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She parted her lips as if to object, but he touched a fingertip to the soft mounds, and she promptly snapped her mouth shut. She might not have voiced her displeasure with his request, but her gaze revealed muted rebellion.
“Please dinna defy me in this, Marjorie. I’ll assign a guard to ye if I must.”
After the study break-in, he’d be assigning extra sentries in any event.
An endless moment stretched on and on, and at last she gave a resigned nod. “All right. I trust that you know best.”
Turning his focus to the door, vibrating yet again with instant thumps, Keane asked, “Ready?”
“Yes.” She gave one short nod and squared her shoulders.
The key made a soft grating sound as he rotated it, but before he could press the latch, the door swung violently inward, almost smacking him and Marjorie in the faces. He grabbed her, yanking her out of harm’s way, prepared to defend her with his life if he must.
Bothan charged in and stumbled to an abrupt halt. Unshaven, his clothing disheveled, and great puffy pouches beneath his bloodshot eyes, he looked like he hadn’t slept since he left Trentwick. Or bathed or changed his clothing.
“I beg yer pardon.” Clearly abashed, he noisily cleared his throat and scratched his head. “I dinna ken ye werna alone.”
Keane didn’t fail to notice his uncle didn’t greet Marjorie, or, in fact, in any way acknowledge her presence. Just like him to carry a grudge and wrongly blame her for Lorne’s foul behavior.
“I was just leaving, Mr. Buchannan.” As always, she displayed impeccable decorum and by addressing Bothan directly, she’d forced him to acknowledge her. She’d make a splendid duchess.
He dipped his chin, muttering rather sullenly, “Lady Kennedy.”
She turned a doe-eyed glance to Keane. “I look forward to the tour of Trentwick later.”
With regal grace, she swept from the room in a rustle of blue satin, leaving the faintest trace of roses and lemon behind.
No sooner had she departed than Bothan shut the door with considerable force. “I came to warn ye, Keane,” he blurted without preamble. He looked about wildly, his eyebrows knitting together at the room’s condition.
“Warn me?” Keane asked, impatient to continue with the Hogmanay preparations.
Swinging his frazzled gaze back to Keane, Bothan’s eyes brimmed with something akin to terror. “Lorne has vowed to get even with ye.”
“He’s been gettin’ even with me for decades, Uncle.” As if Bothan were unaware of Lorne’s penchant for pettiness and his thinly veiled jealousy. “However, Lorne’s gone too far this time. He burned out one of my tenants yesterday. Someone could have died, and this time I intend to banish him for his idiocy.”
“Shite,” Bothan mumbled, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and shaking his head. “Goddammit.”
“I fail to comprehend why Lorne havin’ a fit of temper has ye so distraught.” Eyebrows raised, Keane crossed his arms and regarded his father’s twin. Lorne’s tantrums were commonplace. “Or is it my intent to exile him that has distressed ye? Ye won’t sway me, nae matter what arguments ye might present. He has become a threat to my people and has brought this on himself.”
Rather than argue, Bothan scratched his stubbly chin. “What in all the saints happened here?”
“I dinna ken.” Keane shrugged, once more eyeing the disorder. “But it appears someone plundered my study in search of somethin’, though I canna imagine what. I actually suspect Lorne is behind it, if ye want the truth.”
“The damned, stupid fool.” His uncle let loose with several additional vile oaths, consternation and fury pinching his face into angry lines.
Keane crossed to the sideboard and, after pouring two fingers’ worth of whisky for himself and his uncle, extended a cut crystal glass toward his Bothan. “Ye look as if ye could use this.”
Bothan didn’t hesitate and seized the glass, downing the umber contents in one swift gulp. His eyes slightly wild-looking, he shoved the glass toward Keane. “Another, please.”
Keane obliged him, narrowing his gaze when his uncle gulped down the second glass as well, then peered longingly at the decanter.
When Keane didn’t offer to refill it a third time, Bothan released an exaggerated sigh and banged the glass down upon the desk. He rocked back on his heels, lips drawn into a rigid line, and his eyes downcast.
“Lorne isna furious with ye for banishin’ him from Trentwick.” He glanced up in contrition. “Och, that isna precisely the truth. He’s mad as hell about it. He had his heart set on beddin’ the Kennedy wench.”
“Watch yerself, Uncle,” Keane warned in a low, menacing tone. “I havena forgotten yer previous disrespect toward the woman I intend to make my duchess.”
Bothan’s jaw came unhinged, and, opened mouth, he blinked like an owl blinded by sunlight. “Du… Duchess?” he croaked. Heartily flummoxed, he cleared his throat. “Ye would wed the widow?”
