Page 6

Well done, my darlings.

She couldn’t prevent the half-smile she permitted herself, even as she looked at a point behind him.

“Welcome to Trentwick.” Roxdale’s low, melodious brogue carried to her as he swung his attention to Graeme. He extended his arm for his cousin’s hearty clasp. He then gripped Camden’s forearm before dipping his head toward Berget. “Lady Kennedy.”

“Your Grace.” Although surely stiff from the journey and cold, she dipped into a pretty curtsy.

Lastly, he turned those enigmatic hazel eyes on Marjorie and her daughters. Today his eyes appeared more green than gray. The color reminded her of the moors after a heavy rain. He angled his ebony head, the longish hair so black that it almost held a blue tone. “My lady, Miss Cora. Miss Elana.”

To her astonishment, her daughters mimicked their Aunt Berget and dipped into passably decent curtsies. Perhaps mimicking shouldn’t be discouraged after all.

One impressive eyebrow rose, a distinct glint of amusement. But there was, perhaps, a challenge in his gaze. “Ah, I see ye took my advice to heart about teachin’ the lasses proper comportment.”

Keane almost choked on the laugh he swallowed, but mirth continued to burble behind his breastbone. Bad of him to provoke Marjorie Kennedy before she’d even set foot inside his ancestral home.

Her soft, red lips pressed into a disapproving line while sparks flew from her turbulent treacle-brown eyes. Keane would wager his new basket-hilted broadsword that she’d have the last word on the matter. Perverse as it was, he looked forward to their verbal sparring.

It was oddly invigorating, and the merest iota tantalizing.

As everyone entered the keep, he exchanged banal pleasantries with Graeme and Camden. Despite the Kennedys’ genial overture last summer, a residue of strain remained between the two clans.

However, that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to uphold his part in mending the rift.

Neither he nor his cousins were responsible for the inciting incident, and the characters playing a role in that debacle had departed the earth years ago. It was past time to let bygones be bygones and forge a future together.

Allies were invaluable in the Highlands, and the clans had been joined by marriage decades ago—an ill-fated and unfortunate union, to be sure. Still, it made sense for the Kennedys and Buchannans to support each other.

He’d planned a hunting party for tomorrow, a bonfire for the villagers and tenants on the last day of December, and several other activities to keep his guests entertained.

Keane intended to visit a few households for first footing. Given that he matched the description of the ideal guest to cross the threshold first, much anticipation preceded his annual visits. Also, chatter and wagering commenced amongst his people regarding which fortunate households Keane would grace.

Of its own volition, his attention strayed to Marjorie Kennedy. As a red-haired woman, she epitomized the worst visitor one could entertain for first footing. Not that he believed such superstitions, but many of his people did.

Broad of shoulder and built like bulls, the Kennedy brothers studied the entry with appraising gazes. Known far and wide as expert stalkers, they ought to enjoy the hunt. Given the large numbers of people Keane anticipated feeding this week, a stag or two or three wouldn’t go amiss.

Too bad wild boars no longer roamed the woodlands. He’d ordered a hog and steer butchered as well. That meat, in addition to the myriad of fowl and fish always served at such fetes, assured no one would go hungry.

“Have Bethea and Branwen returned from the village yet, Nevin?” Keane’s wards, the Glanville sisters, had insisted they must have new gowns for Hogmanay, and they’d ventured to the village to collect their masterpieces today. Since they seldom asked him for anything frivolous, Keane had yielded to their pretty requests.

“Nae yet, Yer Grace,” Nevin replied as he accepted the Kennedys’ outward attire.

Keane’s wards were taking advantage of their day out, it seemed.

In truth, Branwen had been his father’s goddaughter. When the sisters’ parents had died fifteen years ago, Gordan Buchannan, fifth Duke of Roxdale, became their guardian. When he’d cast off his mortal coil a mere five years later from the ague, Keane had assumed their guardianship.

Branwen and Bethea were as close as sisters to him, and he protected them as if they were. No fewer than four armed clansmen and two maids had accompanied the lasses on their outing today.

In truth, Bethea, at one and twenty, and Branwen, at twenty, ought to be married by now. Except he didn’t consider any man deserving of them, and he’d restricted their social interactions for fear of something untoward happening to them as it had happened to his unfortunate mother.

Neither was pleased to be unwed, and both regularly suggested they’d end up spinsters because of him.

“As soon as they arrive home, please inform them I wish a word with them,” Keane said to the servant, whose arms were laden with the Kennedys’ outerwear.

He must warn Bethea and Branwen to be on their guards this week. With the number of visitors, strangers, and friends alike descending upon the keep, extra diligence was necessary.

“Indeed, Yer Grace,” came the butler’s muffled reply.

Berget Kennedy gave Keane a friendly glance, an openness in her features not present in the others. “I enjoyed Branwen and Bethea’s company at the cèilidh. I quite look forward to seein’ them again.”