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“I’d never have thought the Duke of Roxdale the sort to like cats,” Berget commented as they exited the castle. “He seems more like a horse and a dog man. Cats can be quite temperamental.”

“He rescued them as kittens. Before their eyes opened, he told me. They think he’s their mother.” Marjorie lifted a shoulder as they stepped out into the brisk night air. “I suppose he couldn’t help becoming attached.”

Berget nodded, her face aglow. “Like I fell in love with Frigg’s pups.”

The puppies had been utterly adorable.

Marjorie looked past Camden’s broad form to Graeme. “I was going to ask if you’d consider allowing the girls a kitten or two when we return home? I think it would do them good to learn to be responsible for another creature’s wellbeing.”

“I havena objection.” Graeme cocked his head. “I’m nae sure how the hounds will take to a couple of hissin’ kittens though.”

“I’m sure they will be just fine, darlin’,” Berget interjected. “After all, the dogs are sweet-tempered, and no’ all kittens bare their claws and spit.”

Five deerhounds claimed Killeaggian Tower as their home. Four had lived there before Berget’s arrival. A litter of pups had been born shortly after she’d become governess to Elana and Cora, and Graeme had gifted her the runt.

Smart man. The way to Berget’s wary heart had been through that wee pup.

They walked in silence the short distance to the area adjacent to the unlit bonfire.

Nearby, several open-sided tents stood erect. Many contained long tables laden with every sort of food. Others held barrels of ale and whisky, and a few more displayed various goods for sale. Dozens upon dozens of flaming torches entrenched in the ground lit the area and released twirling ribbons of smoke into the night sky.

Where the weak sun had reached today, the snow had melted, leaving the ground soggy, but in the shadows, snowdrifts remained. A slight wind blew, sending the torch flames to dancing and a shiver scuttling down Marjorie’s spine despite her heavy cloak.

Musicians played gaily as clansmen and women, villagers, tenants, as well as many of Keane’s distinguished guests danced or clapped to the energetic beat. Though the atmosphere was jovial and celebratory, she couldn’t help but notice the many heavily armed Scots wandering through the milling crowd or stationed at regular intervals throughout the festival grounds.

A swift perusal of the area and her gaze landed on the man she’d sought—the same enigmatic man who’d commandeered her thoughts all day.

Her heart gave a queer, joyful leap upon spying Keane.

“I care deeply for ye, Marjorie. Verra deeply.”

Did Keane love her?

Was that what he attempted to say?

And was that what this enigmatic feeling blossoming in her heart and soul was? She’d been in love before—very much so—but this sentiment was… More. She couldn’t even find the words to describe the depth of feeling, and a part of her felt disloyal to Sion for even giving the emotion credence.

Keane, a tankard in hand, stood talking jovially with a group of men. As if sensing her presence, he glanced toward her, and a decidedly possessive and provocative smile notched the corners of his mouth upward.

Her mouth swept upward in answer.

Marjorie had tasted those firm lips earlier today, and the experience had been heavenly. Even now, her body ached for more of Keane’s touch. For him to take her completely. Heat scampered up her cheeks, though whether from his scorching stare or her erotic musings, she couldn’t say.

Thank God, the vacillating shadows concealed her chagrin. But in case they didn’t entirely, she tucked her chin to her chest while pretending to fuss with a fastening to her cloak. It wouldn’t do for her family to start asking probing questions when she didn’t have a ready answer.

Keane excused himself, set aside his tankard and, with those strapping legs she’d so admired, he wended his way between boisterous merrymakers. Not once did his focus leave her, and she cast a furtive glance about to see if anyone had noticed.

Someone had—the singular person she’d not wanted to.

Blast and damn.

Of all the rotten luck.

Emerging from one of the tents, and stunning in a crimson and silver velvet cloak with a silver fox collar brushing her flawless throat, the very alluring Lady Constance Abercrombie had noticed.

She aimed her narrowed eyes at Marjorie, spearing her with each blink, and she hadn’t a doubt the woman loathed her. She counted herself fortunate she’d avoided any encounters alone with the hostile lady.

To her immense surprise, at that moment, Lady Constance produced a brilliant smile and gave a regal nod of her head toward Marjorie.