Page 24 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“ I do not know how you managed to travel this far all on your own. I have embarked on a few lengthy journeys myself, but I am usually accompanied by a business partner if the distance is as great as this.”

Catherine smiled as she moved closer to him. “I simply tried not to think about the length of the journey too much. I was far too busy thinking of what my future husband would be like. In a way, I missed more than half the journey because I lived in my thoughts due to nervousness,” she admitted shyly.

The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels on the uneven country roads had become a familiar background. The journey to Scotland, spanning six long days and punctuated by carefully planned stops at coaching inns that Sampson had meticulously vetted beforehand, had been an experience in both physical endurance and quiet contemplation.

Each passing mile seemed to draw her further away from the familiar comforts of Rosehall and closer to the embrace of her family, stirring a complex mix of emotions within her—anticipation, a touch of homesickness for the life she had begun to build with Sampson, and a deep yearning for the familiar warmth of her childhood home.

The landscapes of England had gradually yielded to the more rugged and dramatic scenery of the north. Verdant, rolling hills gave way to the majestic peaks of the Scottish Highlands, their slopes cloaked in swathes of purple heather that stretched as far as the eye could see.

The air grew crisper, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, a fragrance that was deeply ingrained in Catherine’s memory, evoking a profound sense of homecoming that resonated in the very depths of her soul.

“Well, I hope I was somewhat able to meet your expectations.” Sampson stared down at her expectantly.

Catherine met his gaze and held it for a moment, then she looked away with a little smile. “Somewhat.”

“What does that mean? Cath—darling, what does that mean? Explain yourself.”

Throughout the journey, Sampson had been attentive and affectionate. He had ensured that the carriage was as comfortable as possible, arranging extra cushions and checking frequently on her well-being. During their stops at the inns, he had always seen to her comfort first, ensuring she had a warm meal and a comfortable room before attending to his needs.

Within the close confines of the carriage, their proximity had become a comforting norm. Catherine often found herself leaning against his solid frame, the warmth radiating from him a welcome shield against the chill that often seeped into the carriage despite the thick woolen blankets.

There were moments when the rhythmic sway of the carriage and the monotonous drone of the wheels had lulled her to sleep, only for her to awaken nestled against his chest, his arm a protective weight around her.

These were fleeting moments, often unspoken, but they spoke to the subtle yet profound shift in their relationship, a change she pondered with a quiet flutter of hope in her heart.

The nights at the inns had presented a different, more nuanced kind of awareness. They continued to share a room, a matter of practicality that had become their established arrangement. Yet, despite the lingering glances between them, the undeniable current of attraction that seemed to shimmer in the air whenever they were nearby, Sampson had maintained a consistent and respectful distance.

On more than one occasion, he had insisted on sleeping on the floor, claiming the bed was too small for them both to sleep comfortably—a chivalrous assertion that Catherine suspected was more a reflection of his inner conflict than an accurate assessment of the bed’s ample size.

She had lain awake on those nights, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, a confusing mix of gratitude for his restraint and a strange, undeniable longing for a different kind of closeness swirling within her.

His eyes often held a silent desire, a fleeting intensity that hinted at his attraction, yet he consistently held back, creating a space between them that both intrigued and, at times, left her feeling a little adrift.

“I don’t know what you expect to hear—” She broke off, her attention drawn to something she had spotted outside the carriage window.

She sat up slightly, already missing the pleasant warmth of his embrace as she squinted at the building she could see in the distance, excitement coursing through her as she recognized it.

“Oh my God—we’re here! Sampson, we’re here!”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the familiar silhouette of Spranklin Manor emerged on the horizon. The sturdy grey stone walls, weathered by years of Scottish winds and rains, the welcoming glow of warm light spilling from the windows, the sprawling grounds that held the echoes of countless cherished memories—it was a homecoming in every sense of the word, a tangible connection to her past.

Catherine’s heart swelled with a potent mixture of joy, relief, and a nervous flutter of anticipation as the carriage finally rolled to a gentle stop before the familiar stone steps of her childhood home.

The front door burst open, and her family spilled out onto the steps, their faces illuminated by the warm light of the setting sun, each expression radiating pure, unadulterated happiness at her arrival.

Her father, his broad shoulders still strong despite his advanced age, enveloped her in a bear hug that squeezed the breath from her lungs in a wonderfully familiar and comforting way.

“Och, my precious flower! I am so glad to see ye are well! How was yer journey? Did ye encounter any issues?”

Her mother, her eyes brimming with unshed tears of joy, held her close once her father had released her, murmuring heartfelt words of welcome in her soft, melodic Scottish brogue, her embrace carrying the scent of lavender and freshly baked bread.

Margaret and Graham greeted her next, their faces beaming with genuine affection, and offered hearty greetings and playful teasing.

“Ye’re lookin’ even more like a duchess than before! Is the air over there different?” Margaret teased, cupping Catherine’s face in her hands. “Dinnae start cryin’, lass. Ye’ve only just arrived.”

Even young Isobel, now noticeably a little taller and with a scattering of freckles across her nose that Catherine didn’t remember seeing before, threw herself into her arms with a squeal of delight, her small hands clutching Catherine’s gown tightly.

Amidst the joyous chaos of the reunion, Sampson stood slightly apart, a quiet observer of the familial embrace. A genuine smile softened his features as he watched Catherine reconnect with her loved ones.

“Ah, Yer Grace! Forgive us, we didnae mean to ignore ye. We’re all just so happy to see Catherine again,” Fergus offered with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, no.” Sampson shook his head, looking a little out of his depth as all eyes turned to him. “I understood that much, and I was happy to let you focus your attention on her. It is only fair, seeing as I have had all of her attention while she was away.”

Catherine blushed, pouting when Graham and Margaret started to needle her.

“Still.” Mary beamed at him. “Ye are family, too, and we are very happy to have ye here.”

He offered polite and respectful greetings to each member of her family in turn, his demeanor conveying a sincere pleasure at finally meeting them in their home.

Catherine eagerly took his hand and led him through the manor while the rest of the family got ready for lunch, showing him all the nooks and crannies that had seen her grow from a little bundle in her mother’s arms to a young woman, leaving her father’s house to get married.

“Margeret and I used to spend so much time in the orangery. We tried on multiple occasions to grow our favorite fruits, but we were only successful in growing oranges,” she said with a smile as she pointed at the structure that stood a few meters from the house.

She then turned and pointed her finger at an oak tree farther from both the house and the orangery, its gnarled bark betraying its age.

“Graham once got stuck in that tree. He has always fancied himself an explorer, crawling into small, tight spaces and always seeking to catch views from high points. And one time, he thought the greatest achievement would be to climb up that tree.

“We still don’t know how he got up there—and he had no clue how to climb back down. Father had to enlist the help of farmhands to rescue him. It was an occasion none of us forgot, mostly because Margaret teased him about it for weeks.” She giggled.

It was all so exciting for her, having her husband in her home, sharing her life with him intimately. Their connection seemed to be growing stronger as their lives became intertwined, and Catherine hoped that they would only grow impossibly closer with every breath they shared.

Sampson suddenly leaned down and captured her lips in a passionate kiss, his hands pulling her flush against him.

“W-What was that for?” she asked, breathless.

“You look so lovely,” he murmured, dipping low to plant a small kiss on her nose. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Catherine blushed and pulled him by the hand in the direction they had come, muttering about how they needed to return to her family before they got sidetracked.

However, the warmth of the reunion was fleeting. After the comforting, laughter-filled meal shared around the familiar oak dining table, Sampson announced that he had to depart for a pressing business meeting in the nearby town of Auchterarder. The matter, he explained regretfully, required his immediate attention and would likely keep him away for a day or two.

Catherine understood the demands of his responsibilities, though a small, selfish part of her wished he could linger longer and fully immerse himself in the genuine warmth and unreserved affection of her family.

Before he bid them farewell, he turned to her, his usual guarded expression softening into something akin to tenderness. He gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks lightly, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. Then, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, a gesture that felt both deeply intimate and reassuringly protective.

“I’ll be back before you know it. Will you wait for me?”

He did not need to ask, but she wanted to tell him anyway. “I’ll spend every moment waiting for you. Hurry back.”

Her family, witnessing this quiet display of affection, exchanged happy and knowing glances, a silent acknowledgment of the warmth that now blossomed between the Duke and his beloved Duchess.

With a final round of polite farewells and promises to return soon, Sampson departed, the sound of the carriage wheels crunching on the gravel driveway gradually fading into the tranquil Scottish countryside, leaving Catherine alone with her family for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

As the echoes of his departure dissipated, they turned their attention to her, their curiosity about her life as the Duchess of Rosehall bubbling to the surface, their questions eager and heartfelt.

“So, Catherine, my wee bairn,” her mother began, settling into her favorite armchair by the crackling fire. “Tell us about married life wi’ the Duke. Ye seem to be gettin’ on remarkably well wi’ him now—a far cry from those first letters ye sent us.”

Catherine settled onto the sofa beside Margaret, a genuine warmth spreading through her at the mere mention of Sampson.

“We are, Mama. We are getting on very well, indeed.”

She found herself wanting to share the subtle nuances of their evolving relationship, the small, almost imperceptible gestures of care and consideration that had become increasingly commonplace between them.

She recounted the details of their journey north. The way Sampson had consistently prioritized her comfort, the reassuring weight of his arm around her when she had dozed in the carriage, and the respectful distance he had maintained during their overnight stays, despite the undeniable undercurrent of attraction that often hummed between them.

She carefully omitted the fact that he chose to sleep on the floor, keeping it a secret.

Margaret, ever the more direct and perceptive of the two sisters, leaned forward, her keen eyes studying Catherine’s flushed cheeks. “He seems… uncommonly fond of ye, Catherine. More than just a husband dutifully fulfilling his obligations.”

Catherine blushed a deeper shade, a shy smile gracing her lips. “I believe… I believe he is, Meg.” She hesitated, unsure how much of her evolving feelings, her growing affection for Sampson, she was ready to articulate. “We have found a… comfortable and, dare I say, rather pleasant understanding.”

Her mother’s gaze softened, turning hopeful. “And are ye thinkin’ about… bairns, my darlin’?” she asked gently, her hand reaching across the small table to cover Catherine’s, her touch conveying a deep maternal longing.

Catherine’s smile faltered ever so slightly. “Not yet, Mama,” she replied, her gaze momentarily dropping to the intricate pattern in the Persian rug beneath her feet.

She couldn’t bring herself to mention the remark he had made about his lack of desire for children. It felt too complicated, too personal, to reveal to her family.

Being back within the familiar embrace of her family, surrounded by the unconditional love and unwavering support she had always known, served as a potent and poignant reminder of her deep-seated yearning for a family of her own.

She watched young Isobel playing contentedly in the corner of the room with a well-loved wooden doll, her innocent chatter and joyful giggles filling the cozy parlor as Graham teased her, and felt a sharp pang of longing in her heart.

She wanted that. She wanted the messy, loud joy of children, the all-encompassing love that filled a family home. And with each passing day, with each shared glance and unspoken understanding with Sampson, she realized with increasing clarity that she wanted that life, that future, with him.

Her acceptance of his request now felt like a heavy and unwelcome weight, a self-imposed barrier to the future she increasingly craved with every fiber of her being. She could no longer evade the inevitable conversation. She needed to speak openly and honestly with Sampson, to understand if his feelings had evolved as profoundly as her own, to broach the delicate and deeply personal subject of starting a family.

Catherine knew, with a growing sense of urgency, and a surge of hopeful anticipation, that she was finally ready to take that leap of faith, to voice the deepest desires of her heart and pray that Sampson’s desires aligned with hers.

The business meeting would conclude, he would return to her, and then she would find the right moment to speak from the very depths of her soul.