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Dare he ask her to dance with him again?
He craved her touch, but, more so, yearned to hold her in his arms. Wrap his arms around her and make her his in every way a man did a woman.
He heaved a sigh.
Nae. No’ wise. He could justify one dance, but if Keane singled Marjorie out for another and didn’t invite several other ladies as well, he invited conjecture. Lady Constance’s vexed features crept to mind. She was a perfect example of superficial beauty. She’d been in a pout all day and twice had almost cornered him alone. In her case, he needed to guard his virtue.
He’d not put it past the woman to press her unwanted sexual advances and then cry foul in an attempt to force his hand. Swans would swim in Hades before he made her his duchess. For his people’s sake as much as his own.
He knew full well what a sniping, cruel wench she was.
Only this morning, a maid had rushed past him, chin tucked to her chest, tears seeping from her eyes, and her hand pressed to her reddened cheek. It had taken a good deal of cajoling, but she’d finally admitted Lady Constance had slapped her because she’d attended another guest’s hearth before hers.
No, indeed. That virago would never be the mistress of Trentwick.
He glanced into the great hall as he passed, gratified to see the fire banked and the room deserted. Mayhap, except for those servants he’d seen above, the rest had finally found their beds. They’d be tired on the morrow, and he felt for them.
A satisfied smirk twisted his mouth upward when he thought of Mrs. Dunlap.
Keane might’ve instructed his housekeeper to assure Lady Constance’s chamber was the last to be attended to each morning, and that Mrs. Dunlap herself would accompany the unfortunate maid assigned to Lady Constance’s chamber for the duration of the woman’s visit.
Lady Constance might be a shrew, but she was no match for Mrs. Dunlap. His housekeeper could cow the fiercest Scots warrior with a single raised eyebrow. Cross Mrs. Dunlap, and Lady Constance Abercrombie would find her stay at Trentwick most inhospitable indeed.
He let himself out of the keep and walked the quarter mile to the loch, the fresh air clearing his mind.
A few minutes later, having stripped naked, Keane plunged into the loch’s icy water. A gasp escaped him on a long hiss as the frigid water closed over his head. Teeth chattering, he made quick work of bathing.
At last, on leaden legs and yawning widely, he made his way to his bedchamber, the soap wrapped in the wet towel cradled beneath one arm.
Utter exhaustion riddled him, and yet he hesitated for the space of three heartbeats outside Marjorie’s chamber. At this hour, she’d be asleep, of course. He laid his palm flat against the door’s panel.
Marjorie Kennedy. A beguiling enchantress. Nae, a distraction he couldn’t afford to indulge.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. Nevertheless, what surely must have been an indolent smile tipped his mouth.
Och, I shouldna, but it was pure bliss.
Never had a kiss rattled his senses so thoroughly or whipped a conflagration of desire into a lust-filled wildfire in the span of a single breath.
Passion burned in Marjorie beneath her poised façade. Passion hot enough to rival her flaming hair, and he wanted to take her to his bed and taste every inch of her.
Indulging an imprudent impulse, Keane had asked her to wait up, but he’d arrived to find the Martins’ cottage fully engulfed in flames. He wasn’t a laird who left his clan or tenants to deal with the aftermath of a calamity.
Just as well, because he didn’t know what he’d say to Marjorie.
Certainly not the things she no doubt wanted and expected to hear.
Exhaling a juddery sigh, he dropped his hand to his side and turned away. With pleasant thoughts of Marjorie Kennedy parading through his head, he found his bed and, following hours reliving their kiss and envisioning her in his bed as she slept, he eventually succumbed to slumber himself.
The moment Marjorie entered the great hall the next morning, she sought Keane. A silent, relieved breath rushed past her lips at the tableau before her.
He sat at the head of the table, the dark blue of his coat giving his neatly brushed hair a bluish tint. Shadows formed half-moons below his arresting hazel eyes, yet he played the considerate host, greeting each guest valiant enough to leave their chambers before noon and join him in breaking their fasts.
His gaze met hers, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in warmth. However, before he could wish Marjorie good morning, Lady Kilpatrick, sporting copious quantities of orange, pink, and yellow silk flowers atop her wig, prodded his arm.
Head angled in the matron’s direction, Keane’s avid gaze remained on Marjorie and heat unexpectedly warmed her cheeks. He shouldn’t look at her like that. Like they shared some great secret—we do—or as if he wanted to strip her naked and make love to her on the immense table.
What a wholly delicious notion. But without the guests present, of course.
