Ah, so Berget was aware.
Marjorie didn’t have to ask which one. Her scalp tingled, and again she wondered if Lady Abercrombie had overheard Berget.
I shan’t look at her. I shan’t.
Lowering her chin, her focus on the ivory and black keys, Marjorie continued playing. “He but rescued me from a…delicate situation with Lorne Buchannan. I believe, as our host, he felt obliged to redirect my attention from the unpleasantness.”
She cut Berget a swift glance.
Her amethyst eyes wide, Berget sat upright so swiftly the russet curls framing her faced bobbed. She leaned nearer, whispering, “I’d heard he and his father departed early this morn. What happened?”
It relieved Marjorie that Bothan Buchannan had departed, as well. He’d seemed too eager to indulge his grown son’s whims. Sweeping the room with her gaze, leery of eavesdroppers, Marjorie said, “Why don’t we stroll the gallery? We’ll have more privacy there.”
At once, Berget stood and shook out her rose and cream silk skirts.
Marjorie ended her piece and amidst polite clapping, hooked her hand through Berget’s bent arm. On the lawns beyond the high windows, Chimera and Sphynx romped in the snow, rolling over and over atop each other. She and Berget made their way to the upper gallery, which Marjorie had discovered last night.
“How did ye ken this was here?” Berget asked, craning her neck to stare at the dozens and dozens of breathtaking paintings. “They are magnificent. I had nae idea the duke was a patron of the arts.”
Neither had Marjorie.
She’d labeled him a barbaric boor, and the more she’d come to know Keane, the more complex he became. Nonetheless, she still smarted from his abrupt departure from the dancefloor last night.
All day, she’d wracked her brain over and over, trying to recall if she’d said or done anything to warrant such a cool reaction. She hadn’t. She could only conclude Keane had regretted asking her to dance. And given the aloofness toward her from a few of the other ladies today, she understood why. If he danced with her, politeness required him to do the same with others.
Only he hadn’t. And, quite naturally, that had led to speculation.
She’d avoided a scene with Lorne Buchannan only to have her name on everyone’s tongues, after all. Not only was that disconcerting, but now her name was also linked with Keane’s in a fashion she was certain he’d not appreciate. Still, no one had coerced him into asking her to dance.
Just when he disarmed her with his charm and consideration, he became a boor again.
“These are spectacular,” her sister-in-law declared, awe threading her voice as she peered at the paintings. “Ye dinna answer my question, though.”
She slid Marjorie a side-eyed glance.
Drat. Marjorie had hoped she’d not noticed.
“How did ye ken about the gallery?” Berget asked. “I thought the duke wasna takin’ us on a tour of the castle until tomorrow.”
“I believe that is still the plan.” Marjorie considered a painting of a woman holding a chubby babe. “I came upon the gallery last night after I left the ballroom. I couldn’t sleep and needed to walk.” Because a certain raven-haired, hazel-eyed duke had her at sixes and sevens.
She quirked a crooked smile. “I couldn’t exactly go for a stroll outdoors.”
At a quarter past eleven. In the snow.
Which was exactly what she’d have done if she’d been at home. Killeaggian’s gardens had always provided a peaceful retreat. How many tears had she shed amongst the plants and trees? How many prayers had she sent heavenward while sitting on the stone bench along one side of the quaint, wall-in courtyard?
And no one had ever been the wiser.
Worry crinkling her forehead, Berget laid her hand on Marjorie’s arm. “Are ye all right? Ye’ve seemed—preoccupied.”
“I’m fine.”
That wasn’t quite true. But there wasn’t an easy remedy for what ailed her, if there was one at all.
Upon hearing the rap of swift footsteps, they both turned. A maid approached and offered a brief curtsy.
“My ladies.” She looked at Berget. “Yer husband is askin’ for ye, my lady. He’s in the red salon.” She switched her focus to Marjorie. “He bid me tell ye that yer bairns are in the nursery warmin’ themselves before the fire, and enjoyin’ a cup of warm milk laced with honey.”
Graeme would make a fine father someday.
“Thank you,” Marjorie said, clasping her hands behind her back and nodding. She’d check on her daughters momentarily.
“Excuse me.” The maid bobbed another shallow curtsy and hurried away. Likely with this many guests, the poor servants were run ragged.
“I’d best go see what that husband of mine needs.” Berget smiled and touched Marjorie’s arm again. “Do ye want to stay and admire the paintin’s a while longer?”
Marjorie unclasped her hands. “Yes, just a few more minutes before I go check on the girls. I shall see you at supper.”
“Ye ken ye can tell me anythin’?” Worry crinkled the corner of Berget’s eyes. “I’m a good listener, Marjorie, and I dinna reveal confidences.”
“I know.” Impulsively, Marjorie kissed her sister-in-law’s cheek. “Thank you.”
This inner turmoil wasn’t something she could discuss, because, quite simply, she couldn’t put into words what she felt. This confusion and frustration and edginess.
With another heartening smile, Berget hurried away.
Marjorie remembered what it was like as a newlywed. To not be able to stand to be apart from Sion. How she’d looked in every room for him, and how she’d missed him desperately even when he’d been away for a few hours.
The pain had faded, and had become a cherished memory. But memories didn’t keep one warm at night or hold one in their arms. That was one of the things she missed the most. A man’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close as she rested her cheek against the hard expanse of his chest. Hearing the steady beat of his heart and smelling his musky essence.
“Have ye picked a favorite?”
Absorbed in her ruminations, she hadn’t heard Keane’s stealthy approach.
Rather than face him, she angled her head and gave him a sideways look.
His expression unreadable, he observed her, his hands clasped behind him. Today, he wore gleaming jet boots, tight-fitting black breeches, and a simple black jacket over a plain white shirt. He’d eschewed a neckcloth, which permitted the merest hint of raven hair to peek from the gap at his collarbone.
Tantalizing and tempting as Hades.
Marjorie had seen him in plaid, formal wear, and now this casual attire. The man looked positively splendid and too bloody masculine in everything. Yet, unlike the fops and dandies she remembered from her one Season in England, he didn’t seem to know or care how he affected females.
Of course he knows.
She glanced down, grateful the saffron gown with its lawn-green overskirt she’d chosen this morning complimented her coloring. Though not popular in either England or Scotland, she liked her bright hair. Her eyes weren’t particularly noteworthy, but her hair was her glory. And she’d been mindful not to disparage it or let others do so, lest her red-haired daughters overhear and feel belittled.
Keane waved a hand toward a wall adorned with an eclectic assembly of brilliant artwork. “Well? What do ye think?”
There was a youthful eagerness underlying his casual question. Did he honestly care what Marjorie thought?
A finger to her chin, she studied the paintings. There didn’t appear to be a theme, or a preference for a particular style, except all, were captivating in their own unique way.
“How can I possibly pick just one?” She tossed him a short glance. “Each is beautiful and riveting in its own right, and yet they are so original, too.”
“Mmm.” The sound might’ve been an agreement or a noncommittal grunt.
Angling her head, she perused a painting of the Madonna and baby Jesus th
en turned her regard to an elegant fourteenth-century couple. “You collect what you like?”
An almost boyish smile quirking his strong mouth, he canted his head. “Aye. I’ve been accused of bein’ fickle and havin’ nae real appreciation for the great artists.” Lifting a shoulder, he rubbed his jaw, a slight hint of black whiskers there.
What would it be like to feel that stubble against her skin?
Good God. Where had that come from?
She studied him from the corner of her eye.
Who was the real Duke of Roxdale?
This thoughtful, musing man didn’t at all fit with her first impression. Nor the second.
“I dinna care what anyone else thinks.” He trailed his gaze slowly over the pieces, pride and appreciation lighting his countenance. “I think they are superb.” His hazel eyes ringed with forest green met hers, a hint of something tender and alluring within their penetrating depths.
“Beauty is bought by the judgment of the eye,” she said softly. “That’s—”
“Shakespeare. I ken.”
Arms folded and an eyebrow arched, Marjorie looked him up and down.
“You are an enigma, Your Grace. You claim not to dance, but you do so. And with commendable form, I might add. You rescued those huge cats when they would’ve died, and from what I’ve observed, you’ve been an exemplary guardian to your wards. You collect exquisite artwork because you like the paintings.” She arced a hand in the air to indicate the different sized frames. “And you know Shakespeare, as well.”
He’d also sent Lorne Buchannan packing for making indecent overtures toward her.
A shadow darkened Kean’s features, sharpening the hewn planes. “All are mere trappin’s and of nae import. None reveal a man’s character, and that’s what counts, is it no’? Make nae mistake, Marjorie, the Buchannans are a sorry, despicable lot, and lest ye forget, I’m the product of rape.”
Sobering, and not a little chagrined by her playful banter which he’d not responded to, she slowly shook her head as she considered what he’d said.
“No,” she denied carefully. “I’m afraid I disagree. They’re a part of what makes you—well, you. A person’s likes, dislikes, talents, abilities, as well as their faults and flaws. Their life experiences—good or bad. Everything. ’Tis the whole person that captivates rather than one or two attributes, isn’t it?”
Keane had drawn closer as she spoke and now put one finger beneath her chin, tilting it upward. “Aye, but some attributes fascinate more than others.”
His unfathomable gaze locked on her mouth, and God help her, how she wanted to feel his molded lips upon hers.
And then, in a heartbeat, they were.
Hard and warm, tasting of mint and whisky and raspberries. As Keane had last night, he smelled of spice and soap, but now a faint aroma of leather and horse clung to him, as well.
His stubble lightly rasped her face, and she relished the sensation. Everything about this rugged man oozed primal virility, and for the first time since Sion, she longed to join with a man.
Nae, not any man. With Keane. Only Keane.
Marjorie clutched his lapels, and his solid arms came around her, holding her in a tender yet unbreakable bond as his mouth ravaged hers. And she welcomed each lashing slant of his tongue, each flaming parry and thrust.
She didn’t care that anyone could come upon them. Didn’t care that this was utter madness. Her head swam with sensation and his essence and her need. Such an overwhelming need. For him. Only him.
How had that come to be?
“Och, leannan,” he murmured against her mouth as the fingertips of one hand glided across her collarbone, and the other grazed her spine. Her buttocks and then—oh, God yes—her aching, budded breast.
She arched into his hand, hungry and eager for his touch. A half-gasp, half-moan escaped her as dizzying waves of desire washed over her again and again and again.
“I want ye, Marjorie.” He nipped her neck, and she struggled to make sense of his passion-thickened burr, teasing her ears. “I’ve wanted ye since I saw ye at the cèilidh.”
He had?
“Ye smell heavenly,” he rasped, his voice thick with restrained passion. “Roses and lemon.” Nuzzling her throat, he breathed deeply. “And woman.”
He gently squeezed one turgid nipple through her gown, and her knees almost gave way.
Muted male laughter echoed, and with a gasp, she jerked from him, frantically looking in the direction of the sound. Hands trembling, she tried to straighten her rumpled bodice.
“How could I be so stupid?” she muttered to herself. To have taken such a risk? She’d practically let him tup her.
God’s bones, to kiss in the gallery, with no discretion whatsoever. Like an immoral wanton.
“Here. Let me help ye,” Keane said, brushing aside her fumbling hands and making quick work of restoring her clothing to order.
She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for his adeptness or miffed because he knew his way around a woman’s garments so well.
He’d just stepped back when a footman bounded down the corridor, his red face perspiring and lined with alarm. “Yer Grace. There ye are!”
“What is it?” Keane asked, instantly on alert.
The footman scarcely flicked Marjorie a cursory glance, for which she was grateful. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her Keane’s kisses had left her lips swollen. Pray God, her hair wasn’t mussed, as well.
“The Martins’ cottage is aflame.” The servant swiped a gloved palm across his moist forehead.
Oh no. Marjorie slapped a hand to her mouth.
“Christ.” Alarm pinched Keane’s mouth and pleated the corners of his eyes. “Alert the clansmen and anyone else who is willin’ to help fight the blaze, Ned.”
“Aye.” Ned tore off as if the hounds of hell gnashed at his heels.
“Marjorie…?” Keane held out a hand then looked down the passageway. “I—”
“Go, Keane. Your people need you.” She lay her palm over his heart. “But, please, be careful.”
He grabbed her face, framing it in his big hands, and planted a hard kiss on her mouth. “We’ll talk when I return, jo. Wait up for me.”
Chapter Eight
The clock had long since struck one in the morning before Keane trudged up Trentwick’s entry. Soot-covered, his clothing torn, and his eyes and lungs burning from acrid smoke, he’d been amongst the last to leave what little remained of the Martins’ charred cottage.
Stifling a yawn, he raked a hand through his filthy hair as he took in the bedchamber his housekeeper had assigned to the Martins.
A single, curtained bed dominated the room. A toasty fire crackled in the hearth, and candles glowed on the bedside tables, sconces above the fireplace, and atop a table situated before the window. Plates of food also topped the table, and the Martins’ young sons’ attention repeatedly gravitated to what was, no doubt, a feast to them.
Smiling indulgently, he gestured toward the table. “Help yerselves, lads.”
After a hesitant glance toward their parents, and receiving confirming nods, Toby and Eric rushed to the table. With awe-widened eyes and whispering excitedly to each other, they reverently examined each plate.
“What do ye say?” their mother admonished, hands on her ample hips and fair brows high on her forehead.
“Thank ye, Yer Grace,” the lads said in unison and, upon receiving another nod from their mother, they turned their awestruck gazes to the food once more.
Keane scanned the room again. With the additional servants his Hogmanay guests had brought with them, there wasn’t a private servant’s room available. Feeling certain the Martins would prefer privacy in any event, he’d specifically requested one of Trentwick’s simpler bedchambers.
The Martins were uncomfortable enough accepting their laird’s hospitality, and a fancier room would’ve increased their discomfit. As it was, this chamber was nearly half the size of the Martins’ humble cottage, the
remnants of which now smoldered a mile away.
“Mrs. Martin, yer lads are welcome to sleep in the nursery after they eat and bathe, or I can request a separate chamber for them if ye wish,” Keane offered, his attention on the only bed while he tried not to wrinkle his nose at his own stench.
“Thank ye, laird, but I’d prefer to keep my lads near me if ’tis all the same to ye.”
A gentle and soft-spoken woman, Alice Martin had just lost all of her worldly possessions. Naturally, she wanted her boys close. Understandable, poor woman. She hadn’t cried or wailed her anguish at the loss.
Showing a degree of stoicism Keane couldn’t help but admire, she’d summoned a hollow version of a smile and said, “As long as Will and the lads are well, I am content.”
Keane strode to the open doorway and hailed a passing maid. “Please have two pallets brought up, as well as changes in clothin’, and soap and hot water for the Martins.” Surely they were as eager as he to rid themselves of the grime covering their persons.
“Aye, Yer Grace.” Anny hurried away.
After this house party ended, he’d give his staff an increase in wages. They’d earned it, except for the spy in their midst. He’d had no time to ferret out that rat as yet.
Will cleared his throat. “Yer Grace?
Facing him, Keane took in the man’s bowed head, furrowed forehead, and the way he crushed his cap in his work-worn and calloused hands. “I ken the cottage is gone, but I’ll pay the rents. And I can still farm the lands and oversee the livestock. And we dinna need to stay here. We can camp—”
His wife winced then quickly schooled her plump features.
Keane didn’t blame her. Camping outdoors during a Highland winter was not something even a hardened warrior would relish. He’d permit no such thing.
Glancing about the chamber, Will swallowed. He paused as his gaze came to rest on his sons, who’d greedily tucked into the fare and now chomped, happy smiles bending their mouths.
“I’ll see to the rebuildin’ of yer cottage, Will. Ye needna fear on that account.” Keane understood how hard it was for this proud man to accept charity. “’Tis the laird’s responsibility, and ye and yer family are welcome to stay here until ’tis finished.”
To Defy a Highland Duke Page 7