Page 18 of To Defy a Highland Duke

To her immense gratification, the guests seemed absorbed in dancing and conversing. The woman who’d glowered at her earlier, and her besotted beau, had disappeared. A couple of clansmen flashed Keane a casual glance, but no one’s attention lingered. Subtly rubbing her bruised arm, she angled toward the arguing cousins.

“Are ye all right, Marjorie?” Keane asked without looking at her. He eyed his cousin the way a panther might study its prey before going for the jugular.

“Yes,” she assured him. “Yes. I’m fine.”

Now that you are here.

The cousins looked so much alike they might’ve been brothers, except Lorne possessed more prominent eyes, a slightly more pronounced nose, and puffier lips. Both were undeniably handsome, but whereas Marjorie felt drawn to Keane’s dark good looks, Lorne’s appeared sinister and repulsed her.

The chiseled planes and contours of Keane’s rugged, sun-browned features invited examination and intimacy, whereas Lorne’s pallid skin and watery eyes bespoke dissipation and debauchery.

A shiver crept up her spine.

She truly did not like the man.

“I suggest, Cousin, ye retire to yer chambers immediately, else I forget we are kin and toss ye out on yer arse.” Features taut and uncompromising, Keane’s gaze seared his cousin with accusations and condemnation. “Ye will take yer leave in the morn.”

“But… But what shall I tell my father?” Lorne spluttered, glaring at Keane and Marjorie in turn.

“I dinna care. But ken this, when ye assault a guest of mine, ye are nae longer welcome in my home.” A thunderous expression descended on Keane’s face when he observed her cradling her abused arm. “And when ye injure a guest, my door is barred to ye forevermore.”

“We’ll see,” Lorne snarled, balling his fists. “My father shall have somethin’ to say about it. Ye can be certain.”

“I dinna care what he says.” Keane jabbed a thumb at his broad chest. “I am the laird and the duke. My word is law here. Now be gone,” he grated. “Before I teach ye a lesson ye’ll no’ soon forget.”

Loathing contorting his face, Lorne spun on his heel, except in his pished state, he tottered unsteadily before regaining his balance.

Did Keane realize his cousin hated him?

Marjorie bit the inside of her cheek. Or was the antagonism directed toward her for spurning Lorne’s attention?

With a dip of his chin, Keane signaled two immense Scots.

At once, they strode forward and positioned themselves on either side of Lorne. Camden and Graeme were large men, but these two brutes were at least a head taller and two stone heavier. Veritable giants, their chests half again as wide as Keane’s.

“What’s this?” Lorne spat, his bulgy eyes glinting with rage as he swung his bleary gaze between the two stone-faced Scotsmen.

“Assurance ye go straight to yer chamber and remain there all night,” Keane replied smoothly. “If ye make a sound or resist in any way, they are instructed to cast yer sorry arse out the door. Into the snow. Without the benefit of a cloak.”

Keane leaned down, his voice lethal, and Lorne flinched, retreating a step. “Nae one will let ye back in, and ’tis a damned sorry night to weather the elements.”

Lorne laughed and shook his head. “Have ye looked outside the past hour? Nae one is goin’ anywhere. No’ tonight nor tomorrow, Cousin.”

Still chuckling evilly, he tramped away on unsteady feet, listing to the right and then the left every few paces.

Marjorie had examined the grounds from her tower window before coming below. Lorne Buchannan exaggerated greatly. He might be uncomfortable but wouldn’t perish if tossed from the keep tonight.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” All of a sudden, Marjorie only wanted to seek her bed and pretend the last ten minutes had never taken place. “If you’ll excuse me—”

Unexpectedly, Keane extended a hand. “Dance with me, Marjorie.” His hazel eyes, the irises rimmed in forest green, softened at the corners and his firm mouth hitched upward. “Please. I have it on good authority ye dance divinely.”

Marjorie couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to, in truth. She’d wanted to dance with Keane since that fateful night last August. And she did so love to dance.

She angled her head as she laid her hand in his. “Whoever told you that falsehood misled you. I am at best mediocre, Your Grace. Unless, of course, you count exuberance, of which I own an abundance when it comes to stepping to the music.”

“Keane,” he corrected softly. “And I sincerely doubt there’s a single thing mediocre about ye, Marjorie.”

Startled, she glanced upward.