To Defy a Highland Duke Read online

  He hadn’t entertained on this scale before.

  This gathering was part of a calculated plan to change the perception of the Roxdale duchy—a long overdue and disregarded necessity. Whereas the previous generations of dukes had been self-serving, demanding, harsh, and cared little about those they were responsible for, Keane strove to change that perception to one of fairness and benevolence.

  Sending another circumspect glance around the hall, he nodded to himself, satisfied. Aye, this was a good start. Well-fed and most nursing a cup of ale or a glass of wine, his guests sat or stood in clusters discussing whatever inanity people found to babble about at such functions.

  Trentwick’s interior wasn’t gaudy or ornate. Nonetheless, the castle was magnificent in its own right. A hearty fire burned in the hearth large enough to accommodate five average-sized men within its immense spans. The flames cast cavorting shadows on those huddled nearby, absorbing the hearth’s warmth.

  Pennants and weaponry adorned three of the stone walls, as did various garlands of greeneries. Clean, hospitable, and welcoming. Exactly as Keane had ordered, and his servants hadn’t failed his expectations.

  A swell of pride engulfed him. Despite his lineage consisting mainly of monumental arses—the prior dukes, that was—they’d maintained the keep and grounds to a standard even he couldn’t fault.

  The coffers and grain houses overflowed. The fields, barns, and stables were full.

  It seemed the only areas his forefathers had lacked mastery in were kindness and benevolence. And morals. Don’t forget that. His forefathers had rutted liked wild animals, drunk like pished tipplers, and to his knowledge, not a one had been faithful to his duchess.

  Even his esteemed sire had brazenly kept his mistress at Trentwick for a couple of years. She’d run off with one of his guards when Keane had been eleven or twelve. After she’d caught him, yet again, tupping another maid.

  Given the prior dukes’ penchants for swiving anything in a skirt, he wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t related to half of the villagers and tenants. Odd that the fifth duke had never remarried or produced additional offspring, legitimate or otherwise. Particularly considering the resentment he harbored toward Keane.

  Could the few months of marriage to his mother have truly put him off matrimony so very much?

  Half a year. Six months.

  That had been the extent of his parents’ union. His mother had been well into her fourth month of increasing before the forced ceremony had taken place, and she’d died weeks after Keane’s birth.

  So many questions plagued him.

  Questions that would forever remain unanswered.

  Keane’s attention snared on a group of Highlanders loudly chortling and slapping one another’s backs a few feet from the fireplace.

  Bothan and Lorne.

  Displeasure skewed Keane’s brows into a harsh vee. No bloody surprise his uncle and cousin were amongst the rowdier attendees. They’d revel to excess the entire time, and past experience dictated any females below fifty years of age weren’t safe from their groping or vulgar insinuations.

  Uncle Bothan Buchannan and his son had been amongst the first arrivals. In point of fact, they hadn’t been invited but had somehow learned of the gathering. Brazen as hell, and despite the lack of invitation, a missive arrived a fortnight ago stating their intentions to attend. Given they took after their unsavory Buchannan predecessors, Keane would’ve preferred they’d not.

  In truth, he’d rather not acknowledge the kinship at all.

  His scowl deepened as Lorne made a ribald comment of some sort and palmed his groin in a crude imitation of sexual congress. Odin’s teeth! There were innocent women and children present. So help him God, he hadn’t a qualm about sending one or both on their way at the slightest provocation.

  A rift between Gordan Buchannan and his twin had spared Keane, his uncle’s company, for most of his youth. However, when Gordan’s health began failing, first Bothan, then his irritating son, had put in regular, unsolicited appearances at Trentwick.

  Not that Gordan agreed to see them.

  He’d ordered his twin and nephew from the keep each time with the threat of bodily harm should they return. They did, of course—came slithering back, speculative glints in their greedy eyes.

  As was his implacable, unforgiving nature, Gordan had remained mulishly obstinate until he drew his last quavering breath, a proclivity which had infuriated Bothan and Lorne alike. Keane had never learned the cause of the dispute between Gordan and Bothan, and his uncle adamantly refused to discuss the reason for the quarrel.

  So many, many dark secrets haunted the Buchannans. If Keane were the superstitious sort, he might believe the whispers about a family curse. One irrefutable truth remained, however: if he never saw his uncle or cousin again, he’d not grieve the loss.

  Ever vigilant, he slid a glance around the room, taking in his guests and servants.

  He’d directed his female staff to keep their distance from Bothan and Lorne and to work in pairs. He’d also instructed the menservants to be extra diligent to protect the women in Keane’s employ.

  His uncle and cousin had reputations for forcing their attentions on unwilling lasses, and by God, during this stay, no woman would fear for her virtue. This visit, Keane had gone so far as to assign them isolated chambers away from the other guests’ and servants’ quarters.

  His focus lingered on three maids chatting near the hearth before gravitating to a pair of forest green and black liveried footmen roaming the room dispersing beverages and collecting empty cups. The Hogmanay celebration hadn’t been a secret, but he suspected one of his servants regularly passed information to his father’s twin.

  Keane expected loyalty from his servants, clan, and tenants, and it was past time he learned the conspirator’s identity and dismissed the traitor. The notion that someone conveyed information to his uncle had been in the back of his mind for months, but he couldn’t conceive which of his servants had betrayed his trust.

  Bothan and Lorne always, mysteriously seemed abreast of everything that occurred at Trentwick, and on more than one occasion, Keane had to remind his opinionated uncle that he wasn’t the duke.

  That truth always earned a thunderous scowl and a muttered curse.

  In truth, Bothan and Lorne held Keane in no fonder esteem than he did them. Yet, here they were, like pests or vermin. Always appearing when one least desired them to make their presence known, and never disappearing as quickly as one would prefer.

  Hands and jaw clenched, he speared his sot of a cousin a lethal glare.

  At this very moment, Lorne all but leered at Marjorie as if she were a dockside strumpet. He licked his lips, his focus dropping to the teasing swell of her breasts.

  Keane took an involuntary step forward, prepared to throttle the wretch. A broken nose ought to knock the lecherous glint from his eyes.

  Then—blast his bloody plan—he recalled his purpose in inviting everyone for the Hogmanay festivities. He would be no better than Lorne or the other generations of Buchannans before him, if he planted his fist in his cousin’s lascivious face, damn it all.

  Features schooled into an indecipherable mask, Keane permitted himself a long blink. God’s teeth, but it would be magnificently satisfying to feel the bones of Lorne’s prominent nose flatten beneath his blow. He wanted to challenge any man who looked upon Marjorie with anything other than brotherly interest, but he couldn’t very well fight with half the men present and still claim he was a better man than his predecessors.

  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 delici
ous.

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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 himself, 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?

  From the carefully passive look on her face and the slightly hurt and uneasy gleam in her pretty eyes, it happened often enough that she’d learned to conceal her distress.

  Alone in a foreign country, in a household of people she didn’t know.

  Much like his mother, except Mother, at least, had been a Scot.

  He may not have ever known his mother, but what he’d heard of her bore the makings of a Shakespearian tragedy. She’d been despoiled—forced to marry a man she didn’t know and had no desire to wed. Afterward, a vengeful Gordan Buchannan had ignored and disdained her. Frail and homesick, and utterly unhappy, his mother had died at the tender age of eighteen, a mere month after Keane’s birth.

  To this day, the ugly whispers he’d heard of his pathetic mother’s suffering rested like a festering glob in his gut.

  His father had done nothing to make a difficult situation tolerable, either.

  Pulling on his earlobe, he surreptitiously observed Marjorie.

  How long had she lived in Scotland anyway?

  Why hadn’t she returned to England when Sion died?

  “Your home is magnificent, Your Grace. I’m sure there’s a great deal of history attached to the keep.” And there she went, making polite conversation to fill the yawning gap caused by the other Kennedys deserting her mere minutes after their arrival.

  Did she always do what was polite and expected?

  Lorne and Bothan excused themselves from the Highlanders they’d been conversing with, and their faces wreathed in too bright smiles, their boot heels noisily clacking on the stone floor, shoved and elbowed a path to Keane.

  Eager for an introduction, were they?

  Keane was of half a mind to take Marjorie by the arm and lead her from the room. Instead, he reflexively fisted his hands at the distinct male interest Lorne levied at Marjorie from his bulgy, thickly hooded eyes.

  Thank God, Keane hadn’t inherited that particular Buchannan trait.

  For her part, Marjorie’s attention remained on her surprisingly well-behaved daughters. After Keane’s first encounter with the lasses, he’d suspected they were indulged and cosseted. Spoiled by their mother, perhaps out of a misplaced sense of guilt that they were fatherless.

  Observing the docile lasses, their eyes wide and inquisitive as they examined the hall, he furrowed his brow slightly. He might’ve jumped to an unwarranted conclusion, and a stab of guilt at his hasty judgment pricked him.

  The girls before him were not impudent, ill-behaved imps.

  He observed Marjorie as she took in the great hall, offering a reserved smile now and again. How could he not admire her poise? Her self-possession?

  When he’d stepped from the keep, and had seen her, face upturned and breasts pointing skyward, awe had fleetingly overcome him. And he, Keane Evan Sloan Buchannan, Sixth Duke of Roxdale, did not awe easily. In truth, he didn’t give place to worthless emotion or sentiment. Hence his momentary lapse when he’d first seen her outside his keep had proved all the more disconcerting.

  True, he’d believed her attractive at Killeaggian Tower last August. Her mass of brilliant red hair, reflecting bronze and copper and every hue of the sunset, held him in thrall. Though red-haired women were supposed to be bad luck, her brilliant hair made the risk worthwh
ile.

  Tall and slender, she possessed gently rounded curves in all the places a man yearned to smooth his palm over and trail his lips across. Satiny warm, soft places. Places that held delicious secrets, tantalizing sensations, and delectable promises. Her thick-lashed eyes, a shade between treacle and rich whisky, revealed kindness but also suffering.

  She was attractive in an unaffected way. But when she smiled—God help him. Her smile transformed her into a blinding, mesmerizing beauty. When he’d seen her in the courtyard, her silky lashes fanning her creamy cheeks and her face a picture of serenity as snowflakes swirled around her, he’d been struck dumb.

  She’d been like a fairy princess or an ethereal being.

  Then she opened her eyelids, and her magnificent gaze had tangled with his. And for several interminable heartbeats, something powerful and undefinable had traveled between them.

  At last, his common sense had returned, slamming him back to reality, and Keane had deliberately skewed his mouth in a sardonic manner certain to put her on her guard.

  Never again would a Kennedy accuse a Buchannan of unwanted or untoward attentions.

  Even after Keane’s birth, and until his dying day, the former duke had privately vowed he wasn’t Keane’s father. As his mother had died when he was scarcely a month old, he’d never known the truth of his conception.

  However, the man the world considered his father could scarcely stand to look upon him. When Gordan Buchannan, Fifth Duke of Roxdale, breathed his last, Keane had grieved for what had never been and what could never be, not for the man’s death. A bitter, unforgiving curmudgeon who wouldn’t even permit Keane to call him father, but demanded he address him Yer Grace, so great had his rancor been toward his heir.

  A niggling suspicion had always plagued Keane. A perpetual doubt he’d never voiced.

  Why would Gordan continue to avow his innocence?

  Even after his wife had given him a son and heir?