Page 18 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“ T hank you.”

Sampson was confused by her gratitude. Why would she be thankful when she was the one offering him kindness and solace?

But her voice was a small beacon of comfort in the storm raging within him.

He gestured vaguely towards the edge of the bed, and she sat there, her gaze soft and questioning. The silence that stretched between them was different now, less charged with the usual playful tension and more with tentative vulnerability. Sampson found himself wanting to speak, to unburden himself of the heavy secret that had been his constant companion for so long.

He wasn’t sure why he felt this sudden urge to confide in Catherine, but her quiet presence seemed to have granted him a reprieve from the relentless echoes of his past.

Sampson could not point out exactly when this change occurred, but he had noticed that sometime after her arrival, he had begun to feel less tired, had spent less time dwelling on the details of his difficult upbringing and become more focused on the joy of being with her.

With a sigh, he maneuvered his body so he could rest his head on her lap.

“Why are you awake?” he asked quietly. “It couldn’t have been my—me. I couldn’t have woken you up.”

He had hoped that wasn’t the case, but the look on her face told him that it had indeed been his cries of fright that roused her from her sleep.

Still, she said softly, “I woke up because I was thirsty, and I was already on my way out of my room when I heard you. Do not worry.”

Oh, Catherine. Far too precious for someone so undeserving.

“I see,” Sampson hummed, closing his eyes and willing his heart to stop thrumming so furiously. “You do not need to worry. It was just a nightmare. I have those often enough to not be so fazed by them.”

“Often?” Catherine questioned softly, threading her fingers through his hair with the utmost care, the light sensation making him groan. “How often do you have these nightmares?”

“They are frequent enough that I know exactly what happens and when it happens.”

“Is this why you said you do not sleep?”

“Do you now believe that I am not a vampire?” he asked, hoping to sound teasing but coming off as deadpan.

The silence that followed made him feel guilty and even more tired than he had been moments ago. The more minutes passed, prolonging the silence between them, the more uncomfortable he felt in his skin. His chest felt tight and heavy as if there was an invisible weight on it.

“I suppose, since you have shown no sign of being such a creature,” Catherine replied softly, tugging on the ends of his hair gently. “Do you wish to tell me what it is that haunts you so? Enough to keep you from getting a good night’s rest.”

Her voice sounded so… peaceful and soothing to his ears, and for the first time in a long time, Sampson felt that perhaps it would not be the worst thing to let someone know about the skeletons in his closet.

“It wasn’t just a bad dream,” he began, his voice low and raspy, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. “It is more like a memory—one I would rather forget—that has haunted me for a long time. I can’t seem to shake it off, regardless of what I do or how much time passes.”

He hesitated, unsure how to articulate the tangled mess of memory and emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Catherine remained silent, her patience a comforting weight. After a moment, her hands gently found his temples, gently massaging circles into his skin. Her touch was light and soothing, and Sampson found himself instinctively leaning into the unexpected comfort.

“My brother… Thomas,” he continued, the name a ghost on his lips. “He… he tried to kill me when we were young.”

The words hung in the air, stark and brutal.

Sampson felt Catherine’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their gentle massage.

“I wanted to believe it was just a nightmare for so long,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “A child’s terrifying fantasy. I don’t remember much of it, just… struggling. Fighting for breath, despite all my efforts. A crushing weight and then… nothing. I woke up alone in my bed, convinced it had all been a terrible dream.”

He paused, the phantom sensation of suffocation still clinging to him.

“It wasn’t until later— years later—that I discovered what truly happened. That what I had thought a bad dream was in fact an attempt on my life.”

He didn’t elaborate further, the memory still too raw, too painful to fully recount.

Catherine’s fingers continued their gentle massage, her silence a testament to her understanding.

“But that wasn’t the end of it,” Sampson continued, the bitterness creeping into his voice. “A few years later, when he was nineteen, he tried again. This time… it was planned. Calculated.”

He swallowed hard, the betrayal still sharp. “He had someone attack and beat me. Severely. And then he tried to… finish it himself. At the docks. A supposed business meeting that was nothing more than a setup, to end what he had started.”

He could still feel the cold spray of the sea, the desperation as he fought for his life once more, weary and weakened by the pain of the fight he had been in earlier.

Catherine’s hands stilled, her concern palpable.

“Sampson… how… how did it end?” Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with a horrified curiosity. “How did you survive?”

The question snapped Sampson back to the present, and he felt exposed. He pulled away slightly from Catherine’s touch, a wave of self-reproach washing over him as he sat up.

What was he doing, burdening her with his dark secrets?

“Catherine,” he said, his voice regaining a measure of its usual firmness, though it was still tinged with weariness. “You really should go back to sleep. It’s late, and this… this is hardly a suitable topic for a midnight conversation.”

He avoided her gaze, feeling awkward. He had never spoken about his nightmares to anyone, and the sudden outpouring felt like a dangerous breach of his carefully guarded privacy.

Catherine didn’t press, but her concern was evident in her soft gaze. “Are you sure you don’t… you don’t want me to stay?” she asked gently, her hand hovering over his arm.

He shook his head, a weary sigh escaping his lips. “It’s better if we sleep in separate beds, Duchess. I… I just need some time to compose myself.”

He hated the dismissal in his tone, but he didn’t know how else to navigate this sudden intimacy.

Understanding flickered in Catherine’s eyes. She didn’t push further, respecting his need for space. She rose from the bed, her movements quiet and graceful.

“Alright, Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice filled with a quiet understanding that surprised him. “If you need anything…”

Before he could respond, she leaned down, her lips brushing lightly against his in a fleeting, unexpected kiss.

Sampson froze, stunned by the gentle contact. He watched, speechless, as she blushed furiously, her eyes wide and apologetic, before turning and quickly disappearing out the door, leaving him alone once more in the darkness, the ghost of her kiss a warm brand that lingered for the rest of the night.

The following afternoon, Catherine found herself sipping tea in the small sitting room adjacent to her mother’s quarters. Margaret sat opposite her, a mischievous glint in her eyes, while Mary poured a steaming brew of lavender and nettle into her cup, her expression thoughtful.

“So, Catherine, my wee bairn,” Mary began, her voice carrying a gentle Scottish lilt. “How are ye findin’ married life? Was it… difficult at the start, wi’ ye both bein’ strangers?”

Catherine stirred her tea, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she recalled the initial awkwardness between her and Sampson. “It was a wee bit strange at first, Maither,” she admitted, her Scottish accent returning as she spoke to her mother. “But we—we found a way to coexist. Despite our differences.”

She deliberately kept her tone light, not wanting to delve into the deeper complexities of their evolving relationship.

However, the events of the previous night weighed heavily on her mind. Sampson’s fragmented revelations about his past, the chilling account of his brother’s attempts on his life, had left her feeling deeply unsettled. Her heart ached at the thought of the pain and betrayal he had endured.

She had tried to see him once the day broke, heading to his room right after making herself presentable, but Oswald had informed her that the Duke had stepped out to attend to some business.

“ So early? ” she had asked in concern. “ Did he even have breakfast before he left? Did he seem… tired? I-I fear he might be a tad unwell, today .”

It had been hard to express her concern without divulging his secrets, but Catherine feared greatly for her husband’s well-being.

Quick-witted Sampson, who seemed untouchable but was in reality haunted by a past he couldn’t change or outrun.

It broke her heart to see him so tense, as though he feared he would fall apart if he breathed in too deeply.

“ His Grace said he had a lot to do and would be gone for most of the day, Your Grace. And he seemed quite well. Albeit a bit tired. But I am sure there is nothing to worry about, Your Grace. His Grace is as formidable as they come.”

It had not been as reassuring as Oswald had intended, but she still derived whatever comfort she could from it, because there was not much she could do other than worry.

Margaret snorted softly, interrupting her thoughts. “Och, Catherine, listen to ye. Coexist ? Ye sound as if ye’re talkin’ about two different species livin’ in the same cage. Stop soundin’ as if ye’re nae in love wi’ the man.”

Catherine’s head snapped up, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of crimson.

“Margaret!” she exclaimed, feeling caught off guard by her sister’s bluntness. “I… I care for him, deeply. He’s my husband. But… love? I’m nae sure it’s love.”

She wasn’t ready to admit, even to herself, the confusing swirl of emotions Sampson evoked within her. Originally, she had felt greatly annoyed and irritated by his teasing and jokes, but she had begun to see him for more than someone who kept her around as a convenient ornament. Especially because he seemed to hold her in high regard, enough to consider her happiness a priority.

It was strange, how much she loathed to be summoned by him, only for her to anticipate his request for her company these days.

Margaret leaned back in her chair, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Aye, well, the way ye look at him tells a different tale, Sister dear. Yer gaze softens somethin’ fierce when he’s near, all… intense. Anyone who glances yer way would believe ye’ve touched his soul or something.”

Mary gently placed her teacup down, her gaze turning to Margaret with a mild reproof.

“Margaret, leave yer sister be. Feelings are a tricky thing, nae to be rushed.” She then turned her attention to Catherine, her expression softening with maternal concern. “Yer feelings are what matter most, my wee love. If ye’re nae ready for love, then that’s perfectly fine. Take yer sweet time.”

Her gaze then became more serious, a hint of worry creasing her brow. “But given the circumstances of yer marriage, Catherine, I do hope ye get more out of it than just security. Yer faither and I… we wanted the best for ye, and the debt… it was a heavy burden. But we never wanted ye to feel like a mere pawn, used by yer family.”

Catherine had never felt that way. She understood the complications of the debt, and how much they would lose if they tried to pay the required amount. She felt helpless and disheartened as she wondered what she could do to ease the burden. It had been a remarkable opportunity when her father suggested it, and she had been more than happy to stand up for her family in a way only she could.

Still, it was nice to hear her mother dismiss fears that did not exist.

Mary reached across the small table, taking Catherine’s hand in her own. “I just want ye to be happy, my darlin’. And lovin’ yer faither has made me happy, every single day since I met him. I want that for ye. I hope ye find love and happiness wi’ the Duke, in yer own way and in yer own time.”

Catherine felt a warmth spread through her chest at her mother’s heartfelt words. The prospect of truly loving Sampson still felt a little daunting—a step into the unknown. But then her thoughts drifted back to the brief intimacy they had shared the previous night, the heavy weight of his gaze as it reflected pain each time he looked up at her.

It was clear he wished to hide that part of himself from her, wanted to pretend that all was well, but she could see the cracks in his facade, and it made her heart weep for him. Most especially at the gentle way he had looked at her after she had kissed him.

A different kind of warmth bloomed within her then, a hope that maybe, just maybe, her mother’s wish might one day come true.

Sampson had been doing all these things, acting in a certain way that told her perhaps there was still hope. And so she inhaled and let herself speak the truth in her heart.

“I hope so. I really hope so.”