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Someone had rifled around inside his study. Several desk drawers gaped open, and papers and books lay strewn about the floor. Even the paintings hung askew as if someone had searched behind them.
For what?
Marjorie’s eyes widened as she took in the mess, and she turned in a slow circle.
“Keane?” Her delicate features tense, she cast him an apprehensive glance. “It looks as if there’s been a robbery. Did…?” She paled and flattened a hand to her splendid bosom.
God rot him for noticing her breasts at a moment like this.
“Did one of your guests do this?” Her voice strained with dismay, she gestured to the disarray.
“I dinna ken. ’Tis possible, I suppose.” But not probable. He pulled his mouth into a rigid line and, bracing his hands on his hips, scanned the room again. “I dinna keep any valuables in here.”
While he wouldn’t rule out the possibility that a guest was responsible for the room’s condition, his gut shouted otherwise.
This chaos had Lorne’s revenge written all over it.
But what had he been searching for, and how had he gained entrance?
He and Bothan knew Keane didn’t keep money or other valuables in the study. They were tucked away safely in a locked chest, somewhere neither his cowardly cousin nor sly uncle would ever discover.
A quick inspection revealed the tall window at the room’s far end stood partially open. Since it latched from within, someone had either used the opening to escape or unlatched it to permit someone to enter.
He’d wager on the latter.
No doubt, the spy in his midst had done so, which reaffirmed his suspicions about Lorne. By damn, before week’s end, he’d know who the traitor was and just how long they’d been working for his cousin and uncle. And he’d start locking his study when not in use.
“Perhaps you ought to see to this first, Keane. Our discussion can wait.”
Marjorie crouched and started gathering documents, her crimson hair swinging over one shoulder. She’d left it down today except for the sides pulled back into a loose knot at the back of her head.
“There’s nae need for ye to do this.” Taking one knee beside her, he collected the papers from her grasp.
His fingers brushed her hand, and she inhaled sharply, dropping her gaze.
A satisfied grin pulled the corners of his mouth upward.
He gathered her hands in his, and she brought her gaze up to meet his. “Keane?”
“Leave it,” he said, helping her stand. Still holding her hand in his, he led her to the sofa facing the fireplace. Unlike the great hall’s fireplace, a fire snapped and crackled its blue and white tiled, freshly swept hearth. “Please sit.”
Eyebrows knitted, Marjorie settled onto the plump cushion.
When Keane sat beside her, his thigh brushing hers, her chest rose with another swift intake of breath. She licked her lower lip and then, as if realizing what she did, ceased abruptly.
“You had something you wished to say to me in private?” she asked.
“Aye.”
But where to begin?
Just come out with it?
Would that be too bold and put her off?
“Marjorie…”
She went still suddenly, her stricken dark-honey gaze colliding with his. “Have my daughters done—”
