Page 35 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“ I nnsidh na geòidh as t-fhoghar e.” The geese will tell it in autumn.

“Where is my wife, and where is Lydia?” With each passing moment, Richard’s worry grew stronger as he knew in his heart that something was desperately wrong.

The thunder of hooves against the gravel had shattered the afternoon quiet of Wilthorne as Richard arrived in a furious rush.

He dismounted before his horse had fully come to a halt, tossing the reins haphazardly to a startled stable hand.

He ran from the stables to the front door, as he burst into the grand hall.

But what?

“They took a walk in the gardens, Your Grace. Just the two of them. Lady Eliza was having a bath. I believe she is in her quarters,” Mrs. Jennings offered politely.

“Lady Eliza?”

“Yes, Lady Eliza has paid a visit upon Her Grace. You did not know?”

“Of course I did, it slipped my mind,” he said, recovering. “When did they leave?

“They must be having a grand time, they left quite a while ago, come to think of it,” Mr. Johnstone offered. He raised a brow, no doubt trying to discern the source of the duke’s agitated state.

Richard’s blood ran cold.

Alone and unescorted.

“In which direction did they go?” Richard barked, his voice strained, his gaze piercing. “Which part of the gardens? I need to know where they are!”

“Towards the rose arbor, Your Grace,” Mr. Johnstone replied, oblivious to the panic seizing in Richard’s chest as he looked at Mrs. Jennings curiously, as if she might know the answer. “I believe Her Grace mentioned it was particularly lovely this time of year.”

The rose arbor was a more secluded spot on the property, out of view from the main estate. Richard didn’t wait for another word. He spun on his heel, his long strides eating up the distance back to the stables.

“Boy, fetch my horse!” he shouted as his jog hastened to a full sprint.

He nearly knocked the boy over as he grabbed the saddle, throwing it onto the steed with desperate urgency. The leather creaked under the force of his movement as he pulled the fastening tight.

Without a command, the horse sensed its master’s frantic need for speed. Richard spurred the animal forward, galloping across the lawn as the wind whipped through his hair.

All he could see was Catriona, her beauty and fire, flashing before his eyes. He thought back to that day in the park, so long ago. He could still see her holding that pistol, ready to take on whomever would harm Lydia.

And Lydia.

His heart ached at his own foolishness in not listening to Catriona’s warning, blinded by his own grief and arrogance. He had dismissed her instincts.

He urged his horse faster, the pounding of its hooves a frantic drumbeat against the rising panic in his gut.

He had to reach them. He had to protect them.

For they were his whole life.

“Move, lassie ,” Lord Mortridge’s finger tightened around the trigger. “Is that how you want the young girl to spend her last moments? Seeing her favorite lady bleed out on the grass?”

Catriona could see in his eyes that he was prepared to silence them both once and forever. She knew that look too well, thinking back to the thug in Hyde Park. Too much trauma had befallen them, and she could not take any more.

What do I do, Faither? She asked in desperate prayer. Please, if ye can, send me some hope. Some sign of what to do.

Suddenly, a loud sound cut through the stillness of the woods that jolted her. It was the unmistakable thunder of a horse at full gallop.

Lord Mortridge’s head snapped up from his prey, his eyes narrowing and distracted by the sound.

“Who’s out there? Speak now!” he shouted, touting his gun in front of him and finger on the trigger. “I’ll shoot!”

Through the trees, a dark figure on horseback burst into view. It closed the distance with alarming speed, like hell on horseback.

Richard! Catriona screamed, her body almost limp at the relief of her husband’s appearance.

“You think your valiant husband can save you now, some old-fashioned knight in shining armor?” Mortridge snarled as he swung the pistol towards Catriona now, his face inches from hers. “I am afraid there are no happy endings in this story, Your Grace. Stop, or I’ll pull this trigger right now.”

Richard reined in his horse just paces away, looking down at the harrowing scene. His eyes were dark and desperate, locked solely onto Lord Mortridge.

“Why did you kill my brother, Sampson?” Richard’s voice was raw, not angry—just broken.

Catriona had never heard him sound like that. And perhaps that frightened her most of all.

The man across from him only shrugged. “He asked too many questions,” he said with a sneer. “Was poking his nose in places it didn’t belong. He became a loose end.”

His gaze flicked past Richard, landing on her and Lydia.

“Loose ends do seem to run in the family.”

Catriona’s heart shot into her throat. She felt Lydia press closer to her legs, clutching her skirts like a lifeline. And that sound—that small, breathy whimper—cut through her like a blade.

Nae more .

She met Richard’s eye. A blink. A nod.

She moved.

With every ounce of strength left in her, she lunged at Mortridge like a creature possessed. Her fingers sank into his wrist—hard—nails digging deep like claws. He roared in surprise.

“You wench?—!”

She yanked downward with all her weight, dragging him off-balance. The pistol tumbled from his hand, clattering uselessly to the ground.

Before she could blink, Richard was on him.

“Get away from them!” he bellowed, crashing into Mortridge with such force that the two men hit the earth like felled timber.

Then came the fury—relentless, brutal.

“You killed my brother!” Richard roared, slamming his fist into Mortridge’s face.

Another blow—sickeningly loud.

“You murdered him and his wife!”

Catriona pulled Lydia behind her, shielding the girl’s eyes, though her own were fixed in horrified awe. Richard was gone. Not absent—transformed. No longer the careful, composed duke. He was wrath incarnate, grief sharpened to a blade.

Mortridge sputtered, hands flailing. “He was going to ruin everyth?—”

“He was trying to protect us, ” Richard growled. “And you silenced him.”

He hit him again. Mortridge’s lip split, and blood sprayed the leaf-littered earth.

“You dared to threaten them—threaten my family —” Another punch, straight to the ribs.

Mortridge wheezed.

Catriona’s breath caught. He wasn’t just fighting for justice. He was fighting for her. For Lydia. For everything he had almost lost.

Mortridge curled in on himself, whimpering. “Please—enough?—”

Richard froze, his chest heaving. For one terrible moment, Catriona wasn’t sure if he’d stop.

“Uncle, stop!”

Lydia’s small voice cut through the haze of his fury like a tempest. He froze in place in an instant, his fist hovering inches above Lord Mortridge’s bloodied face as he came back to the present.

He looked at his niece, her bright blue eyes wide with fear. It was a familiar fear. In fact, she looked at him with the same expression she held in Lord Mortridge’s presence.

What am I doing?

Had he been so blinded by rage?

He was beating a man senseless before his niece’s eyes. If he continued, he’d become just another monster in her impressionable young mind.

No, that would not do.

This would be the last time Lydia would see violence.

The fight drained out of him as quickly as it had surged. With a shuddering breath, he released Lord Mortridge, whose eyes rolled back into his head.

Unconscious, incapacitated. Not dead.

Richard hefted the limp body, his muscles straining after such exertion and stress, into his arms as he carried him away. He unceremoniously dumped Lord Mortridge across his horse’s back and took a long, steady breath.

Just then, a small group emerged from the trees in a hurried rush.

Eliza, her face tearful with worry, was followed by several breathless members of the Wilthorne staff.

Mr. Johnstone asked no questions and took the reins of his horse.

He gave a single nod as he led the unconscious criminal back to the estate.

“Uncle!” Lydia ran to Richard, her small arms wrapping tightly around his legs.

For the first time, Richard returned the embrace. He scooped her up effortlessly into his broad arms, holding her close to his chest.

“It’s all right. You’re safe now,” he said as he squeezed her close, “No one will hurt you ever again.”

“I think that’s all the information I need,” Constable Barker said as he took one last note. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am that it came to this, but we assure you that justice will be served this time, Your Grace.”

“I am just grateful no one was truly hurt and hopefully now we can put this whole messy business behind us,” Richard offered, taking a long sip of his well-deserved brandy. “If you need anything further, you know where to find me.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said as he watched Sampson’s still-unconscious body carted away by the Bow Street Runners.

After they left, Richard went straight to Catriona’s quarters.

He gave a soft knock, and she opened the door. Her expression was a mixture of relief, tinged with a lingering guardedness.

There was still so much unsaid, so much that had gotten between them.

He stood there, his chest tight with regret. The words he desperately needed to say caught in his throat.

“Catriona,” he finally managed as he entered the room, raw emotion prickling just behind his eyes as he took in her effortless beauty. “I… I am so sorry. I should have been here. I failed to protect you both when you needed it most.”

He paced for a moment, still struggling to gather his thoughts.

“I was so consumed by my own grief, my foolish pride. I convinced myself that pushing you away was the right thing to do, not just for me but for you. I thought that needing you made me weak, preventing me from doing my duty. But… God help me, I can’t deny it anymore. You are my duty now.”