To Defy a Highland Duke

by Cameron, Collette

  Lovely, sculpted mouth?

  Had she gone mad?

  No. No. That was not what Marjorie meant at all. His smug mouth. Yes, indeed. Smug and seductive as sin.

  Another unwanted memory of that day played around in her mind: when the cèilidh dancing had commenced in the evening.

  Even now, humiliation scorched her cold cheeks at the unwelcome recollection. Her face probably glowed like candied apples. Thank God the coldness inside the coach could be blamed for the high color.

  She slid Berget a covert glance, gratified to discover her sister-in-law had closed her eyes once more. Poor, exhausted dear. She must be wholly done in due to traveling so many days on end.

  Marjorie unwisely permitted her mind to replay those last few moments with Roxdale last August.

  Quite naturally, Graeme had partnered his new bride for the first dance. Which meant, according to custom, the next highest-ranking male and female should dance together. Determined to be gracious and forgive Roxdale his earlier offense, she’d faced him, a friendly, expectant smile on her face and awaited his request.

  It never came.

  The utter boor had declared he didn’t dance, and turned his back on her, leaving her standing with everyone slack-jawed, or whispering and shuffling in discomfiture. Liar. He did, too, dance. She’d seen him compete in the sword dance earlier.

  In fact, she grudgingly—very grudgingly—admitted the duke was a bloody fine dancer. Agile, unexpectedly elegant, in absolute control of his sinewy form and movements. Yes, a damn, bloody brilliant dancer. And he’d publicly snubbed her.

  What he’d clearly meant was he didn’t want to dance with her after the uncomfortable incident with her daughters.

  Ever chivalrous, Camden had sprung to her rescue, leading her to join the other assembled dancers. Throughout the set, he’d murmured reassurances while making dispersions about Roxdale’s parentage.

  Which, in truth, insulted Camden’s unfortunate aunt.

  Enough! Do not spare the knave another thought.

  Peeved that she’d allowed him so much contemplation, Marjorie pointed her toes up and down, up and down, and released a long, silent breath through her nose.

  Why must she keep ruminating about the odious Duke of Roxdale?

  Well, because, quite frankly, within minutes, she’d have to plaster on a polite face and greet the pompous oaf.

  In truth, she wasn’t sure she was up to maintaining the façade an entire week. Eight days to be precise. It would tax her resilience and fortitude, but if it killed her, she would be an example for her daughters. And she’d represent Clan Kennedy in the manner the noble tribe deserved.

  As vexing as it was to admit, she’d lost her temper within fifteen minutes of meeting him last summer. She, who seldom indulged in displays of anger.

  What would a week in his proximity do to her usually mild nature?

  Marjorie shuddered to contemplate it. For her daughters’ sakes, she must put on an air of indifference.

  At last, the coach bounced and jarred to a rocking stop before an impressive stone keep. Charming in a medieval, rustic way, Trentwick boasted three turrets: one on either side of the E-shaped main structure, and another high atop a rectangular tower. In the fading light, and with the ash-tinged, low-lying clouds shadowing everything, the castle had an almost mystical, fairy-like air about it. And the majestic turrets towered over it all, stoic sentinels keeping diligent watch.

  Far better that, than eerie.

  Except she well knew no fairy folk resided within the stately structure. Nae, Satan’s spawn called the castle his home.

  The girls had stirred when the coach ceased moving and, after yawns and rubbing their eyes, eagerly peeked from the windows.

  “’Tis verra big, isna it, Mama?” Cora asked, her nose flattened against the smudged glass.

  “Indeed,” Marjorie agreed with sincerity. Trentwick was significantly larger than Killeaggian Tower, Graeme’s keep and their home.

  Elana sniffed disapprovingly and screwed her eyes tight. She hadn’t forgiven the duke for his harsh reprimand.

  In truth, neither had Marjorie.

  “I think our castle is much better,” Elana muttered unimpressed, sounding like a true Kennedy. “Our gardens and stables, too. I bet their cook isna half so talented as ours. She probably burns the shortbread.”

  A most serious offense, indeed.

  A few heartbeats later, the women and children descended from the coach, and Marjorie took in the surroundings. Well-maintained grounds and buildings met her initial inspection. Pity that. She’d hoped he was a negligent laird. Perhaps his singular flaw was his critical, opinionated temperament.

  In a blink, Graeme scooped Cora into his arms, and Camden did the same with Elana.

  Marjorie held no doubts regarding her brothers-in-law’s devotion to their nieces, and her daughters adored their brawny uncles. The girls giggled as the doting men swung them high, then pretended they were going to drop them.

  Elana scarcely remembered Sion, and Cora didn’t recall her father at all. Marjorie’s heart twinged at that painful truth.

  Graeme and Camden had become proxy fathers—another reason Marjorie promptly dismissed the notion of leaving Killeaggian Tower whenever it crept into her mind.

  Which, if she were honest, happened more and more of late.

  Now that Berget had taken over the duties as mistress, as was her right, Marjorie had little to do. And idleness was a dangerous thing. Inactivity and boredom caused ruminations, and ruminations beget discontentment. Discontentment led to impossible, improbable, and implausible wishes and dreams.

  Shaking off her morose ponderings, she formed her mouth into a genial curve. It seemed she was always smiling to disguise her true feelings. And no one ever noticed the sadness behind the façade.

  Affection glinting in his gaze, Graeme shifted Cora to one bulging, oversized arm, and wrapped the other about Berget’s trim waist. “I trust ye dinna suffer too much, my love.”

  “Nae worse than ye.” Berget’s mouth formed a devoted smile as she eyed him up and down, seeking any sign he might be unwell or suffered ill-effects from his ride. “I dinna ken how ye could stand ridin’. I was freezin’ in the coach.”

  He kissed the tip of her cold-reddened nose, then reared back. “Odin’s teeth. Yer nose is cold as a well-digger’s ar—”

  Berget coughed behind her hand, giving Cora a pointed look, and Camden chuckled as he chucked Elana beneath the chin.

  “I’m no’ sure that’s a complementary comparison, brother,” Camden said, a taunting grin splitting his face.

  “Uncle Camden,” Elana squealed, and amidst giggles, attempted to chuck his chin. He lowered her to the ground as Graeme did the same with Cora.

  Marjorie stifled a groan as she pressed her hands to the small of her back, and eyes closed, arched her spine and neck. Would it be rude to request a hot bath the moment she entered Trentwick? Preferably with lavender and chamomile oils.

  Aye, it would, but if doing so meant postponing greeting their austere host—

  A cold, icy splat landed on her nose, and eyes yet shut, she lowered her upturned face.

  Wonderful. Just wonderful.

  As she’d feared, the snow had arrived and sifted from the sky in large, wet, fluffy flakes.

  “Snow!” Cora crowed in delight. “Mama, ’tis snowin’.”

  Another heavy snowflake plopped onto Marjorie’s cheek, swiftly followed by another and another.

  Her eyes flew open, and she found herself staring straight into the Duke of Roxdale’s searing, dark-honey gaze. An undefinable force ignited between them, holding her immobile.

  Six feet, four inches of raw, inscrutable masculinity, he stood on the entrance’s lowest step. Not that Marjorie gave credence to such blatant, predatory maleness or overt confidence and indolent pride.

  His mouth twitched the merest bit before his focus dipped to her still upward thrust breasts—oh, my God—and that sinful mo
uth most definitely arched upward.

  He leered at her in front of all and sundry, the despicable scunner.

  Her mouth gone dry, Marjorie was still incapable of moving or speaking. And, bless the saints and the angels, something more than offense and outrage held her immobile. Enthralled. Intrigued.

  Move. Say or do something before someone notices.

  Smiling that vexing, and damnable smoldering smile, Roxdale directed his focus to her cavorting daughters. Laughing, Elana and Cora romped about, attempting to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

  That spurred Marjorie out of her reverie.

  The beast.

  At once, she straightened and gathered her plaid closer.

  The tiniest tingle of pleasure still trilled through her. It had been a very long while since she’d seen that particular glow of appreciation in a man’s eyes directed toward her.

  She held out her hands. “Girls. Come here, please.”

  After shooting Roxdale a wary glance, they obediently scurried to her side and clasped her hands, the epitome of demure, well-mannered lasses.

  Well done, my darlings.

  She couldn’t prevent the half-smile she permitted herself even as she looked at a point behind him.

  “Welcome to Trentwick.” Roxdale’s low, melodious brogue carried to her as he swung his attention to Graeme. He extended his arm for his cousin’s hearty clasp. He then gripped Camden’s forearm before dipping his head toward Berget. “Lady Kennedy.”

  “Your Grace.” Although surely stiff from the journey and cold, she dipped into a pretty curtsy.

  Lastly, he turned those enigmatic hazel eyes on Marjorie and her daughters. Today his eyes appeared more green than gray. The color reminded her of the moors after a heavy rain. He angled his ebony head, the longish hair so black, it almost held a blue tone. “My lady, Miss Cora. Miss Elana.”

  To her astonishment, her daughters mimicked their Aunt Berget and dipped into passably decent curtsies. Perhaps mimicking shouldn’t be discouraged, after all.

  One impressive eyebrow rose, a distinct glint of amusement. But there was, perhaps, a challenge in his gaze. “Ah, I see ye took my advice to heart about teachin’ the lasses proper comportment.”

  Chapter Three

  Keane almost choked on the laugh he swallowed, but mirth continued to burble behind his breastbone. Bad of him to provoke Marjorie Kennedy before she’d even set foot inside his ancestral home.

  Her soft, red lips pressed into a disapproving line while sparks flew from her turbulent treacle-brown eyes. Keane would wager his new basket-hilted broadsword that she’d have the last word on the matter. Perverse as it was, he looked forward to their verbal sparring.

  It was oddly invigorating, and the merest iota tantalizing.

  As everyone entered the keep, he exchanged banal pleasantries with Graeme and Camden. Despite the Kennedys’ genial overture last summer, a residue of strain remained between the two clans.

  However, that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to uphold his part in mending the rift.

  Neither he nor his cousins were responsible for the inciting incident, and the characters playing a role in that debacle had departed the earth years ago. It was past time to let bygones be bygones and forge a future together.

  Allies were invaluable in the Highlands, and the clans had been joined by marriage decades ago—an ill-fated and unfortunate union, to be sure. Still, it made sense for the Kennedys and Buchannans to support each other.

  He’d planned a hunting party for tomorrow, a bonfire for the villagers and tenants on the last day of December, and several other activities to keep his guests entertained.

  Keane intended to visit a few households for first footing. Given that he matched the description of the ideal guest to cross the threshold first, much anticipation preceded his annual visits. Also, chatter and wagering commenced amongst his people regarding which fortunate households Keane would grace.

  Of its own volition, his attention strayed to Marjorie Kennedy. As a red-haired woman, she epitomized the worst visitor one could entertain for first-footing. Not that he believed such superstitions, but many of his people did.

  Broad of shoulder and built like bulls, the Kennedy brothers studied the entry with appraising gazes. Known far and wide as expert stalkers, they ought to enjoy the hunt. Given the large numbers of people Keane anticipated feeding this week, a stag or two or three wouldn’t go amiss.

  Too bad wild boars no longer roamed the woodlands. He’d ordered a hog and steer butchered, as well. That meat, in addition to the myriad of fowl and fish always served at such fetes, assured no one would go hungry.

  “Have Bethea and Branwen returned from the village yet, Nevin?” Keane’s wards, the Glanville sisters, had insisted they must have new gowns for Hogmanay, and they’d ventured to the village to collect their masterpieces today. Since they seldom asked him for anything frivolous, Keane had yielded to their pretty requests.

  “Nae yet, Yer Grace,” Nevin replied as he accepted the Kennedys’ outward attire.

  Keane’s wards were taking advantage of their day out, it seemed.

  In truth, Branwen had been his father’s goddaughter. When the sisters’ parents had died fifteen years ago, Gordan Buchannan, Fifth Duke of Roxdale, became their guardian. When he’d cast off his mortal coil a mere five years later from the ague, Keane had assumed their guardianship.

  Branwen and Bethea were as close as sisters to him, and he protected them as if they were. No fewer than four armed clansmen and two maids had accompanied the lasses on their outing today.

  In truth, Bethea, at one and twenty, and Branwen, at twenty, ought to be married by now. Except he didn’t consider any man deserving of them, and he’d restricted their social interactions for fear of something untoward happening to them as it had happened to his unfortunate mother.

  Neither was pleased to be unwed, and both regularly suggested they’d end up spinsters because of him.

  “As soon as they arrive home, please inform them I wish a word with them,” Keane said to the servant, whose arms were laden with the Kennedys’ outerwear.

  He must warn Bethea and Branwen to be on their guards this week. With the number of visitors, strangers and friends alike, descending upon the keep, extra diligence was necessary.

  “Indeed, Yer Grace,” came the butler’s muffled reply.

  Berget Kennedy gave Keane a friendly glance, an openness in her features not present in the others. “I enjoyed Branwen and Bethea’s company at the cèilidh. I quite look forward to seein’ them again.”

  “They’ve anticipated yer visit, as well.” He included Marjorie in his remark, but she was attending to divesting her bundled daughters of their outer garments and didn’t notice. She was an attentive, gentle mother, and she quite obviously adored her children.

  Keane had never experienced a mother’s love. Well, not that he could remember, in any event.

  No one had ever mentioned whether his mother had loved him. Until now, he’d never been curious about what he’d missed, but something in Marjorie’s demeanor caused a queer pull he couldn’t describe.

  As soon as the lasses had removed their outerwear, he escorted the Kennedy entourage into the great hall, and with a casual flick of his hand, called for refreshments. As he’d directed prior to the Kennedys’ arrival, bathwater warmed in the kitchens for them. A pair of maids scurried from the hall: one to oversee the food and drink and the other, the baths, no doubt.

  He had yet to glance in Marjorie’s direction again, mindful that showing too much interest could easily be misinterpreted by those present. Something he didn’t want starting.

  Nonetheless, he felt the daggers she glared at him as surely as if she hurled the blades at his chest. Obviously, she’d not forgiven him for reprimanding her daughters, or for refusing to dance with her last August.

  She hadn’t any way of knowing he seldom danced, and that he wasn’t rebuffing her when he’d not asked her. Something so nonsen
sical as her rejection shouldn’t sting, and yet it did.

  Still, he admitted to himself, he had been an insufferably rude bastard. But he hoped they wouldn’t be at cross purposes her entire visit. Scraping another approving glance over her fine-boned face and delectable figure, he reconsidered his initial appraisal. Mayhap, his bold admiration of her womanly assets a few minutes ago had prompted her current pique.

  In truth, there was something about the widow that drew him unlike any other woman, and it intrigued as much as disturbed him. From the moment he’d met Marjorie Kennedy, instinct had warned Keane to tread carefully. But last summer, he’d stupidly allowed whatever the enigmatic force was to mesmerize him those first few minutes they’d eaten together.

  Once again, as he had been dozens of times these past months, he was transported to Killeaggian last August.

  Keane had glanced around, taking in the stunning redhead and her lasses. She had smiled and chatted animatedly beside him as her daughters sat across the table, their mouths stuffed to overflowing.

  Sitting there, the four of them, they’d looked like a happy family.

  Odin’s toes. A family.

  The notion had utterly terrified him, far worse than the hand-to-hand combats he’d fought.

  When the two lasses’ antics had escalated to the point that they had spewed crumbs onto the table, he’d seized the opportunity to break the discomfiting atmosphere by condemning their behavior. He’d been out of line and had gone beyond the mark.

  A first for him—scolding someone else’s children.

  And now, the alluring Englishwoman with her hair the shade of sunset was in his home, and, by God, the atmosphere felt dangerously similar to that of last August.

  What was this scintillating, potent current between him and Marjorie Kennedy?

  Did she feel it, too?

  He couldn’t discern if her avoidance of his gaze was because she was still miffed, or if she was similarly disturbed by his presence.

  Hands resting on his hips, Keane scanned the assembled crowd of perhaps two score and assured himself all was well. Their numbers would double by tomorrow evening, and swell even further as the villagers and his tenants joined the Hogmanay celebration.