Page 17
It would ruin everything—the tentative peace and any hope for reconciliation between the Kennedys and Buchannans. She wouldn’t be the cause of another chasm between the cousins. Not when they still walked on eggshells around each other.
At last, she found her tongue. Presenting her chilliest demeanor, she snapped, “I have no interest in dancing with you, Mr. Buchannan. Not now or in the future. Kindly take your leave and do not trouble me with your presence again.”
With all the composure she could muster, given her stomach threatened to cast up her dinner and she shook with repressed fury, she presented her back and sought a familiar face as an excuse to leave him where he stood.
The only women she knew, Berget and the lovely Granville sisters, still danced. Perhaps the friendly matron resembling a peacock?
She searched the crowd for Lady Kilpatrick to no avail.
Behind her, Lorne Buchannan breathed in uneven rasps, and she hadn’t a doubt he’d trained his attention on her bottom. The licentious bounder.
Widow’s needs, indeed.
If she were a man, he’d now lay upon the polished floor, out cold from the punch she’d have delivered to his face.
“Dinna play sluttish games with me,” he growled, seizing her upper arm in a punishing grip.
Gasping and trying to free herself without causing a scene, she poured all of her outrage into the glare she leveled him. “Unhand me, you ill-mannered fiend.”
Excitement glittered in his eyes, a dingy, swamp-brown compared to Keane’s breathtaking hazel.
He relishes intimidating females.
If her flesh hadn’t already been crawling, it would’ve at that knowledge. Crawled right off her bones and scuttled into the nearest hidey-hole.
His fingers bit cruelly into the tender flesh of her upper arm and she winced. His mouth slid into a twisted, sinister grin. He enjoyed hurting her.
No. It was more than that.
Lorne Buchannan enjoyed inflicting pain on women. It gave him pleasure.
Her mind shied away from the revolting, perverse truth she’d stumbled upon.
Did Keane know?
Good Lord, how could he not?
Why had he invited this monster to the Hogmanay celebration? Because they were cousins? Surely that wasn’t cause enough to put his female guests at the mercy of this… This… Villain.
Shoulders squared and her chin elevated, she refused to show her fear. “I. Said. Unhand. Me.” Panic swirled in her breast. Surely he wouldn’t force her from the ballroom. Someone would notice.
Wouldn’t they?
Like they’d noticed her earlier today?
Truth be told, Marjorie wasn’t altogether certain anyone would be aware if she was dragged from the room and, with every passing second, she regretted the decision to stand near the doors.
“Or what?” he whispered silkily, a threat underlying his deceptive calm.
“Or I’ll gladly break every bone in yer hand. Then yer arm. Mayhap, even yer damned face.” Keane’s throaty baritone wrapped around her as he delivered the flinty vow.
At once, Lorne released her, and she staggered sideways a pair of steps.
Keane’s hand lashed out to steady her, but he never shifted his warrior’s murderous gaze from his cousin.
Oh, thank God.
Marjorie closed her eyes in a flood of relief so profound she nearly sagged to the polished floor. Instead, she sucked in several short, panting breaths and willed her fear and repulsion to dissipate as she furtively glanced around to see if anyone had observed the exchange.
