To Defy a Highland Duke

by Cameron, Collette

  Toby and Eric exchanged excited looks before digging into their food once more.

  Alice offered a shy, appreciative upward arc of her mouth. “I could help in the kitchens, or wherever else ye might need an extra hand, laird.”

  Will bathed her with a doting smile. “Aye, nae one makes rumbledethumps as good as my Alice.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Dunlap would be grateful for the help,” Keane said, glad to have settled the matter of where they’d stay during the rebuilding of their cottage.

  Will shifted his feet back and forth. “I’m indebted to ye, Yer Grace.”

  Keane clasped the man’s blackened hand. “Ye’ve always been an exemplary tenant, Will. Ye needna fear I’ll turn ye and yer family out for aught that wasna yer fault.”

  Eyes red-rimmed and his face smeared with soot and sweat, Will looked at his wife and lads. He swallowed, and Keane didn’t miss the sheen of tears in the burly Scot’s eyes. “Thank ye, laird.”

  Rage simmered beneath the calm mien Keane presented to the Martins and his bedraggled staff as they rushed about with warm water and linens for the guests who’d assisted in fighting the blaze, including the Kennedy brothers and Bryston McPherson.

  The fire hadn’t been an accident.

  Coming in from the barn, Will had seen a well-dressed man throw two burning wads of some sort onto the thatched roof. He’d shouted at the bastard, and the coward had thundered away on horseback. Will had barely been able to see his wife and sons to safety before the ceiling collapsed.

  From Will’s description of the man and his mount, Keane knew precisely who the arsonist was. By God, Lorne would pay, and this time there’d be no reprieve for the despicable rotter. Just what his punishment would be, Keane hadn’t decided.

  Banishment first sprang to mind. He would do it, too, but he wouldn’t put it past Uncle Bothan to hide his wayward son.

  Keane had ordered extra patrols around the castle grounds and sent men to warn the crofters to be extra diligent. He’d also assigned guards to monitor the remaining cottages. Given Lorne was a slimy craven, he’d not risk getting caught by trying such a stunt again. Not soon, in any event. He might, however, hire riffraff to undertake nefarious tasks on his behalf.

  Keane held no doubt the fire was revenge for booting his cousin’s vindictive arse from Trentwick, and the unfortunate Martins had paid the price.

  “I’ll bid ye goodnight then.” Keane nodded and let himself out of the room.

  Two footmen, each bearing pails of water, trod carefully along the corridor. No sooner had they passed then another pair of footmen, each carrying stacks of towels rounded the corner. Following them, a bleary-eyed maid, toting a basket of soaps, yawned behind her hand.

  Summoning a sympathetic smile for the weary servants roused from their slumber, he opted to bathe in the loch a few hundred yards from the castle. That was one less bath they’d need to prepare before returning to their beds.

  “Might I trouble you for a towel and soap?”

  “Of course, Yer Grace,” Ned said, handing over the towel atop his stack.

  Maggie passed him a small square of soap. “Made just last week, Sir. ’Tis scented with heather.”

  “Thank ye,” Keane said. “Seek yer beds as soon as ye are able.”

  There was no way in hell he’d climb into his bed reeking of smoke and layered in grit and ash. At least the snow had stopped, and tomorrow’s festivities could commence as planned. His men had constructed a bonfire earlier in the day, and it sat ready to light during the Hogmanay revelries.

  He descended to the first level, his thoughts migrating to Marjorie once more.

  Dare he ask her to dance with him again?

  He craved her touch, but more so, yearned to hold her in his arms. Wrap his arms around her and make her his in every way a man did a woman.

  He heaved a sigh.

  Nae. No’ wise.He could justify one dance, but if Keane singled Marjorie out for another and didn’t invite several other ladies as well, he invited conjecture. Lady Constance’s vexed features crept to mind. She was a perfect example of superficial beauty. She’d been in a pout all day and twice had almost cornered him alone. In her case, he needed to guard his virtue.

  He’d not put it past the woman to press her unwanted sexual advances and then cry foul in an attempt to force his hand. Swans would swim in Hades before he made her his duchess. For his people’s sake as much as his own.

  He knew full well what a sniping, cruel wench she was.

  Only this morning, a maid had rushed past him, chin tucked to her chest, tears seeping from her eyes, and her hand pressed to her reddened cheek. It had taken a good deal of cajoling, but she’d finally admitted Lady Constance had slapped her because she’d attended another guest’s hearth before hers.

  No, indeed. That virago would never be the mistress of Trentwick.

  He glanced into the great hall as he passed, gratified to see the fire banked and the room deserted. Mayhap, except for those servants he’d seen above, the rest had finally found their beds. They’d be tired on the morrow, and he felt for them.

  A satisfied smirk twisted his mouth upward when he thought of Mrs. Dunlap.

  Keane might’ve instructed his housekeeper to assure Lady Constance’s chamber was the last to be attended to each morning, and that Mrs. Dunlap herself would accompany the unfortunate maid assigned to Lady Constance’s chamber for the duration of the woman’s visit.

  Lady Constance might be a shrew, but she was no match for Mrs. Dunlap. His housekeeper could cow the fiercest Scots warrior with a single raised eyebrow. Cross Mrs. Dunlap, and Lady Constance Abercrombie would find her stay at Trentwick most inhospitable, indeed.

  He let himself out of the keep and walked the quarter-mile to the loch, the fresh air clearing his mind.

  A few minutes later, having stripped naked, Keane plunged into the loch’s icy water. A gasp escaped him on a long hiss as the frigid water closed over his head. Teeth chattering, he made quick work of bathing.

  At last, on leaden legs, and yawning widely, he made his way to his bedchamber, the soap wrapped in the wet towel cradled beneath one arm.

  Utter exhaustion riddled him, and yet he hesitated for the space of three heartbeats outside Marjorie’s chamber. At this hour, she’d be asleep, of course. He laid his palm flat against the door’s panel.

  Marjorie Kennedy. A beguiling enchantress. Nae, a distraction he couldn’t afford to indulge.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her. Nevertheless, what surely must have been an indolent smile tipped his mouth.

  Och, I shouldna, but it was pure bliss.

  Never had a kiss rattled his senses so thoroughly or whipped a conflagration of desire into a lust-filled wildfire in the span of a single breath.

  Passion burned in Marjorie beneath her poised façade. Passion hot enough to rival her flaming hair, and he wanted to take her to his bed and taste every inch of her.

  Indulging an imprudent impulse, Keane had asked her to wait up, but he’d arrived to find the Martins’ cottage fully engulfed in flames. He wasn’t a laird who left his clan or tenants to deal with the aftermath of a calamity.

  Just as well, because he didn’t know what he’d say to Marjorie.

  Certainly not the things she no doubt wanted and expected to hear.

  Exhaling a juddery sigh, he dropped his hand to his side and turned away. With pleasant thoughts of Marjorie Kennedy parading through his head, he found his bed and, following hours reliving their kiss and envisioning her in his bed as she slept, he eventually succumbed to slumber himself.

  Chapter Nine

  The moment Marjorie entered the great hall the next morning, she sought Keane. A silent, relieved breath rushed past her lips at the tableau before her.

  He sat at the head of the table, the dark blue of his coat giving his neatly brushed hair a bluish tint. Shadows formed half-moons below his arresting hazel eyes, yet he played the considerate host, greeting each guest valiant enough to
leave their chambers before noon and join him in breaking their fasts.

  His gaze met hers, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in warmth. However, before he could wish Marjorie good morning, Lady Kilpatrick, sporting copious quantities of orange, pink, and yellow silk flowers atop her wig, prodded his arm.

  Head angled in the matron’s direction, Keane’s avid gaze remained on Marjorie, and heat unexpectedly warmed her cheeks. He shouldn’t look at her like that. Like they shared some great secret—we do—or as if he wanted to strip her naked and make love to her on the immense table.

  What a wholly delicious notion. But without the present company present, of course.

  Taking a moment to gather her equanimity, she smoothed her palms down the front of her ice-blue and ivory gown and arranged her features into a benign expression. These people wouldn’t catch her making calf-eyes at the duke. A widow comported herself with more finesse than that.

  Berget gave her a cheery little wave and a bright smile. Barely pausing in inhaling their food, Graeme and Camden nodded a cordial greeting. The Kennedy brothers certainly knew how to eat. Sion had been no different.

  She made her way toward the remaining empty chairs at the foot of the table. Servants scurried here and there, serving the guests and retrieving more food from the kitchens. They were efficient, organized, and courteous. Trentwick claimed a superbly trained staff.

  A pair of footmen cleaned the great fireplace’s hearth of ashes, their actions supervised by a hunch-shouldered wisp of a woman wrapped in a worn Kennedy tartan. Her white hair hung to her waist, and the ravages of time had left deep grooves in her aged face. Nonetheless, her faded blue eyes sparked with liveliness, belying her advanced years.

  Ah, the duke permitted the redding tradition—the removal of ashes from the hearth—as part of the Hogmanay celebration. In all the years she’d lived at Killeaggian Tower, the servants had swept the hearths clean the last day of the year when the family was otherwise occupied.

  Did Keane also participate in first-footing?

  Probably. Why wouldn’t he?

  Not only was he the laird and a duke, but he was also tall, dark, and handsome, personifying the luckiest visitor a guest might have after the stroke of midnight.

  Giving him a surreptitious glance from beneath her lashes, Marjorie pressed a hand to her quivering tummy. She well understood that sentiment.

  Alas, with her red hair, she was the worst guest to have step across the threshold and was thoroughly unwelcome in any home at the stroke of midnight the last day of the year. Though she’d lived in Scotland ten years, she’d never visited a single home for first-footing, nor had she ever been invited to participate.

  Scots were highly superstitious.

  Sliding her brothers-in-law, currently heartily engaged in clearing their plates, a considering glance, she wasn’t certain whether that had been an oversight or a deliberate act.

  Although she mightn’t believe in the folklore herself, she wasn’t so full of self-importance to disregard or ridicule traditions and rites others highly valued. To do so was the height of arrogance, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.

  Previously, Marjorie hadn’t taken offense that her coloring was feared, and assuredly she didn’t this Hogmanay, either. After all, she had no control over the shade of her hair or eyes.

  That was the good Lord’s doing, and in truth, she quite liked her hair.

  What was more, she made a point to praise her daughters’ flaming hair as well, lest they come to think of themselves as inferior. God help the man or woman who belittled either of them because of the color of their locks. No marauding Vikings were going to break down any doors this century, so the fear was misplaced.

  A boisterous masculine laugh brought an end to her wayward musings.

  After seeing to her morning ablutions and dressing with admirable alacrity, Marjorie had swiftly checked on Cora and Elana. Finding them in the throes of a fit of giggles as they dangled feathers from strings for Sphynx and Chimera to pounce upon, she’d kissed their heads and promised to return later and play for a while before she rushed to the great hall.

  A nagging fear that something had happened to Keane, and that was why he hadn’t kept his word to seek her out upon his return to the keep, had grown to such an extent, she was practically frantic by the time she’d all but hurtled into the great hall.

  Fool, she chided herself. Keane didn’t mean anything by asking you to wait up for him.

  But she had waited, hands pressed to her belly to calm the unease coiling there. Until the clock struck one, and even after dousing the candles in her chamber, she lay, wide awake, staring up at the pleated canopy. Ears pricked, she’d listened for Keane’s knock upon her chamber door.

  It hadn’t come.

  Throughout the afternoon and evening yesterday, Marjorie had discreetly asked several servants if there’d been any word about the fire. No one had information to impart, or if they knew something, they weren’t talebearers. Another reason to appreciate Keane’s dedicated staff.

  She didn’t dare inquire about Keane directly for fear of rousing suspicions, but she’d opted to take dinner in her chamber then had left the tray untouched. Worry had quashed her appetite.

  Repeatedly, she’d wandered to the window and, brushing aside the heavy brocade draperies, peered into the starless night. Apprehension, trepidation, and self-recrimination twisted around and around in her mind and middle.

  How, in the span of four and twenty hours, could she have gone from thinking Keane Buchannan a colossal churl, to fretting over his wellbeing to the extent she felt ill?

  Well, that scorching, sense-shattering, knee-buckling kiss might’ve something to do with it. Praise the saints, what he did to her.

  Marjorie had experienced passion with Sion, but no kiss—no kiss—had rendered her an incoherent, jelly-kneed ninny. What was more, Keane’s kiss had awakened a yearning she’d thought dead. The desire to lie with a man, to wrap her arms and legs about his hard, muscular body and take him deep within her. To experience carnal bliss again.

  Slipping into an empty chair beside Bethea, she returned her friendly smile.

  “Good mornin’ to ye, Lady Marjorie.”

  “To you as well, Bethea. Did you sleep well?” Amazing how one could carry on banal conversations when every pore, every nerve, every last sense hummed with the awareness of another person a few feet away.

  A certain Scot with smoldering eyes and a wicked grin.

  “Aye, but I kept wakin’ up in anticipation of the festivities.” She sliced Keane a covert glance and seeing him still engaged in conversation, leaned toward Marjorie and lowered her voice. “This is the first time Branwen and I have been allowed to participate in all of the merriment.”

  Her regard strayed to her sister, sitting farther along the table. Anticipation sparkled in Bethea’s gray eyes when she met her sister’s.

  “Well, that is certainly cause for excitement,” Marjorie agreed, though she’d already decided she’d not be partaking, except for perhaps the lighting of the bonfire.

  “Keane’s finally realized we’re adults, though he’s nae happy about it.” Shaking her head, Bethea chuckled wryly and picked up her fork. “’Tis far past time, I’d say.”

  Indeed. Would Marjorie feel the same way about Cora and Elana, unable to accept they’d grown into women? The thought made her heart hurt. They were her very life, her purpose. She turned her attention elsewhere, lest her melancholy spoil the new day.

  Smiling inwardly, she took in the other early risers. Since a child, she’d preferred to leave her bed early when the day was young and fresh.

  Lady Abercrombie wasn’t present. No real surprise there. Likely, said lady lounged about in bed till afternoon, propped upon scores of pillows, and tormenting any servant unfortunate enough to be at her beck and call.

  Marjorie relaxed and applied herself to her food with an exuberance that might’ve chagrined her another time. But today, knowing all was well w
ith Keane and harboring the secret thrill of his kiss in her heart, she felt a degree of optimism she hadn’t in a great while. Besides, she had forgone dinner last night, as her gnawing stomach reminded her.

  A few minutes later, Keane stood, drawing everyone’s attention. His very presence had the ability to snare regard. Men respected, admired, and wanted to emulate him. Women… Well, from what she’d observed, women just wanted him.

  “If ye’ll please excuse me,” he said, pushing his chair back. “As ye nae doubt ken, one of my tenants and his family lost everythin’ in a fire yesterday. I thank those of ye who helped battle the blaze.” He looked pointedly at a few of the men, including Graeme and Camden. “There are a few details I need to attend to first, but anyone interested in takin’ a tour of the keep, please meet me here at half-past eleven.”

  The clock had yet to strike nine, so that gave Marjorie plenty of time with Cora and Elana before the tour. She, for one, quite looked forward to exploring more of Keane’s fascinating home, which dated back to the fifteenth century.

  What had this magnificent castle witnessed over the decades? What secrets, sorrows, joys, and escapades? Were there secret passages? A dungeon? Most Highland keeps contained both.

  Unexpectedly, Keane paused beside her chair, catching her off guard. “Mrs. Kennedy,” he said in that deliciously deep brogue that teased her senses, “Can ye spare me a few moments?”

  After casting a swift glance about the table and noting several pairs of avid gazes upon them—including Bethea’s and Berget’s shining with merriment and speculation—Marjorie turned to meet his gaze, mindful to keep her expression neutral.

  At least she prayed she’d succeeded, but from the glint in her sister-in-law’s too perceptive gaze a second ago, she mightn’t have been as adroit as she’d hoped.

  Women always were more insightful about such things.

  Folding her serviette, Marjorie nodded. “Of course—”