Page 31 of To Defy a Highland Duke

“To you as well, Bethea. Did you sleep well?” Amazing how one could carry on banal conversations when every pore, every nerve, every last sense hummed with the awareness of another person a few feet away.

A certain Scot with smoldering eyes and a wicked grin.

“Aye, but I kept wakin’ up in anticipation of the festivities.” She sliced Keane a covert glance and, seeing him still engaged in conversation, leaned toward Marjorie and lowered her voice. “This is the first time Branwen and I have been allowed to participate in all of the merriment.”

Her regard strayed to her sister who sat farther along the table. Anticipation sparkled in Bethea’s gray eyes when she met her sister’s.

“Well, that is certainly cause for excitement,” Marjorie agreed, though she’d already decided she’d not be partaking, except for perhaps the lighting of the bonfire.

“Keane’s finally realized we’re adults, though he’s nae happy about it.” Shaking her head, Bethea chuckled wryly and picked up her fork. “’Tis far past time, I’d say.”

Indeed. Would Marjorie feel the same way about Cora and Elana, unable to accept they’d grown into women? The thought made her heart hurt. They were her very life, her purpose. She turned her attention elsewhere, lest her melancholy spoil the new day.

Smiling inwardly, she took in the other early risers. Since a child, she’d preferred to leave her bed early when the day was young and fresh.

Lady Abercrombie wasn’t present. No real surprise there. Likely, said lady lounged about in bed till afternoon, propped upon scores of pillows and tormenting any servant unfortunate enough to be at her beck and call.

Marjorie relaxed and applied herself to her food with an exuberance that might’ve chagrined her another time. But today, knowing all was well with Keane and harboring the secret thrill of his kiss in her heart, she felt a degree of optimism she hadn’t in a great while. Besides, she had forgone dinner last night, as her gnawing stomach reminded her.

A few minutes later, Keane stood, drawing everyone’s attention. His very presence had the ability to snare regard. Men respected, admired, and wanted to emulate him. Women… Well, from what she’d observed, women just wanted him.

“If ye’ll please excuse me,” he said, pushing his chair back. “As ye nae doubt ken, one of my tenants and his family lost everythin’ in a fire yesterday. I thank those of ye who helped battle the blaze.” He looked pointedly at a few of the men, including Graeme and Camden. “There are a few details I need to attend to first, but anyone interested in takin’ a tour of the keep, please meet me here at half past eleven.”

The clock had yet to strike nine, so that gave Marjorie plenty of time with Cora and Elana before the tour. She, for one, quite looked forward to exploring more of Keane’s fascinating home, which dated back to the fifteenth century.

What had this magnificent castle witnessed over the decades? What secrets, sorrows, joys, and escapades? Were there secret passages? A dungeon? Most Highland keeps contained both.

Unexpectedly, Keane paused beside her chair, catching her off guard. “Mrs. Kennedy,” he said in that deliciously deep brogue that teased her senses. “Can ye spare me a few moments?”

After casting a swift glance about the table and noting several pairs of avid gazes upon them—including Bethea’s and Berget’s shining with merriment and speculation—Marjorie turned to meet his gaze, mindful to keep her expression neutral.

At least she prayed she’d succeeded, but from the glint in her sister-in-law’s too perceptive gaze a second ago, she mightn’t have been as adroit as she’d hoped.

Women always were more insightful about such things.

Folding her serviette, Marjorie nodded. “Of course—”

“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.

“Och. Hmm. Mmm,” she mumbled, scrunching her face in concentration. “Uh-hum. Uh-hum.”