“Wait!” A voice, grating like old paper crumpling, demanded harshly.
Marjorie jumped, and it took a blink before she realized the aged Scotswoman hadn’t been addressing her, but rather the footmen bent on removing the ashes.
Keane placed a calming hand upon her shoulder, and the warmth from his palm billowed outward in waves both soothing and tantalizing at the same time. She longed to lean back into his solid form and absorb his heat.
Breathe in his clean, woodsy scent. Revel in his virile strength.
“That’s Dolag,” Bethea whispered, leaning near and slanting a side-eyed gaze—partially inquisitive and partially apprehensive—at the feeble woman. “Nae one kens exactly how old she is, but she has the second sight.”
Naturally, Marjorie had heard tales of Scottish seers but had never encountered one before.
Shuffling forward, Dolag waved a translucent, blue-veined hand toward one of the footmen holding a bucket full of ashes. “What are ye doin’, fool? Ye ken I read the ashes every December to see what the new year will bring our clan.”
The footman flushed, his countenance apologetic. He dutifully extended the bucket toward her.
She dipped her hand into the pail and let the ashes slowly sift from her wizened fingers. Squinting, she bent forward, muttering and nodding to herself for an extended moment.
Their rapt focus on the decrepit woman, no one said a word sound.
“Och. Hmm. Mmm,” she mumbled, scrunching her face in concentration. “Uh-hum. Uh-hum.”
Was that good or bad?
Marjorie glanced at Bethea and then Keane, but couldn’t determine from their expressions.
Thin lips pressed together, Dolag hobbled to the second bucket.
The guests had ceased eating, each transfixed on the frail woman’s bizarre ritual. Even the servants had paused in their duties and eyes agog, peered at the crone.
Once more, Dolag dipped her gnarled hand into the cinders. As before, murmuring nonsensical gibberish, her features skewed in concentration, she sprinkled the ashes back into the waiting pail.
“Hmph.” A harsh sound reverberated in the back of her thin throat. Evidently satisfied, she brushed her blackened palms together, dusting off the worst of the residue.
Shifting her piercing regard to Keane, her surprisingly lucid gaze bored into his. Dolag’s attention shifted to Marjorie for a rather discomfiting moment. An intense few seconds that felt as if Dolag looked straight into her soul and saw every secret hidden there, before gravitating her focus back to the duke.
Silent and perfectly still, her plaid gripped tightly about her thin form, she regarded Keane expectantly.
Charged with electricity, the air fairly crackled around with anticipation.
Did she expect Keane to ask for her interpretation?
Perhaps that was part of the ritual at Trentwick?
Never having witnessed anyone reading ashes in all the time she’d been in Scotland, Marjorie had no idea.
“Will ye honor us this day, Dolag, and share what ye’ve seen?” Keane asked, a perfect balance of deference, respect, and ducal authority.
For several seconds, Marjorie believed Dolag might refuse his request.
Another few heartbeats ticked by before the seer gave the merest nod.
With a jolt, Marjorie realized she’d been holding her breath, her body tense with expectancy as she awaited Dolag’s reply.
Dolag’s watery blue gaze circled the room before she began. “Clan Buchannan and the Roxdale duchy will encounter much change in the year of our Laird 1721.”
Her quavering voice carried to the great hall’s farthest corners. Not a sound echoed in the eerily silent chamber. Eyes narrowed, only the irises visible, she stared at a point beyond Keane.
A point beyond this realm.
Marjorie’s nape hairs rose, and a shiver scuttled up her spine and down her arms. Rubbing her hands over the goose pimples, she eyed the other Kennedys.
Dolag held their enthralled regard, too.
“I see great darkness, misfortune, and sorrow in the upcomin’ year.” Dolag flicked a boney finger at the first bucket.
The footman holding it paled and, beads of moisture popping out on his forehead, gingerly held the container away from his body as if the devil himself had cursed it. Or mayhap, hid amongst the cinders, ready to pop out with the right incantation.
A chorus of gasps followed her dire pronouncement, and Bethea clasped Marjorie’s hand in her icy one. “Och, nae.”
Marjorie gave the girl’s hand a gentle squeeze, not ready to accept the sage’s prophecy as absolute truth, but neither willing to dismiss it outright. There were too many things the Kirk couldn’t explain, and the Scots boasted a history rich in lore and mysticism.
At Dolag’s pronouncement, Keane’s hand upon Marjorie’s shoulder clenched for an instant, his fingertips pressing firmly into her flesh before he drew them away, leaving a peculiar bereftness in its wake.
Marjorie looked up at him through her lashes.
The slanting contours of his handsome face had hardened, but he presented a nonchalant mien, his mouth curved into a tolerant half-smile.
Did he believe what the ancient sage foretold?
“But…” Like a lightning bolt, Dolag’s voice cracked through the unnatural silence.
Every eye swung back to the seer, palpable expectation and hope permeating the great hall. This shrunken waif of a woman held the entire room in thrall.
“But,” she repeated, her tone softer as she pointed to the second bucket. “I also see tremendous peace, happiness, and prosperity for our people for decades to come.”
“That’s more like it,” Lady Kilpatrick trumpeted approvingly.
Relieved titters and chuckles filled the hall as the men and women looked to each other.
They behaved as if Dolag had awarded them a reprieve from a death sentence.
Camden slapped his brother on the back as he stuffed a chunk of sausage into his mouth, and Berget dimpled prettily at something Graeme whispered in her ear.
“Och, praise the saints and angels, too,” Bethea said, releasing her numbing hold on Marjorie’s hand. “I swear my heart stopped for several beats with her first dire prediction. I saw myself and Branwen, shriveled up old maids.”
Dolag shambled forward until she stood directly before Keane.
He towered over her shrunken form by well over a foot.
Up close, she appeared even older than Marjorie had first guessed. If this woman were a day under nine decades, she’d forgo breakfast for a week.
She turned those unsettling, penetrating eyes on Marjorie for an unnerving heartbeat and then astounded her by breaking into a gapped-tooth grin.
Marjorie couldn’t prevent the answering smile tipping her mouth. There was something endearing about the old woman that she liked.
Dolag faced Keane once more and patted his arm.
“Laird, ye shall determine which it will be.” She peered up at Keane as if willing him to make the right decision. “Light or dark? Good or evil? Happiness or sorrow?”
“Me?” For the first time Marjorie could recall, he appeared completely nonplussed. “Me?” he repeated, cupping his nape and staring at Dolag intently. “Ye are certain?”
“Aye, laird.” Her gaze veered to Marjorie once more, and then in front of everyone, she took Marjorie’s hand and placed it in Keane’s, holding their joined hands between her cold, frail palms.
“And this Englishwoman is the only one who can help ye.”
Chapter Ten
Keane kept his face impassive as he released Marjorie’s hand, then took Dolag’s wrinkled fingers between his. “Thank ye, Dolag. I shall heed yer words.”
She’d been correct on too many occasions for him to callously disregard her prediction. And Odin’s teeth, her public declaration that the fate of his clan and duchy lay entirely in his hands, unnerved the bloody hell out of him.
Not to mention having the audacity to put
Marjorie’s hand in his.
Marjorie had looked so astounded, he’d feared she might object and unintentionally insult Dolag. Instead, she’d summoned a tranquil smile, though color suffused her cheeks.
He might not believe in superstition, but Dolag most assuredly did, as did many of his people—a great many, truth to tell.
By God, he didn’t have to peruse his guests to know several eyebrows had shied high on foreheads—including the Kennedy brothers—at the gesture. Speculation would run rampant now, and there was naught he could do to dam it.
Dolag had opened the floodgates.
Why wasn’t he annoyed?
Outraged? Incensed?
Quite simply, Keane had decided this morning that Marjorie Kennedy would be part of his future, and Dolag’s predictions had nothing to do with it. The idea had taken root yesterday and had grown stronger and more credible with each passing hour.
Yes, a previous Buchannan had wronged a Kennedy woman, but that didn’t mean Keane would. His intentions were completely honorable when it came to Marjorie. He’d be twenty times a fool not to pursue whatever this burgeoning emotion was.
“Och, I ken ye will.” Affection softened Dolag’s wrinkled visage before she once more focused that acutely penetrating stare on Marjorie. “Ye’ll need the Englishwoman’s help, though.”
She wasn’t going to let that particular matter go, was she?
Marjorie’s eyes widened a fraction, and color skated up the gentle slopes of her cheeks again, but she gave Dolag a warm smile.
How had Dolag known Marjorie was English?
He supposed it wouldn’t have been that difficult to find out.
The old woman glanced around, and her face brightened. “I have a mind to fill my stomach now, lad.”
And with that pronouncement, she tottered down the length of the table gathering those foods she fancied into her tartan, then humming to herself, wandered from the hall.
For the most part, his guests had turned their attention back to their forgotten plates and abandoned conversations. Keane intentionally avoided looking in the Kennedys’ direction. He had no desire to see whatever mocking or derisive glances they sent his way.
Leaning down, he spoke softly near Marjorie’s ear. Her lemon and rose fragrance wafted from her hair. “Marjorie, might I have that word with ye now?”
He forced his lips into a serene smile and, trying to ignore his ward’s probing gaze, swinging between him and Marjorie, he pulled her chair out. Bethea had indeed grown up and possessed a woman’s intuition, as did her sister.
“Certainly.” All lithe grace, Marjorie slipped from the seat, once more drawing the attention of more than a few guests. With admirable aplomb, she kept her focus on him, though in a deferential matter that no one could fault.
For the first time, he noticed the top of her coppery head reached his shoulder, and he was a tall man. Why something so trivial should cause a tightening in his belly, he couldn’t fathom.
We fit well together.
Aye, and he’d like to explore just how well they might fit together in other ways, too. When they were both naked.
He leisurely surveyed Marjorie’s attire. Her gown’s ice-blue fabric complimented her flaming hair.
Fire and ice.
Aye, he’d seen both sides of Marjorie Kennedy. The self-contained, cool widow and the passionate siren who’d stoked the flames of his desire. He preferred the sizzling woman he’d embraced in the gallery.
Keane thought to offer her his arm, but after considering their rapt audience, thought the better of it. Enough logs had been tossed onto the fire of conjecture as far as he and Marjorie were concerned. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back. “My study is no’ far.”
She angled her head, curiosity darkening her rich brown eyes. “Is something amiss?” she asked, in a voice meant only for his ears. The huskiness of her tone caused his body to stir in ways most inappropriate in the presence of others.
He longed to hear her call his name in the throes of passion.
“Nae.” Sending a reserved look around the hall, he silently asked her to wait before asking any more questions. What he had to say was for her ears alone.
After the briefest of hesitation, she followed his lead and nodded. With the aplomb of a duchess, she fell into step beside him, her satin skirts rustling slightly as she crossed the stone floor.
Mere inches separated them, and with every shallow breath, every irregular heartbeat, he fought to rein in his arousal. To wrestle the foreign feelings burgeoning within him for this extraordinary woman under control. And with each footfall echoing on the floors his ancestors before him had walked, he acknowledged this was a battle he would not win.
A battle he didn’t have any desire to win.
Yet, seizing her in his arms and pinning her to the wall while he showed her with his mouth and hands and body what he couldn’t say—was afraid to say—wouldn’t gain her favor. Not when a guest or servant might come upon them, and her reputation was too important to taint.
Not just hers, but her wee daughters’, too.
The sins of the fathers—or mothers—and all that.
Hadn’t he experienced firsthand the repercussions of his father’s sins?
Nae, when Keane took Marjorie Kennedy to his bed, he’d take his time and explore every last inch of her creamy skin. There’d be no hurried coupling, but a long, leisurely mating.
To distract himself from the lust heating his blood and weighing heavily in his loins, he silently rehearsed what he wanted to say. When he’d awoken this morning, in those few moments before life’s burdens intruded upon his thoughts, the truth had struck him with such clarity that he’d collapsed back onto his pillows.
Then, what surely must’ve been a ridiculous grin had split his face.
He wanted to make Marjorie his in every way.
For four months, he’d battled the insidious truth. From the instant he’d set eyes upon her last summer, he’d recognized his mate.
Oh, he’d fought wildly against the truth, but much like a drowning man accepted his fate and succumbed to the water, he’d surrendered to the inevitable.
He, Keane Buchannan, Duke of Roxdale, and Marjorie Kennedy belonged together.
Toward that end, he intended to court the mesmerizing Englishwoman. To convince her to become the next Duchess of Roxdale.
Yesterday, he’d thought he didn’t have time for courtship or wooing. Couldn’t accommodate a wife at this juncture in his life. Because, until meeting her, no woman had appealed to such an extent. He couldn’t envision a partner for life until meeting her.
When a man felt the way he did about Marjorie, he made a way. Forged his own path. Overcame any obstacle.
Unless, that was, she didn’t feel the same for him.
He pushed that abysmal thought to the recesses of his mind. It was too soon to concede defeat. Why, when he put his mind to it, he could be quite pleasant, charming even.
The fire that destroyed the Martins’ home and possessions had taught him something. Life and opportunities should be seized and lived to the fullest, right now.
Not tomorrow or next year. Or someday. Now.
Keane would be twenty times an idiot not to pursue Marjorie. What he felt for her, well, it wasn’t common. Now he understood the secret looks Graeme Kennedy kept spearing Berget. Even Will Martin’s gaze had frequently traveled to his wife.
He wanted what they had.
That oneness of spirit. The unity of souls.
Marjorie wasn’t immune to him. Her blistering kisses yesterday proved that. But, how amendable would she be to his proposition?
Kisses were one thing.
A lifetime commitment was another entirely, particularly when she’d loved another.
Love—if that was what this unholy knotting in his belly and cause of his erratic pulse was—was a gift. A treasure he certainly never expected to receive, but he’d not deny something so precious.
Marjori
e could only be an asset in his goal to reform the duchy.
She made him want to be a better person.
For her. For himself. For his people.
They walked in silence until Keane opened the study door. After pushing the panel inward and stepping aside, he gestured for Marjorie to enter before him. “After ye, my lady.”
The merest wisp of a pleased smile, tipping her winsome lips, she glided into the chamber, her gaze fixed upon him.
Mayhap she was as captivated by him as he was by her.
He couldn’t prevent the swell of primal pride welling behind his ribs, but he checked his grin. Cockiness wouldn’t endear him to her. He knew that much about the woman he intended to make his wife.
Closing the door with a soft snick, Keane then turned the key in the lock. He didn’t want an overzealous servant or probing guest to interrupt this conversation. After all, a man didn’t declare himself every day. If all went well, Marjorie would agree to a short courtship and a spring wedding.
Mayhap March. He’d always liked March, when the Highlands budded to life again.
A winged ginger eyebrow quirked in amusement as Marjorie looked from the key, resting in the lock to his face. “Hmm, this must be serious, indeed, if you need to lock me in, Your Grace.”
He chuckled and raked a hand through his hair.
Glancing upward, he froze.
Bloody damned hell.
Someone had rifled around inside his study. Several desk drawers gaped open, and papers and books lay strewn about the floor. Even the paintings hung askew as if someone had searched behind them.
For what?
Marjorie’s eyes widened as she took in the mess, and she turned in a slow circle.
“Keane?” Her delicate features tense, she cast him an apprehensive glance. “It looks as if there’s been a robbery. Did…?” She paled and flattened a hand to her splendid bosom.
God rot him for noticing her breasts at a moment like this.
“Did one of your guests do this?” Her voice strained with dismay, she gestured to the disarray.
“I dinna ken. ’Tis possible, I suppose.” But not probable. He pulled his mouth into a rigid line and, bracing his hands on his hips, scanned the room again. “I dinna keep any valuables in here.”
To Defy a Highland Duke Page 9
