To Defy a Highland Duke

by Cameron, Collette

  Musicians played gaily as clansmen and women, villagers, tenants, as well as many of Keane’s distinguished guests danced or clapped to the energetic beat. Though the atmosphere was jovial and celebratory, she couldn’t help but notice the many heavily armed Scots wandering through the milling crowd or stationed at regular intervals throughout the festival grounds.

  A swift perusal of the area and her gaze landed on the man she’d sought—the same enigmatic man who’d commandeered her thoughts all day.

  Her heart gave a queer, joyful leap upon spying Keane.

  “I care deeply for ye, Marjorie. Verra deeply.”

  Did Keane love her?

  Was that what he attempted to say?

  And was that what this enigmatic feeling blossoming in her heart and soul was? She’d been in love before—very much so—but this sentiment was… More. She couldn’t even find the words to describe the depth of feeling, and a part of her felt disloyal to Sion for even giving the emotion credence.

  Keane, a tankard in hand, stood talking jovially with a group of men. As if sensing her presence, he glanced toward her, and a decidedly possessive and provocative smile notched the corners of his mouth upward.

  Her mouth swept upward in answer.

  Marjorie had tasted those firm lips earlier today, and the experience had been heavenly. Even now, her body ached for more of Keane’s touch. For him to take her completely. Heat scampered up her cheeks, though whether from his scorching stare or her erotic musings, she couldn’t say.

  Thank God, the vacillating shadows concealed her chagrin. But in case they didn’t entirely, she tucked her chin to her chest while pretending to fuss with a fastening to her cloak. It wouldn’t do for her family to start asking probing questions when she didn’t have a ready answer.

  Keane excused himself, set aside his tankard, and with those strapping legs she’d so admired, he wended his way between boisterous merrymakers. Not once did his focus leave her, and she cast a furtive glance about to see if anyone had noticed.

  Someone had—the singular person she’d not wanted to.

  Blast and damn.

  Of all the rotten luck.

  Emerging from one of the tents, and stunning in a crimson and silver velvet cloak, a silver fox collar brushing her flawless throat, the very alluring Lady Constance Abercrombie had noticed.

  She aimed her narrowed-eyes at Marjorie, spearing her with each blink, and she hadn’t a doubt the woman loathed her. She counted herself fortunate she’d avoided any encounters alone with the hostile lady.

  To her immense surprise, at that moment, Lady Constance produced a brilliant smile and gave a regal nod of her head toward Marjorie.

  She turned to look behind her to see who Lady Abercrombie meant the friendly upsweep of her mouth for, and when she found no one behind her, she produced a tentative smile in return. Perhaps, Marjorie had misinterpreted the starchy glances from her ladyship.

  Didn’t some people’s resting face look cross or grumpy, when, in fact, they were nothing of the sort? Hadn’t she been accused of that very thing herself a time or two, often accompanied by unsolicited advice for her to smile?

  Had she misjudged the woman?

  Nae, that first night, Lady Constance had regarded her like fresh dung. Marjorie trusted her about as much as a beggar with her purse.

  “Graeme, Lady Kennedy, Camden.” Keane gave them each a polite nod, displaying his strong chin, before turning the full force of that mesmerizing hazel gaze upon Marjorie and flashing a dazzling smile. “Marjorie.”

  The sound of her name on his tongue caused her stomach to flip over itself, and only with supreme effort did she keep her face impassive.

  At the use of Marjorie’s given name, Berget gave Keane a sharp look, her intelligent gaze flicking back and forth between him and Marjorie.

  Marjorie could almost hear the wheels grinding in her sister-in-law’s head. A nearly imperceptible smile bent her mouth as she leaned into her husband.

  “Graeme,” Berget said, “I’m rather famished. Shall we see what succulent treats await us? I vow I’ve never tasted more delicious black bun anywhere. I must have the recipe if I can persuade Roxdale’s cook to part with it.”

  She knows.

  Graeme also eyed Keane, though his expression suggested more befuddlement than amusement. “I’m hungry myself,” he admitted, still regarding Keane warily.

  Likely, he didn’t know if he should object to Keane’s use of Marjorie’s Christian name, which suggested a familiarity reserved for relatives and close acquaintances. But then, they were related, after a fashion, and to cause a stir over the matter seemed excessive and pointless.

  “Black bun, say ye?” Camden looked eagerly to the groaning tables. “Och, I missed my mid-day meal, and I’m starvin’.”

  That a certain raven-haired beauty—the ward of their host, no less—also happened to be meandering along a loaded table in a nearby tent, couldn’t have inspired his appetite.

  “I’ve yet to witness a day ye arena starvin’, Camden,” Berget quipped, her lips twitching. “Ye and yer brother are hollow to yer toes.”

  “Aye. ’Tis true.” Puffing his chest out, he patted the broad expanse with both ham-like hands. “It takes a good deal of food to keep this warrior fueled.” With a mischievous wink and brief nod, he made straight for the nearest tent.

  The Kennedy brothers had that in common, as well. The mountainous Scots were always ravenous, and their ability to consume vast quantities of food amazed her. Sion had been no different.

  It took a heartbeat for Marjorie to realize the melancholy that generally accompanied recollections of Sion were absent. What was more, no sense of betrayal engulfed her, but rather, anticipation about a possible future with Keane.

  A future far different than she’d imagined for herself, but nonetheless, quite splendid.

  Had she at last, finally laid the sorrow and regret caused by Sion’s passing to rest? She’d loved him with a youthful love full of sweet innocence, and theirs had been a peaceful relationship, without conflict. Certainly, not this tumultuous onslaught that winged through her whenever she saw Keane or thought about him.

  Did she dare hope for a future with Keane?

  Chapter Thirteen

  In short order, Marjorie found herself alone with Keane. Well, as alone as one could be in a crowd of hundreds. Yet Keane’s regard never strayed from her, making her feel as if they were truly the only two occupying this space.

  Again, as their gazes met and meshed and the world went still around them, she tried to put a name to whatever this connection was passing between them. She couldn’t identify it, and she scarcely breathed, not wanting the powerful, intriguing link to break.

  “Would ye like a cup of mulled wine?” Keane spoke low into her ear, one hand resting on the small of her back. The possessive gesture branded her as his, even through the many layers of clothing she wore.

  She wanted to be his. In every way.

  “Yes, please,” she said, putting into her smile what she wasn’t prepared to say in words just yet.

  “I should very much appreciate a cup, as well, Your Grace.”

  As one, Marjorie and Keane turned to find Lady Constance smiling at them. Well, her lips curved upward. Marjorie searched for any signs of animosity on the other woman’s features and found only genial regard. Either she was a consummate actress, or Marjorie had truly misread her.

  Except, she’d been eavesdropping on their conversation, which revealed much.

  Keane angled his head, though a glint of suspicion tightened the outer edges of his eyes and mouth. “Certainly. I’ll be but a moment.”

  He sketched a half-bow, and Marjorie forced herself not to watch him stride away, but instead watched a rather good juggler entertaining a small crowd.

  “We’ve not been formally introduced,” Lady Constance said, with only the merest inflection of a Scottish brogue in her refined voice. “I’m Lady Constance Abercrombie. My father, the Earl
of Newville, owns the lands adjacent to Roxdale’s western border.”

  Ah, and did papa want those lands merged via a marriage between two noble houses? Lord Newville would find himself sorely disappointed should Marjorie accept Keane’s offer. As would her ladyship, Marjorie warranted.

  Lady Constance’s smile widened a fraction as her depreciating gaze took Marjorie’s measure from her uncovered hair to her simple woolen cloak. Though not so much as an eyelash flickered, Marjorie had the distinct impression that despite the woman’s amiable demeanor, she found her lacking and inferior in every regard.

  It mattered not. Marjorie didn’t give a beggar’s curse what Lady Constance Abercrombie thought of her. She’d never been comfortable spending Graeme’s hard-earned coins on fancy garments and fripperies. It was difficult enough knowing he provided for her and her daughters’ every need without being a spendthrift, too.

  Her expression expectant, Lady Constance plainly awaited Marjorie’s deferential curtsy.

  She’d wait a very long time. Until the blazing torches about the grounds transformed into flames of ice.

  As the widow of a chieftain, Marjorie outranked the woman, but she’d learned long ago those with noble titles generally held very high opinions of themselves.

  Instead, she inclined her head. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Constance. I am Marjorie Kennedy, of the Killeaggian Tower Kennedys.”

  “Your accent suggests you’re English.” One of Lady Constance’s finely plucked, midnight eyebrows arched skyward. In judgment? “Am I correct?”

  “Indeed,” Marjorie agreed, determined to be cordial to the difficult woman. “Although I’ve lived in Scotland many years now and consider her my home. I don’t think I could ever leave.”

  Where would she go anyway?

  To her cousin in England?

  They still corresponded regularly, but Marjorie hadn’t seen Rebecca since marrying Sion. Besides, she wouldn’t deny her daughters their heritage or a relationship with their doting uncles.

  “Hmm.” Lady Constance made a noncommittal noise in her throat. “I should think you’d want to be with your own kind.”

  What the devil did she mean by that?

  Ire raised her ugly head, and with considerable effort, Marjorie tamped her indignation down. It took several firm raps to subdue the offense burbling behind her ribs.

  She contrived a smile so false, she truly feared her cheeks might shatter from the supreme effort to keep it in place. Nevertheless, she refused to voice the retorts parading through her mind, one stinging insult after the other in rapid procession.

  Thankfully, Keane returned, bearing three steaming cups of mulled wine and saved her. Or saved Lady Constance. After dispensing the wine, he took a deep swallow.

  Marjorie forced her focus from the corded lines of his throat. The man was muscle layered over taut muscle everywhere.

  He gave Lady Constance a hard stare. “Where’s Brixtone? He rarely ventures far from ye.”

  Was that the handsome man hovering about her ladyship that first night?

  Lady Constance’s expression turned brittle for an instant, but then she tilted her head and laughed, fluttering her elegant fingers flirtatiously. Naturally, her laugh was dainty and musical. She probably practiced before her looking glass for hours until she’d perfected the melodic tinkle.

  Probably practiced that graceful neck tilting and fluttering finger thing, too.

  “He’ll be along shortly, I’m sure,” she murmured, giving Keane a sultry look. “As you surely know, Your Grace, Samson is only a good friend.”

  A very intimate friend, if Marjorie didn’t miss her mark.

  Lady Constance batted her lush eyelashes so rapidly, Marjorie hid a smirk behind her raised cup. She inhaled the fragrant steam. The wine was tasty and a perfect remedy to help stave off the evening’s chill. And dull one’s senses to conniving harpies.

  “There you are, Lady Constance,” came a male’s breathless, slightly nasally voice. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Keane muttered out the side of his mouth for Marjorie’s ears alone.

  She checked a giggle as she took in the fop’s attire.

  He put Lady Constance’s elaborate ensemble to shame.

  Bewigged, several large stones glittering on his long fingers, he was attired entirely in emerald green from his jacket to his ridiculous heeled shoes. Bowing low over Lady Constance’s hand, he gave her ladyship a devoted smile. “As always, you outshine the sun, the moon, and the stars, dear lady.”

  Lady Constance preened as if it were her due, and it struck Marjorie: the man was sincere. In truth, she’d hazard to guess he was madly in love with the woman. From the smoldering, seductive glances her ladyship sent Keane, she didn’t return Mr. Brixtone’s affection.

  Brixtone swung his regard to Keane, and his eyes cooled several degrees in the manner of a male protecting his mate. Only in his case, his gloriously plumed mate had set her sights on another.

  “Your Grace.” Brixtone’s gray-eyed glance gravitated to Marjorie and lingered appreciatively. “Might I beg an introduction?”

  Seemingly with a great deal of hesitancy, Keane gestured to Marjorie. “Lady Marjorie Kennedy, may I introduce Mr. Samson Brixtone?”

  “Mr. Brixtone.” Marjorie inclined her head, aware Lady Constance’s agreeable expression had slipped, and she now pursed her lips.

  Ah, so she didn’t want Mr. Brixtone for herself, except to use the man, but she didn’t want him regarding any other women with favor, either.

  At once, a delighted smile wreathed his thin, but handsome face. “Do my ears deceive me, or do we share a homeland, Lady Kennedy?”

  “You are, indeed, correct. I also hail from England.”

  “Yes, well, we’ve established that triviality, haven’t we?” Lady Constance said in a rush, stepping forward and claiming Keane’s arm. “Your Grace, why don’t we permit them a few moments to chat about their homeland, shall we? Sampson was there only last month, and I’m quite certain, Lady Kennedy would very much appreciate hearing news of home.”

  A mere fortnight ago, Rebecca had written Marjorie, and she was quite up to snuff on any news of England she cared a whit about.

  “Here, Samson, darling.” Lady Constance thrust her mulled wine at Brixtone, a bit of the beverage sloshing over the rim and onto his glove. “You may have my mulled wine.”

  Keane furrowed his brow, giving the gloved hand clutching his arm a disgruntled scowl. “’Tis time for me to light the bonfire, Lady Constance.”

  “Oh, wonderful. I shall accompany you.” The thin-lipped smile she leveled Marjorie might’ve held a tinge of gloating, but in the flickering torchlight and with the lack of a moon, she couldn’t be certain.

  It was as apparent as rouge on a pig, however, that the woman hoped to portray herself as Keane’s hostess for the evening.

  Jaw flexed, Keane speared Lady Constance another steely look, everything about his countenance shouting she imposed upon him. Nonetheless, either as dense as a turnip or ruthlessly determined, she blinked up at him, all coy femininity.

  Another giggle threatened, and Marjorie took a deep drink of the delicious spiced wine drowning her humor with the spirit.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” he told Marjorie. “Unless you’d care to accompany me?”

  Lady Constance formed her mouth into a pout that put a spoiled toddler to shame, and Brixtone glanced away, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Frustration and chagrin rolled off his stiff form in palpable waves.

  Poor man.

  Marjorie had no desire to spend additional time in Lady Constance’s tiresome company. Besides, she hadn’t expected Keane to stay at her side and entertain her all evening. After all, he had duties as laird. She’d chat with Mr. Brixtone for a few moments and then go in search of Berget and Graeme. Perhaps she’d have a bite to eat, as well.

  “No, thank you, Your Grace.” Her gaze slid to the woman c
linging to him with the tenacity of ancient ivy vines on an equally ancient wall.

  “Verra well,” Keane said, a knowing glint in his eyes. He’d read her reluctance and gleaned the reason for her hesitation. “I willna be long.”

  He strode away, making no attempt to shorten his long, rippling strides, thereby forcing Lady Constance to trot alongside him.

  Grasping her skirts, she hopped over a particularly muddy patch, now and again, nothing the least dignified in her hasty scampering. Had she known she rather resembled a devoted hound, she might’ve tempered her pace.

  “So, my dear Lady Kennedy, what part of England are you from?” Mr. Brixtone asked conversationally, interrupting her wry musings. His chipper tone couldn’t disguise the woebegone glint in his eyes.

  To love a woman such as Lady Constance could only mean perpetual heartache.

  Marjorie had almost forgotten he still stood beside her, so absorbed in Keane’s departure had she been. Debating whether to pull her cloak’s hood over her head to block the increasingly bitter breeze, she curved her mouth. “My familial home was in Manchester, and you?”

  “Lancaster as a youth, and Westmoreland these eight years past. When I’m not in London, that is. I do like the hustle and bustle, the entertainments, and most especially, watching the gentry prance about full of haughty self-import.” He raised his chin, looking down his nose in a pretentious manner before a rakish, crooked smile ruined the effect.

  She found herself grinning back at the charming rogue.

  “Shall we see what succulent morsels our host has provided for our enjoyment?” he asked, his gaze following Lacy Constance’s zigzagging progress.

  Marjorie doubted Keane had anything to do with the food. Likely, the ever-efficient Mrs. Dunlap had undoubtedly overseen the preparations.

  Mr. Brixtone stuck his arm out in an exaggerated fashion and waggled his eyebrows. “I have a particular fondness for rumdlethumps, though why they call potatoes, cabbage, and onions such a ridiculous name baffles me.”