Keane indicated his extended elbow.

  Her gaze flicked from his arm to his face and back to his arm. Would she refuse him? The slim column of her throat worked as she swallowed. “That’s not necessary, Your Grace,” Marjorie demurred, no artifice in her tone.

  He liked her voice. Though she spoke with an English accent, her voice held a husky undertone. Rather than putting one off, the tenor invited a man in, tempted him to explore the uniqueness that was Marjorie Kennedy.

  God’s ballocks.

  Was he, Keane, Duke of Roxdale, truly waxing poetic over a woman he scarcely knew? A woman who’d intruded upon his thoughts too many times to count these past months?

  When she still resisted taking his arm, he quirked an eyebrow in mock askance, amused at her show of defiance.

  “Though I truly appreciate the gesture,” she rushed to assure him.

  Och, so she’d detected his true motives.

  Why was she so eager to pacify him now, when four months ago, she’d told him quite succinctly what she thought of him. But then, she had been defending her daughters. Hmm, it seemed she wouldn’t protect herself, but God help him or anyone else who trifled with the tigress’s children.

  Such fierce, maternal protectiveness caused an irregular stirring within him.

  “’Tis nae token gesture but a sincere offer,” he countered, low and gentle as if calming a skittish mare.

  Such skepticism crinkled her forehead that he would’ve chuckled had he not been convinced she’d take offense. And for reasons Keane would rather not examine too closely, offending Marjorie Kennedy was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “You have guests to attend,” she put forth, sweeping an astute gaze around the hall.

  In that one swift perusal, he’d warrant she took in everything occurring in the hall, including the maid flirting with a footman by the window, and Lady Constance Abercrombie hiding a bored yawn behind her hand as she sat beside her dozing spinster aunt.

  Wait. What is she doing here?

  His attention veered back to her.

  When had she arrived, and where were her father and brother?

  Ballocks.

  Had she come without them?

  He nearly swore aloud and rolled his eyes. Lady Constance had only ever been included because Keane wanted to purchase the acreage they owned adjacent to Trentwick. In point of fact, the Abercrombies’ presence at Trentwick functions was solely due to that desire. Keane couldn’t very well invite the rest of her family and ask that she not attend, which was his preference.

  If ever a woman had marriage on her mind, it was Lady Constance Abercrombie, and from the hints repeatedly sent his way by her doddering father, he’d include the lands Keane wanted in her marital settlement. Bruce Abercrombie, Earl of Newville, had implied many, many times how very much he’d appreciate a duke as a son-in-law.

  A raven-haired beauty with violet eyes, impeccable manners, and a lineage royalty might envy, Lady Constance epitomized everything the world believed a duchess ought to exemplify.

  Except Keane had witnessed her true colors.

  She pinched the female servants, kicked his cats, complained if her bread wasn’t sliced a precise thickness, criticized everything from the temperature of her bathwater to the strength of her tea, mocked those less fortunate, and in all things acted superior and condescending.

  In short, Lady Constance Abercrombie was a shrewish bitch.

  He’d never take such a petty, contrary woman to wife. Not even to acquire the fertile lands ideal for his tenants to grow barley and oats.

  Lady Constance caught him looking in her direction and regally inclined her head while not so subtly brushing her hand across the ample expanse of flesh visible above her bodice. On numerous occasions, she’d shamelessly invited him to partake of her charms.

  Which, of course, meant a direct march to the kirk afterward.

  Did she truly think all men were governed by their cock?

  Och, aye. Most are, he was obliged to admit.

  “And I don’t wish to be an inconvenience.” Marjorie’s soft objection brought him back to the present, and the bonnie woman standing rather forlornly beside him. She didn’t defy him outright but used practiced diplomacy to extricate herself.

  Without acknowledging Lady Constance’s blatant invitation, Keane turned his full regard to the Englishwoman and her daughters. He could feel Lady Constance’s incensed glare boring into his back. Two furious, scorching arrows. He’d taken to treating her coldly to discourage her interest, but to no avail. He’d admire her tenaciousness if her goal weren’t to snare him.

  What had Marjorie said?

  I dinna wish to be an inconvenience.

  He’d vow Marjorie lived by that motto.

  Dinna mind me. I’ll make do.

  From his brief encounters with her, he’d come to a few conclusions. She made no demands, had no expectations of her brothers-in-law, and, essentially, tried to make herself invisible.

  Except Marjorie Kennedy was a brilliant, sparkling star. Fiery and bright, brilliant and remarkable, and impossible to overlook. Unless a man was blind or dead. Or… An unbidden thought
interrupted his contemplations. Unless that man regarded her as a sister. He scraped a swift look in the direction of the Kennedys talking earnestly with Bryston.

  That realization shouldn’t have produced the satisfaction it did.

  “Mama?” The youngest lass pointed a wee finger to the entrance.

  Her daughters had remained so quiet and obedient, he’d almost forgotten their presence.

  Ah, I see ye took my advice about teaching them proper comportment.

  These lasses’ polite behavior stemmed from years of instruction and practice. Something akin to shame clawed Keane’s conscience for his contemptuous remark earlier.

  Christ on the blessed cross. I’m a bloody cod pated arse.

  “What are they?” Cora whispered, her voice a combination of fascination and fear.

  Marjorie turned to look to where her daughter pointed.

  “Giant kitties.” Elana gasped and surged forward, but her mother seized her arm while tossing a frantic glance over her shoulder to Keane.

  Grinning, he cocked an eyebrow. “Miss Cora and Miss Elana, would ye like to meet Chimera and Sphinx?” He winked and whispered sotto voce, “They’re Scottish wildcats I rescued as kittens.”

  “Are they friendly?” Looking markedly uncertain, Marjorie bit her lower lip.

  Hell and damn. How he longed to suck that plump pillow into his mouth and worship the tender sweetness the way it deserved.

  Clearing his throat, he tamped down his lust. For God’s sake, mon. Her daughters stood but inches away, and he lusted after Marjorie as if he were a callow youth.

  “I’m not sure…” Again, she sent him a questioning glance.

  He couldn’t fault her for her caution. He’d already learned she take on anyone and anything to safeguard her daughters.

  “Aye, quite gentle.” He winked once more. For her, this time.

  Her pretty brown eyes rounded in surprise, and fetching pink tinted her porcelain cheeks.

  The cats sat on their haunches, their keen citrine eyes taking in the intruders to their domicile with bored disinterest. To the inexperienced eye, the rangy, thick-coated felines appeared like overgrown tabbies. Immensely overgrown tabby cats.

  Chimera caught sight of the lasses first. Ears twitching, she nonchalantly padded across the floor, her long tail swishing lazily in her wake. Several guests warily eyed the lithe feline. Four feet from the tips of their black noses to the tips of their busy ebony tails, the cats frequently gave newcomers quite a start the first time they saw them.

  Not to be outdone by her sister, Sphinx yawned, exposing impressive canines before she, too, sauntered toward the girls.

  Her distrustful gaze trained on the feline sisters, Marjorie emitted a little worried sound in her throat and drew her daughters closer.

  Keane stepped forward and touched her arm. “I’ve raised them since before their eyes opened. I give ye my word, Marjorie, they’re gentle as kittens.”

  He was mindful not to say harmless, for he’d seen what they could do if angered.

  A former stable hand had despised cats and unbeknownst to Keane, teased and taunted the pair unmercifully. One day, Chimera had had enough and pinned the scunner to the floor, her mouth upon his throat, but not breaking the skin. Had she wished to do so, she could have ended his life in an instant.

  He’d fled that day and never returned. Good thing too, because Keane would’ve dismissed him after giving him a well-deserved thrashing.

  Eyes half-shut, the cats rubbed their heads against Keane’s calves, marking their territory. He squatted and scratched behind their ears. “Ye want to meet the lassies, do ye?” He brushed a hand over each of their big heads. “Sit.”

  One of the few tricks he’d taught them.

  Both promptly sat, gazing at him expectantly, yet looking appropriately bored and put upon as cats were wont to do. The cats hissed every time Lady Constance, Uncle Bothan, or Lorne came near.

  Smart animals. They knew offal when they saw it.

  He held out a hand to Elana. “Come here. ’Tis all right, I promise ye.”

  After sending her mother a questioning glance and receiving a tentative nod, she took Keane’s hand. He drew her forward. “This lovely lass is Chimera. She’s slightly bigger than her sister, just as ye are bigger than yer sister.”

  Eyes gleaming, Elana grinned at him then at Cora. “What’s the other one’s name?”

  “She’s Sphynx,” he said. “Let them smell ye.”

  Elana remained perfectly still as Chimera and Sphynx nosed her. Then, to his astonishment, Chimera pressed her head into Elana’s belly and began purring. Loudly.

  “She likes ye,” he whispered. While not unfriendly with people they knew, the over-sized cats generally avoided strangers.

  “May I pet her, Yer Grace?” Elana whispered back. “Pleeeease?”

  She extended the word into a plea, her blue eyes wide in earnest supplication.

  Nodding, he slanted his head to watch Sphynx. She’d wandered to Cora and similarly sniffed the lass and then her mother. As if to outdo her sister, she lay upon her back. Belly and paws upward, and making little chirping noises, she invited the small girl to rub her belly.

  With a delighted giggle, Cora was only too happy to oblige.

  Soon throaty purrs echoed around them.

  Cupping his nape, he chuckled. “Och, that’s a first.”

  Keane glanced up and caught Marjorie regarding him, confusion shadowing her fine-boned features. Arching an eyebrow, he silently challenged.

  What now?

  The graceful curve of her rosy mouth softened into an astonished half-smile. “Why, you’re not a cold-hearted brute at all.”

  Chapter Five

  Four hours later, Marjorie hummed and tapped her toes in time to the lively reel as she watched laughing couples, many sweating profusely, gaily sway, dip, and turn in time to the lilting music. For certain, the Highlanders relished dancing almost as much as their whisky.

  She’d originally intended to eat with her daughters, tell them a story, then bathe and seek her bed early. After all, her purpose for attending was to show support for the Kennedys, and she needn’t join the others for dinner and the dancing afterward to do so.

  Nor did she have any desire to witness couples flirting and engaging in courtship when she’d put all such notions from her mind. And rightly so. She had daughters to raise, and that—only that—should remain her focus.

  Not her loneliness or the peculiar unrest that plagued her of late.

  However, Cora and Elana had other plans after their supper and baths. Plans which included oversized, purring cats indolently splayed alongside them. Beside themselves with excitement, her daughters had pleaded for Sphynx and Chimera to sleep atop their beds.

  Marjorie still wasn’t wholly comfortable with the large felines weighing as much as Cora lurking about her daughters. However, the cheery, plump-cheeked maid, Phemie, assigned to the nursery during the house party, assured her she’d watch the girls like hawks.

  Phemie vowed the cats were so mild-mannered and tame that they didn’t even hunt mice.

  Marjorie strongly doubted that assertion. Somewhat reluctantly, she’d kissed her daughters’ soft, sweet, soap-scented cheeks, and after prayers and a dutiful pat atop each loudly purring cat’s slightly rough head, bid the lasses a goodnight.

  Much refreshed and finally warm after a lavender and rosemary-scented soak, she wore one of her favorite gowns. A satin and velvet fern-green creation trimmed with gold, and with her hair piled high on her head except for a few long curls trailing over her left shoulder, she didn’t feel quite so out of place. The only jewelry she owned, simple emerald earrings and a matching pendant, completed her ensemble.

  A glance out her bedchamber window revealed the snowfall had stopped, and only three or four inches blanketed the ground. Unless it began again, she needn’t worry about being snowed in after all, and her host’s plans for the week would remain unthwarted by petulant weathe
r.

  Why that mattered to her, she couldn’t hazard a guess.

  Well, that wasn’t particularly true. If Keane were otherwise engaged, she’d not have to bear his company.

  Would that be so very bad?

  Earlier today, she’d have adamantly said yes. But after his astonishing behavior when introducing his cats to her daughters, she’d reassessed Keane, Duke of Roxdale. Mayhap he truly wasn’t such a brute, and that tingle of pleasure she’d first experienced when she’d seen him at Killeaggian Tower flitted around her middle again.

  Or was it her heart?

  Such thoughts were nonsensical flimflam.

  Inhaling deeply, Marjorie gave herself a mental shake. She was here as an emissary of the Kennedy clan. Nothing more. With dogged determination, she ordered her wandering mind back to the present.

  Dinner had passed pleasantly enough, as long as she avoided looking in Lorne Buchannan’s direction, several seats farther along the table. Praise God and all the saints for that. The food was sumptuous and excellently prepared, though her appetite had increasingly diminished as the meal progressed, and Keane’s cousin continued to pay her marked attention.

  His lecherous perusal caused her nape hair to stand on end, and she’d nearly excused herself to collect a wrap to protect her already modest neckline from his probing stare.

  Keane might’ve angered her, and he certainly unnerved her, but he’d never made her want to flee his presence. Every time Lorne turned his oily gaze to her, she yearned to scrub her skin until it was raw and then hide in a wardrobe or under a bed.

  From the moment Lorne Kennedy had laid eyes upon her, she’d felt him undressing her. He regarded her with ill-concealed lust, and she couldn’t believe no one had noticed. Never before had a man made her feel so uncomfortable simply by looking at her, openly stripping her naked with his licentious gaze.

  She could’ve hugged Keane when he’d rescued her earlier, saving her from Lorne and his father’s insistence that she become acquainted with Lorne. She knew exactly what kind of acquaintance the rotter desired.

  In truth, the duke might’ve noticed the disturbing glint in his cousin’s insipid brown eyes.