Page 23 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Eighteen

“Chan eil tuil air nach tig traoghadh.” There isn’t a flood which will not subside

U nable to sleep and driven by an almost desperate need for escape as dark memories replayed in her mind, Catriona rose from her bed like a shot in the night.

She dressed quickly in her riding habit and slipped out of the silent house.

The stables were quiet, the air cool and damp with the promise of morning. She saddled her favorite mare, a spirited chestnut, her movements swift and practiced.

As she urged the mare out of the stable yard, she spotted Richard in the distance.

“Blast it,” she muttered under her breath.

He was already mounted on his powerful black stallion, his face etched with the same restless energy that had driven her from her bed.

Aye, he cannae sleep either.

Their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment of their shared sleeplessness as they nodded to each other in greeting.

Catriona’s gaze drifted past him. In the distant horizon, she could make out a faint, thin wisp of smoke curling upwards. She could just make out the dark silhouette of a small cottage, nestled in the rolling hills.

An impulsive idea sparked in her mind, a reckless desire to outrun the shadows that haunted her.

She turned to Richard, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Good morning, Yer Grace,” she said, “How about a race to wake us up properly?”

“It’s the middle of the night, Duchess,” Richard’s brow furrowed. “And the ground is wet from the dew.”

“Are ye afraid?” Catriona taunted, a playful smirk curving her lips. “A wee mornin’ ride too much for the mighty Duke?”

She knew she was pushing him, in fact, deliberately provoking him, but she couldn’t resist the urge to break through.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he growled, but the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Very well, my wife. But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

“I wouldnae dream of it!” Catriona retorted, her eyes sparkling with fire. “Let’s race to the cottage. Ready?”

Without waiting for his reply, she spurred her mare forward, leaping into a gallop, its hooves thundered on the damp earth.

“Little minx,” Richard cursed under his breath, his deep voice carrying an edge of amusement.

He followed close behind as she picked up speed.

They raced across the estate, the wind whipping through their hair. The thrill of speed was a welcome distraction from their inner demons.

Catriona, to Richard’s surprise, proved to be a formidable opponent.

She rode with fierce determination, her seat steady and capable hands light on the reins.

She knew the land well after her many rides with Lydia, taking advantage of shortcuts and hidden paths that Richard, despite his familiarity with the estate, had overlooked.

The sky, once overcast but calm, had darkened into something far more menacing. Wind whipped across the open fields, rustling branches and flattening grass. Thunder growled low in the distance, and a sudden hush fell across the trees like a warning.

Richard reined in his stallion, pulling alongside Catriona to meet her.

“We need to turn back,” he shouted over the rising wind. “A storm is brewing.”

Catriona glanced upward. He expected protest, maybe even stubbornness. But what he saw instead was a quick calculation in her eyes, something alert and cautious.

“If we turn back now, we’ll be ridin’ straight into it,” she said, voice clear despite the wind. “The cottage is closer. Dry ground, stone walls. We’ll make it there in half the time.”

“It’s barely more than a shed,” he countered. “We’d do better to?—”

“We’d be fools to try,” she cut in, not unkindly, but firm. Her mare shifted beneath her, uneasy now, ears pinned, and nostrils flared. “If the trails flood or the trees come down, we’ll be stranded.”

Richard hesitated. He didn’t like changing plans mid-course, didn’t like the thought of sheltering in a crumbling gamekeeper’s cottage with the wind howling through the boards. But she wasn’t wrong.

Another crack of thunder echoed above them, louder this time. The first drops of rain began to splatter across his coat.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Catriona leaned slightly in the saddle, rubbing her mare’s neck, whispering something low and soothing. Her expression was tight, focused—but not panicked.

No, it was something else.

A quiet kind of urgency. Practical. Steeled. Not someone afraid of storms, but someone who knew exactly what they could do.

“We’ll be safer in the cottage,” she added, looking at him. “That’s all that matters, is it nae?”

He met her gaze, searching for something irrational in her plea—but there was none. Only the certainty of someone who’d lived through worse.

She turned without waiting for his answer and nudged her horse into a gallop.

Richard cursed under his breath, spurred his stallion after her, and followed the path that curved through the trees.

He had no choice but to follow, his frustration battling with a reluctant admiration for her capability.

She is a fiery mare.

They reached the cottage in perfect time, just as the fat drops of rain began to pelt them.

Catriona dismounted quickly, leading her mare under the meager shelter of the overhanging eaves and giving her a soft pet on the snout. She had the foresight to bring a carrot, which she offered to her then.

Richard arrived a moment later, his stallion shaking its head and snorting as the wind picked up.

He glared at Catriona as he dismounted his horse. “Couldn’t you wait a moment?”

Catriona, however, simply stood there, her chest heaving slightly from exertion, a triumphant smile playing on her lips.

“I believe I won, Yer Grace,” she smirked triumphantly, and he burned to wipe the smugness of her face—with his lips.

He noticed then that she was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face. Despite the cold, her eyes sparkled with a fiery energy that even a storm couldn’t put out.

“You are impossible,” he said, but this time not in jest.

“And ye are a sore loser, Yer Grace,” she teased, her voice light as if almost reading his mind.