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Compared to this scunner, Gordan Buchannan now seemed like a veritable saint.
God, how the devil’s glee must be echoing within the many levels of hell at this moment.
“After ye were born, I wrote Gordan a letter confessin’ the truth about Winifred,” Bothan said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Which, of course, he kent anyway. He was nae fool.”
“My mother mistook ye for him?” Or had the human turd pretended to be Gordan when he’d despoiled her?
Guilty color suffused Bothan’s face, and he opened his eyes.
Well, that answered that question.
How outraged Gordan must’ve been, trapped by his twin. His married twin. A man with a wee bairn of his own.
“I was drunk that night,” Bothan admitted.
When wasn’t he?
“That’s nae excuse for yer despicable behavior,” Keane gritted out, flexing his fingers and welcoming the viciousness humming through every pore. The violence kept him focused, forced him to dredge up a degree of control he didn’t know he had, or else Bothan Buchannan would be lying on the floor already.
Shamefaced, Bothan scrubbed at his face with a hand, muttering, “I asked for Gordan’s forgiveness, though I kent I dinna deserve it. I dinna ken if my brother saved the letter, but if he did, ’tis proof ye are my son. Lorne came completely undone when I told him.” He swiped a shaking hand across his face. “Screaming and throwin’ things.”
“I’ve never come across such a letter. I doubt Gordan would’ve saved it, such was his hatred toward ye.” Keane poured himself another dram and tossed it back, savoring the burning trail to his stomach.
Or mayhap, he had saved the incriminating missive to use against Bothan.
If so, Gordan had concealed it well, because in his many years as laird and duke, Keane had never come across the missive.
Christ on the cross!
Keane’s snapped his head up. “Did Lorne say anythin’ about Marjorie?”
“Nae.” Bothan shook his head. “His grudge is with ye, no’ her.”
Keane didn’t believe that entirely.
“Ye’ll leave Trentwick, now, and I never want to see ye here or on Buchannan lands again.” He could scarcely bring himself to look upon the man who’d sired him.
“What of Lorne?” Bothan asked wearily as he struggled to stand, a weak and dissipated old man cracking under the weight of his many sins at last.
“Never fear on that account. I’ll deal with him.”
Humming to herself, Marjorie secured the fastenings of her heavy woolen cloak as she nodded at two massive, armed sentries before she descended the narrow stone stairwell. They returned her greeting with somber nods. That made ten—no, twelve—additional guards she’d seen about the castle since this morning.
A result of Bothan’s visit?
The thought made her uneasy, especially after someone had wreaked havoc in Keane’s study.
She hadn’t intended to participate in tonight’s festivities beyond the lighting of the bonfire, but since her heady encounter with him in his office this morning, she’d had a change of plans.
Besides, hadn’t she promised to toast the new year with him?
Expectation made her tummy turn over.
She hadn’t been this giddy in a long while, and she wouldn’t attempt to deceive herself. Keane was the cause. It wasn’t just his undeniable good looks and magnificent physique, though she admired both. It was discovering who he was as a man, as a person, that had her bewitched.
She’d misjudged him. Neither of them had been on their best behavior all those months ago, but since he’d so charmingly introduced his cats to her daughters, her heart—and other parts too—had quite decided they liked the duke. Very much, in truth.
His wife.
