Page 9 of To Defy a Highland Duke

And, in truth, he wasn’t any better than the other men.

He, too, had taken in the curves a man typically marked and appreciated.

Marjorie’s deep blue gown emphasized her small waist and bountiful bosom. The rich velvet also enhanced her vibrant gold-and-bronze-threaded red hair, winsomely mussed from her extended journey. Her creamy skin glowed pearly white, and her eyes, the color of freshly brewed coffee, were rich and warm and delicious.

Nae, her eyes arena delicious, ye cabbage head.

Aye, but those full berry-red lips are.

Her daughters clung to her hands, their bright blue eyes wide with apprehension and curiosity. Every now and again, one slid him a fretful glance, and shame lanced him. He’d been an utter arse to the wee lassies.

The impish things he’d done as a lad had driven his long-suffering nurse and then his less-patient tutors half-mad. Keane had been up to his chin in mischief and misadventures at their age. He’d overstepped by chastising them. At the convicting memory, he plowed a hand through his hair.

Lorne still openly gawped at Marjorie, sizing up her feminine attributes, and Keane gritted his teeth. His cousin best keep his lewd attentions to himself, by damn. No Buchannan—not Keane, not Bothan, and assuredly not Lorne—would ever give another Kennedy woman cause for distress.

At least not while under his roof.

For her part, Marjorie was either unaware of Lorne’s ogling or a master at ignoring unwanted scrutiny. Not once did she make eye contact with him, and her face remained a mask of benign serenity.

Keane knew full well the fiery siren her outwardly calm mien disguised. Hadn’t he been on the receiving end of her wrath? She’d been nothing short of magnificent: eyes flashing fury-laden sparks, breasts heaving, her breath coming in short, raspy pants.

Och, aye. Magnificent indeed.

A grin almost tipped his mouth at the descriptive, oh-so-polite way she’d told him to shove his head up his arse in her modulated British accent. So prim and proper sounding as she very improperly insulted him.

At the time, he hadn’t found her ire amusing, but, in the months since, the memory never failed to summon a grin or chuckle. By damn, Marjorie Kennedy had spirit. Spirit she tried to hide behind a demure façade. But he was on to her charade, and he quite anticipated scaling her battlements and ramparts.

Moreover, he quite anticipated discovering what treasures lay within.

Keane snorted. He was a damn, bloody fool for even considering doing so because he’d have to woo and court her. And he strongly suspected, she’d try to scratch his eyes out if he did. Until she, like his Scottish wildcats, realized he meant her no harm and tamed the wild creature within her.

Across the hall, a group of Highlanders acknowledged the Kennedy brothers’ entrance with friendly nods. Och, aye. The McPhersons were related to the MacKays, and Liam MacKay was a particular friend of Graeme’s.

“Please excuse my lady and me,” Graeme said with an apologetic quirk of his mouth. “Bryston McPherson hasna met my bride yet.”

His great hulk of a cousin had taken to married life with enthusiasm. Keane wouldn’t have believed it had he not witnessed the transformation himself. With a slight dip of his head, he acknowledged his cousin’s request. “By all means.”

These gatherings always reunited kin and kith. Most of the clans could claim an affinity with one another due to a marriage at one time. In fact, the branches of family trees were often so entwined it became difficult to detect which branch belonged to which clan. As he well knew, however, such unions didn’t guarantee peace and accord between the tribes.

“Excuse me, I have a matter I wish to discuss with Bryston too,” Camden said a trifle too casually.

Keane could hazard a guess what that conversation entailed. It assuredly wouldn’t take place in Lady Kennedy’s presence, however. Bryston McPherson, a former privateer, and Camden had questionable business dealings not always sanctioned by the Crown. Namely, smuggling.

Although, Keane suspected that a few of their activities were, in fact, merely a cover for covert directives from His Majesty. Should they be discovered, the king would naturally disavow any knowledge of their escapades.

George I had approached Keane with a similar proposition. A request which Keane had politely but firmly declined. If he hadn’t been bent on restoring the duchy’s reputation, or if he’d had a brother or two to inherit lest calamity befall him while in service to His Majesty, he’d have accepted. But he hadn’t any brothers, nor an heir, and there was no way in Hades he would permit his uncle or cousin to inherit the dukedom.

He’d seen the neglected condition of his uncle’s estate, the suffering of his tenants, and the fear, contempt, and distrust of those in his employ.

“I’m sure you do,” Keane drawled, giving his cousin a knowing look.

Camden grinned and, after patting his nieces upon their bright, gingery heads, followed his brother.

In an instant, Marjorie and her daughters stood alone. Rather bereft and forlorn, in truth.

Forgotten?

How often did that happen?