Flicking her fan open, Marjorie smiled as Berget and Graeme swept past and then hid a grin behind her fan as Camden followed a few steps later, partnered by none other than Bethea Glanville. A rather intimidating man with a scarred face, his long hair secured in a knot at the back of his head, and several tattoos visible on his ringed fingers led her sister, Branwen, through the steps.
Bryston McPherson, she presumed, though Graeme hadn’t introduced her to the Scot, either. That truth seemed to have slipped his and Camden’s minds when they’d rushed off to greet him. In truth, they’d not thought to introduce her to anyone, and she wasn’t sure whether to be vexed or amused.
Oh, they didn’t mean to be unkind or neglectful, and she didn’t harbor a doubt they’d suffer chagrin at their oversight when it dawned on them. If it ever did.
Were all brothers so neglectful?
She hadn’t any brothers other than the Kennedys.
She took in the dancers, promenading down the line. Neither Granville miss looked entirely pleased, yet each kept their pretty gray gazes trained on their partners as the big Scots guided them among the other revelers.
Camden and Bryston McPherson, however, appeared anything but disinterested.
Well now, that might prove very interesting.
Very, very interesting, indeed.
Keane had done well with his wards. The thought came unbidden, and it surprised her she’d found another thing to admire about him. She’d been so determined to see his faults, acknowledging he wasn’t a complete bounder caused a little skip of gladness.
He’d taken on the role of guardian—what?—a decade ago? Perchance slightly longer? In truth, she wasn’t certain, as she’d been a new bride in a new country, and Sion hadn’t spoken of his estranged cousin much.
A stunning, ebony-haired beauty, sumptuous in violet and black, paraded past on the arm of a strikingly handsome gentleman—the kind of man who made maidens gasp in awed wonder.
Marjorie, however, wasn’t an inexperienced, impressionable schoolgirl.
Besides, the man only had eyes for the woman by his side. He stared at her with such adoration, Marjorie gave a little smile.
Sion used to look at her like that.
With a start, she realized the beauty stared directly at her, pure venom in the woman’s narrowed-eyed gaze.
At the blatant animosity, Marjorie’s smile withered.
Who was she, and why the unprovoked malice?
It was unnerving to have such malevolence directed at her by a stranger. Perhaps she’d ask Berget if she knew who the lady was. For certain, she’d avoid the hostile woman’s company, if possible. All the more reason to sequester herself in the nursery for the bulk of the visit.
Positioned by the entry in case her daughters needed her, Marjorie absently searched the ballroom for a certain tall, raven-haired Scot. One whose presence commanded attention and who’d commandeered her thoughts since her arrival.
Prior to that, too.
No small amount of truth there.
Waving her fan, she once more scrutinized the ballroom. Pshaw. She’d done that all evening. Found herself seeking Keane, even when she severely admonished herself not to.
Catching herself humming and swaying to the music, Marjorie stopped and quickly looked around. No one seemed to have noticed, not even the woman who’d glared at her earlier. Laughing, the beauty now leaned close to the gentleman and batting her eyelashes, coyly placed her hand upon his arm.
His focus trained on her ample cleavage, he smiled and, leaning down, whispered in her ear. Her smile turned sultry and inviting.
Feeling very much like a voyeur, Marjorie promptly returned her attention to the dancers. Other than her brothers-in-law, she hadn’t danced with anyone since Sion’s death. Not that there’d been many opportunities, either. The Kennedys didn’t entertain, or at least they hadn’t regularly. Now that Berget had married Graeme, that would likely change.
Marjorie adored dancing.
She wasn’t particularly adept, but the music captivated and carried her away, and quite simply, dancing was fun. Sion had indulged her passion for dancing and never denied her the opportunity.
A nascent smile tipped her mouth as she recalled her gentle giant of a husband. He’d been a good man, kind and generous and affectionate. She’d been fortunate to have loved and been loved in return, even if it was for too brief a period.
A distinguished-looking matron with a plethora of bright feathers adorning her high wig dipped her chin toward Marjorie. She returned Lady Kilpatrick’s greeting with a warm smile. The woman moved with proud grace as if she knew her importance, and the crowd parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses.
Marjorie’s smile widened a trifle for a fleeting moment.
Smiles were astonishing things. An unspoken language all their own. A simple upward sweep of one’s lips might soothe hurt feelings, dissolve anger, offer sympathy, bring comfort, encourage, demonstrate approval, or show joy and happiness.
Or disguise heartbreak and sorrow.
And the recipient never knew what that bent mouth hid behind the false cheer.
“Ah, there ye are, my lovely,” a man’s gravely, slightly slurred voice breathed into her ear, his whisky-laden breath causing her to wrinkle her nose in distaste.
At once, she stepped away and whirled to face Lorne Buchannan. “You are presumptuous, sir.”
He grinned, a lop-sided drunken smirk. “I like yer spirit, lass. I’ve waited all evenin’ to claim ye for a dance. I saw the way ye looked at me, durin’ our introduction and throughout supper.”
“You are mistaken,” she replied frostily.
He licked his fleshy lips, his focus trained on her breasts rapidly rising and falling in her agitation. He gave her a sly, disgusting wink. “Nae need to be coy. I ken yer a widow with a widow’s needs.”
What?
She blinked several times, uncertain she’d heard correctly.
Widow’s needs?
He didn’t mean?
Oh, the insufferable bounder!
She snapped her fan closed.
How dare he, the blackguard?
Glancing around and assuring they weren’t observed, he sidled nearer, and she swore her flesh recoiled in revulsion.
Her nose certainly did, for he stank, pure and simple. She’d not been close enough to smell his rank odor when Keane had introduced them this afternoon, but a sickening, musty sweet aroma wafted from his person. The stench gagged her, and she swallowed against the bile, surging up the back of her throat.
“I ken a private place we can be alone, lass.” He fondled his groin beneath his coat while lifting his eyebrows suggestively.
My God. Did his vileness have no boundaries? Lorne Buchannan was a foul a person as Marjorie had ever met.
She opened and closed her mouth, thrice, so utterly insulted she couldn’t form words. Surely she gawped like a flopping salmon upon an embankment. She itched to slap his ruddy face and clenched her fan so tightly, the poor accessory threatened to snap in two.
If Graeme or Camden learned of his insulting insinuation, they’d trounce Lorne Buchannan soundly.
Only—they mustn’t know.
It would ruin everything—the tentative peace and any hope for reconciliation between the Kennedys and Buchannans. She wouldn’t be the cause of another chasm between the cousins. Not when they still walked on eggshells around each other.
At last, she found her tongue, and presenting her chilliest demeanor, snapped, “I have no interest in dancing with you, Mr. Buchannan. Not now nor in the future. Kindly take your leave and do not trouble me with your presence again.”
With all the composure she could muster, given her stomach threatened to cast up her dinner and she shook with repressed fury, she presented her back and sought a familiar face as an excuse to leave him where he stood.
The only women she knew, Berget and the lovely Granville sisters, still danced. Perhaps the friendly matron resembling a peaco
ck?
She searched the crowd for Lady Kilpatrick, to no avail.
Behind her, Lorne Buchannan breathed in uneven rasps, and she hadn’t a doubt he’d trained his attention on her bottom. The licentious bounder.
Widow’s needs, indeed.
If she were a man, he’d now lay upon the polished floor, out cold from the punch she’d have delivered to his face.
“Dinna play sluttish games with me,” he growled, seizing her upper arm in a punishing grip.
Gasping and trying to free herself without causing a scene, she poured all of her outrage into the glare she leveled him. “Unhand me, you ill-mannered fiend.”
Excitement glittered in his eyes, a dingy, swamp-brown compared to Keane’s breathtaking hazel.
He relishes intimidating females.
If her flesh hadn’t already been crawling, it would’ve at that knowledge. Crawled right off her bones and scuttled into the nearest hidey-hole.
His fingers bit cruelly into the tender flesh of her upper arm, and she winced. His mouth slid into a twisted, sinister grin. He enjoyed hurting her.
No. It was more than that.
Lorne Buchannan enjoyed inflicting pain on women. It gave him pleasure.
Her mind shied away from the revolting, perverse truth she’d stumbled upon.
Did Keane know?
Good Lord, how could he not?
Why had he invited this monster to the Hogmanay celebration? Because they were cousins? Surely that wasn’t cause enough to put his female guests at the mercy of this… This… Villain.
Shoulders squared and her chin elevated, she refused to show her fear. “I. Said. Unhand. Me.” Panic swirled in her breast. Surely he wouldn’t force her from the ballroom. Someone would notice.
Wouldn’t they?
Like they’d noticed her earlier today?
Truth be told, Marjorie wasn’t altogether certain anyone would be aware if she was dragged from the room, and with every passing second, she regretted the decision to stand near the doors.
“Or what?” he whispered silkily, a threat underlying his deceptive calm.
“Or I’ll gladly break every bone in yer hand. Then yer arm. Mayhap, even yer damned face.” Keane’s throaty baritone wrapped around her as he delivered the flinty vow.
At once, Lorne released her, and she staggered sideways a pair of steps.
Keane’s hand lashed out to steady her, but he never shifted his warrior’s murderous gaze from his cousin.
Oh, thank God.
Marjorie closed her eyes in a flood of relief so profound, she nearly sagged to the polished floor. Instead, she sucked in several short, panting breaths and willed her fear and repulsion to dissipate as she furtively glanced around to see if anyone had observed the exchange.
To her immense gratification, the guests seemed absorbed in dancing and conversing. The woman who’d glowered at her earlier, and her besotted beau, had disappeared. A couple of clansmen flashed Keane a casual glance, but no one’s attention lingered. Subtly rubbing her bruised arm, she angled toward the arguing cousins.
“Are ye all right, Marjorie?” Keane asked, without looking at her. He eyed his cousin the way a panther might study its prey before going for the jugular.
“Yes.” She assured him. “Yes. I’m fine.”
Now that you are here.
The cousins looked so much alike, they might’ve been brothers, except Lorne possessed more prominent eyes, a slightly more pronounced nose, and puffier lips. Both were undeniably handsome, but whereas Marjorie felt drawn to Keane’s dark good looks, Lorne’s appeared sinister and repulsed her.
The chiseled planes and contours of Keane’s rugged, sun-browned features invited examination and intimacy, whereas Lorne’s pallid skin and watery eyes bespoke dissipation and debauchery.
A shiver crept up her spine.
She truly did not like the man.
“I suggest, cousin, ye retire to yer chambers immediately, else I forget we are kin and toss ye out on yer arse.” Features taut and uncompromising, Keane’s gaze seared his cousin with accusations and condemnation. “Ye will take yer leave in the morn.”
“But… But what shall I tell my father?” Lorne spluttered, glaring at Keane and Marjorie in turn.
“I dinna care. But ken this, when ye assault a guest of mine, ye are nae longer welcome in my home.” A thunderous expression descended on Keane’s face when he observed her cradling her abused arm. “And when ye injure a guest, my door is barred to ye forevermore.”
“We’ll see,” Lorne snarled, balling his fists. “My father shall have somethin’ to say about it. Ye can be certain.”
“I dinna care what he says.” Keane jabbed a thumb at his broad chest. “I am the laird and the duke. My word is law here. Now be gone,” he grated. “Before I teach ye a lesson, ye’ll no’ soon forget.”
Loathing contorting his face, Lorne spun on his heel, except in his pished state, he tottered unsteadily before regaining his balance.
Did Keane realize his cousin hated him?
Marjorie bit the inside of her cheek. Or was the antagonism directed toward her for spurning Lorne’s attention?
With a dip of his chin, Keane signaled two immense Scots.
At once, they strode forward and positioned themselves on either side of Lorne. Camden and Graeme were large men, but these two brutes were at least a head taller and two stone heavier. Veritable giants, their chests half again as wide as Keane’s.
“What’s this?” Lorne spat, his bulgy eyes glinting with rage as he swung his bleary gaze between the two stone-faced Scotsmen.
“Assurance ye go straight to yer chamber and remain there all night,” Keane replied smoothly. “If ye make a sound or resist in any way, they are instructed to cast yer sorry arse out the door. Into the snow. Without the benefit of a cloak.”
Keane leaned down, his voice lethal, and Lorne flinched, retreating a step. “Nae one will let ye back in, and ’tis a damned sorry night to weather the elements.”
Lorne laughed and shook his head. “Have ye looked outside the past hour? Nae one is goin’ anywhere. No’ tonight nor tomorrow, cousin.”
Still chuckling evilly, he tramped away on unsteady feet, listing to the right, then the left, every few paces.
Marjorie had examined the grounds from her tower window before coming below. Lorne Buchannan exaggerated greatly. He might be uncomfortable, but wouldn’t perish if tossed from the keep tonight.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” All of a sudden, Marjorie only wanted to seek her bed and pretend the last ten minutes had never taken place. “If you’ll excuse me—”
Unexpectedly, Keane extended a hand. “Dance with me, Marjorie.” His hazel eyes, the irises rimmed in forest green, softened at the corners, and his firm mouth hitched upward. “Please. I have it on good authority ye dance divinely.”
Marjorie couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to, in truth. She’d wanted to dance with Keane since that fateful night last August. And she did so love to dance.
She angled her head as she laid her hand in his. “Whoever told you that falsehood misled you. I am at best, mediocre, Your Grace. Unless, of course, you count exuberance, of which I own an abundance when it comes to stepping to the music.”
“Keane,” he corrected softly. “And I sincerely doubt there’s a single thing mediocre about ye, Marjorie.”
Startled, she glanced upward.
Lord, he was tall. So tall, she had to tilt her head to meet his warm gaze. His request to address him by his given name was too bold, and much too forward, too soon.
She demurred. “I’m not sure—”
“We’re cousins, are we no’?”
Not precisely. In truth, he was a cousin to her brothers-in-law and no relation to her at all. The disturbing feelings he aroused in her most assuredly weren’t cousinly.
Was cousinly even a word?
“Surely cousins might address one another by their given names.” As he spoke, he guided her onto the danc
e floor.
Several inquisitive gazes swung in their direction.
Perfectly wonderful.
By singling Marjorie out for a dance, Keane had unintentionally drawn unwanted attention to them. To her discomfit, the midnight-haired beauty swept through the entry at that moment, and visibly stiffened upon seeing Keane speaking to Marjorie, her hand upon his arm.
“Marjorie?”
Her name in his honeyed brogue again was her undoing. Any remaining reticence melted away, much like butter spread on a slice of warm bread.
“I thought you didn’t dance.” He had told her as much last August. Except he did dance with his wards, but that was only rarely. It was some silly rule he had, Camden had explained. “’Tis a stricture you abide by, I’ve been told.”
Keane gave her a devil-may-care wink, and her pulse quickened in a fashion more suitable to a debutante than a widow and mother.
“Aye,” he agreed smoothly, with a disarming smile that made her knees unhinged.
Good God, Almighty.
How could she bear a week of those knee-weakening smiles?
“But rules are meant to be broken,” he said, giving her such an intense look that she feared he’d see the attraction thrumming through her, but refused to even acknowledge to herself. She grappled with her overwrought senses, struggling to find a way to diffuse the sexual tension between them.
“I don’t break rules, Your Grace.”
A slow, sensual smile deepened the grooves at the corners of his eyes.
“There’s always a first time, jo.”
Chapter Six
Keane’s blood still whooshed loudly in his ears, and rage sizzled inside his veins, creating a cacophony of primal male protectiveness, blistery wrath, a debilitating urge for retaliation, and an equal compulsion to sweep Marjorie into his arms and comfort her.
Hell, that was a lie. Comfort wasn’t precisely what he wanted to do to her. With her.
A battle raged within him between his desire for her and his vow to not impose his unwanted attentions on her.
Though she put on a brave front, her face pale as fresh milk, she’d trembled like the periwinkle-hued, thimble-shaped harebell in a late spring tempest. He’d meant every menacing syllable he’d directed toward Lorne. He still wanted to pummel the scunner, to forbid him to so much as a glance in Marjorie’s direction.
To Defy a Highland Duke Page 5