Page 56
Keane’s unselfishness was one of the things she most admired about him. He took his duties as laird and duke seriously and didn’t only take advantage of the opportunities those positions afforded him.
He was good. Truly good and decent and wonderful at his core. His gruff exterior protected a sensitive, caring man.
As a child, she’d seen a remarkable stone once. There’d been nothing outstanding about the exterior, but the interior—oh, the gorgeous interior—had been a marvel of purple crystals. Amethysts, her grandfather had explained to her.
Keane was like that marvelous stone, except he also possessed an exterior any woman would sigh over. In truth, the good Lord had taken a great deal of time forming such an extraordinary man.
Marjorie still marveled that she’d ever believed otherwise. Still marveled that he wanted to make her his wife. And she wanted that too. Wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, to bear his children, share his joys and sorrows.
He’d heard the cry of her spirit tonight. Over and over and over, between prayers to God, she called out to Keane in her mind.
Help us. Please. Help us.
She’d never been so afraid. Utterly terrified.
Not for herself, but for Cora and Keane.
God, what a shock it had been to learn Lorne was his brother. There was a story there, and she’d be ready to listen when Keane was ready to tell what, no doubt, was a painful tale.
Sighing, she shifted her position and rested her head against the chair back.
When Berget had joined her in the nursery mere minutes after the calamity had ended, she’d been white-faced and shaking. “Graeme told me what happened,” she gulped, her violet eyes awash with tears. “I’m so verra relieved ye and the bairn are safe.” She managed an unsteady smile as she clasped Marjorie to her. “Yer the sister I never had, and I couldna bear the thought…”
“Keane and the cats rescued us,” Marjorie explained.
According to Berget, a locked and guarded cell deep beneath the castle held Lorne, his upper body a cartography of slashes, slices, scratches, and bites. Tomorrow, the authorities would collect him, and if he had truly murdered his father, the gallows awaited him.
Never before had Marjorie considered herself an unforgiving person, yet she couldn’t summon an ounce of pity for him. Not after he’d threatened her sweet, innocent daughter. The world would be a better place without the likes of men like Lorne Buchannan.
Midnight came and went, but Marjorie didn’t seek her bed. Keane had promised to see her before he found his, so unlike a couple of nights ago, she waited.
She had an answer for him. One, she must tell him tonight. She’d wait until dawn if that were what it took.
The clouds shifted again, permitting the quarter-moon to peek through.
Graeme had correctly predicted more charitable weather.
Given the events of tonight, would he still expect to leave on the morrow?
Even if he did, she’d not be going with him. No, this wondrous thing between her and Keane was too precious to abandon. Who had the right to say love needed weeks or months to mature? To be real and lasting?
She loved Keane.
Marjorie permitted her heavy eyelids to drift shut as she imagined what a future with him entailed. More children, hopefully. Strapping sons with their father’s glossy midnight hair and charming grin, and another wee daughter, this one a brunette too. Elana and Cora would be thrilled.
Sometime later, she felt a wisp of firm, velvety lips across hers. She curved her mouth upward slightly as she came fully awake, finding Keane crouched beside her, banked embers of desire flickering in his gaze.
“I’m sorry. I meant to stay awake.” She blinked sleepily, taking in his slightly damp midnight hair and the day’s growth of bristle shadowing his hewn jaw.
His fine lawn shirt gaped at the neckline, revealing a tantalizing display of hair, and the black breeches hugged the splendid, sculpted contours of his hips and thighs. He’d never looked more devilish or seductive, and Marjorie wanted this man with a ferocity that stunned her.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Almost half past two.” He cupped her cheek with his calloused hand. “I almost didna enter, and now I see had I no’, ye’d have spent the night curled in a knot. Ye’d have a sore neck for certain in the morn.”
Marjorie entwined her arms about the corded brawn of his neck, pulling him down to her. “I never thanked you for rescuing Cora and me.”
Ever so softly, she pressed her lips to his, needing his touch, this contact with this man who’d come to mean as much to her these past few days as air or food.
