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Sampson groaned in gratitude as he stepped out of the carriage and stretched his hands above his head, wincing as joints in his legs and hips popped.

With a sigh, he turned back to the carriage, smiling as he held his hand out to the other passenger within.

“Careful now, darling Duchess. I would not want you to trip and fall into my arms, therefore stirring your deep affection for me—much like those dramatic plays,” he teased with a grin.

Catherine giggled, slipping her hand into his and using his tight grip as leverage to step out of the carriage.

“I have not seen such plays—or indeed any before. But I have a feeling that you needn’t worry. I have never had a flair for the dramatics either.”

“I must change that soon. You are missing out on several artistic wonders and atrocities,” Sampson replied, leading her to the entrance of the inn.

“That sounds like a lovely idea. However, I must protest the manner in which I was invited to this outing. It does not sound as romantic as I suspect you intended.” Catherine pouted, turning her face away in mock displeasure.

Sampson fought the urge to smile, tugging her closer.

“Wait until we return home. I will be sure to romance you thoroughly,” he declared seriously.

Catherine giggled, avoiding his gaze as a deep blush rose to her cheeks. Sampson decided not to push her too much, ensuring that she was tucked securely against his side as he went to request a room.

The procedures that followed were fairly swift, and soon they were given a cozy room to rest for the night. It was certainly not bad, as far as inns went in small towns, and the soft glow of the flickering candlelight made everything appear much warmer.

Catherine sank onto the edge of the small bed with a grateful sigh, stretching her arms out in front of her with a slight groan. Sampson suspected that her muscles ached from the long hours spent cooped up in the carriage, but she had not uttered a single complaint.

It had been hard for him to tear his eyes off her since their departure from Scotland. Now that they had finally gotten a chance to lay their heads and be still for a moment, he became a flurry of quiet concern.

He quickly instructed a servant to fetch some warm water and plumped the pillows with meticulous care afterward as Catherine climbed into bed, her hair loose and cascading down her back.

For a moment, he lost his train of thought as he watched her crawl on the sheets in her flimsy nightgown, the lacy white strap slipping down her shoulder. There was so much… pale skin on display.

He wanted to hold her and ravish her, wanted to mark her with his fingertips and his teeth. He wanted her to scream his name, to give everything within her to him.

But… perhaps not tonight. It would be best to let her rest.

Resigning himself to that fate, Sampson waited until she was settled, then pressed a steaming cup of herbal tea into her hands.

“Here, love,” he murmured, his voice a low caress. “Drink this slowly. It will help you relax.”

He could only hope that they were able to rest well enough tonight to resume their journey the next day.

Catherine’s heart fluttered at the term of endearment, a warmth spreading through her that had little to do with the tea.

She had noticed his intentional, consistent care for her well-being, which had begun before they left Scotland. The gentle way he held her, the way his blue eyes seemed to linger on her with such tenderness, caused hope to bloom in her heart.

His behavior now was a stark contrast to the cold aloofness she had first encountered, and this affectionate Sampson made her believe that perhaps her dreams of love and a family with him were not so far-fetched.

Catherine wanted to say something to him, to confess her love for him, which was rapidly flooding her lungs and constantly making it difficult for her to breathe. She needed to let him know how she felt so that they could start their lives together properly.

“Sampson…” she began, only to hesitate as she took in the sight before her eyes.

Sampson was standing a few feet away and had begun to unroll one of the spare blankets they had been given on the floor near the fireplace, preparing his usual makeshift bed.

Disappointment filled Catherine as watched him, a hint of longing stirring within her.

“Not this again,” she sighed to herself. “Surely that cannot be comfortable. Especially not in this weather.”

The floor looked cold and unforgiving, and the thought of him sleeping down there, so close yet so far, was unbearable.

“Sampson,” she called softly, her voice a little hesitant.