Page 25 of To Defy a Highland Duke

Worry crinkling her forehead, Berget laid her hand on Marjorie’s arm. “Are ye all right? Ye’ve seemed—preoccupied.”

“I’m fine.”

That wasn’t quite true. But there wasn’t an easy remedy for what ailed her, if there was one at all.

Upon hearing the rap of swift footsteps, they both turned. A maid approached and offered a brief curtsy.

“My ladies.” She looked at Berget. “Yer husband is askin’ for ye, my lady. He’s in the red salon.” She switched her focus to Marjorie. “He bid me tell ye that yer bairns are in the nursery warmin’ themselves before the fire and enjoyin’ a cup of warm milk laced with honey.”

Graeme would make a fine father someday.

“Thank you,” Marjorie said, clasping her hands behind her back and nodding. She’d check on her daughters momentarily.

“Excuse me.” The maid bobbed another shallow curtsy and hurried away. Likely with this many guests, the poor servants were run ragged.

“I’d best go see what that husband of mine needs.” Berget smiled and touched Marjorie’s arm again. “Do ye want to stay and admire the paintin’s a while longer?”

Marjorie unclasped her hands. “Yes, just a few more minutes before I go check on the girls. I shall see you at supper.”

“Ye ken ye can tell me anythin’?” Worry crinkled the corner of Berget’s eyes. “I’m a good listener, Marjorie, and I dinna reveal confidences.”

“I know.” Impulsively, Marjorie kissed her sister-in-law’s cheek. “Thank you.”

This inner turmoil wasn’t something she could discuss, because, quite simply, she couldn’t put into words what she felt. This confusion and frustration and edginess.

With another heartening smile, Berget hurried away.

Marjorie remembered what it was like as a newlywed. To not be able to stand to be apart from Sion. How she’d looked in every room for him, and how she’d missed him desperately even when he’d been away for a few hours.

The pain had faded and had become a cherished memory. But memories didn’t keep one warm at night or hold one in their arms. That was one of the things she missed the most. A man’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close as she rested her cheek against the hard expanse of his chest. Hearing the steady beat of his heart and smelling his musky essence.

“Have ye picked a favorite?”

Absorbed in her ruminations, she hadn’t heard Keane’s stealthy approach.

Rather than face him, she angled her head and gave him a sideways look.

His expression unreadable, he observed her, his hands clasped behind him. Today, he wore gleaming jet boots, tight-fitting black breeches, and a simple black jacket over a plain white shirt. He’d eschewed a neckcloth, which permitted the merest hint of raven hair to peek from the gap at his collarbone.

Tantalizing and tempting as Hades.

Marjorie had seen him in plaid, formal wear, and now this casual attire. The man looked positively splendid and too bloody masculine in everything. Yet, unlike the fops and dandies she remembered from her one Season in England, he didn’t seem to know or care how he affected females.

Of course he knows.

She glanced down, grateful the saffron gown with its lawn-green overskirt she’d chosen this morning complimented her coloring. Though not popular in either England or Scotland, she liked her bright hair. Her eyes weren’t particularly noteworthy, but her hair was her glory. And she’d been mindful not to disparage it or let others do so, lest her red-haired daughters overhear and feel belittled.

Keane waved a hand toward a wall adorned with an eclectic assembly of brilliant artwork. “Well? What do ye think?”

There was a youthful eagerness underlying his casual question. Did he honestly care what Marjorie thought?

A finger to her chin, she studied the paintings. There didn’t appear to be a theme or a preference for a particular style, except all were captivating in their own unique way.

“How can I possibly pick just one?” She tossed him a short glance. “Each is beautiful and riveting in its own right, and yet they are so original too.”

“Mmm.” The sound might’ve been an agreement or a noncommittal grunt.

Angling her head, she perused a painting of the Madonna and baby Jesus, then turned her regard to an elegant fourteenth-century couple. “You collect what you like?”