Page 29 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

S ampson stumbled back to their room in the early hours of the morning, the stench of alcohol clinging to his clothes. For a little bit, he had been worried about returning to his wife smelling like the interior of a cheap tavern.

Then, he cursed the cheap whisky for failing to dull the sharp edges of his guilt and despair—and especially for failing to drown the hope that was still afloat within him. There was no chance that Catherine would want to stay close enough to smell him.

The rest of the night had been a blur of self-pity and hazy recollections, each drink a futile attempt to drown out the image of Catherine’s heartbroken face. He had sought solace in oblivion—just some time to pretend that the previous hours had not taken place. But all he had found was a deeper sense of emptiness.

By the time sunrise approached, his guilt reached a fever pitch as he realized that perhaps he should not have left her all alone in a strange place.

“I truly am quite the bastard,” he muttered to himself angrily as he finally arrived at their room.

Sampson pushed open the door to the room, wincing as the hinges groaned in protest, and was greeted by a profound silence. The first thing he noticed was that the curtains had been left open because the sunlight streaming in hurt his eyes.

The second was a sight that made a cold dread coil in his gut. The bed was empty, the covers neatly pulled up, missing any proof of his wife’s warm presence. Catherine’s small bag, which he had set down beside the wardrobe, was gone. Her shawl, usually draped carelessly over a chair, was nowhere to be seen.

A wave of panic washed over him. He walked further into the room, his gaze darting around frantically, searching for any sign of her.

“Catherine?” he called out, his voice hoarse and cracking, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence of the empty room.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear thrumming into his veins.

She had begged him, just before he had left. She had asked him to stay and talk with her. But he had allowed his cowardice to chase him away. He had chosen his frail sense of self over his wife.

And now she was gone. He had driven her away.

The stark reality of her absence hit him with a force that left him reeling.

“Where could she have gone? She’s never been by herself in these parts. What if something happened to her?”

With every question he asked, his despair rose higher and higher as he became all too aware of the severity of the mistakes he had made. Just as his breathing began to quicken, his gaze fell on a folded piece of paper resting on the pillow where her head had lain.

His hands trembled violently as he reached for it, the delicate script a final, painful confirmation of his loss. The words swam before his eyes, each one a fresh stab of guilt and sadness.

I have returned to my family. I need some time to think.

Then, at the bottom of the paper, almost like an afterthought, were the words, I’m sorry .

She had gone to her family. She needed time to think.

A crushing weight settled upon Sampson’s chest, suffocating him with the finality of her departure. It was his fault. His damnable past, his inability to keep the darkness contained, had shattered the fragile bond they had forged. She had finally seen him for who he truly was—a man incapable and wholly undeserving of love.

A man who would inevitably bring only pain and sorrow into her life.

The fragile hope that had flickered between them during their shared passion had been brutally snuffed out by the harsh reality of his confession, leaving behind only regret and misplaced longing.

“I suppose there is only one thing I can do now,” he told himself quietly.

Sampson returned to London in a haze of self-loathing.

It had been difficult to explain to the staff that their mistress had chosen to remain with her family for a little while.

“Oh,” Mrs. Starling murmured, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “That is fine, Your Grace. As long as she has a wonderful time with them, I suppose. But when is Her Grace expected to return? I would like to mark the date so we can start preparations for her return in due time.”

“I do not know, Mrs. Starling. I suppose you and I will see her whenever we do,” he had all but snapped while trying to retire to his room.

Sampson heard the housekeeper gasp in shock, but he lacked the strength to care at that moment. He did not know what else to do, utterly baffled at how things had been ruined in such a short period of time. The familiar walls of Rosehall offered no solace. Just like before Catherine had wormed her way into his life and heart, sleep evaded him, the nights haunted by vivid nightmares.

However, this time, it wasn’t the image of Thomas falling that tormented him. It was the image of Catherine, her face etched with disappointment and fear, turning her back on him, walking to a distant place he never seemed to be able to follow her to.

He had tried to distract himself with his work, but his mind kept drifting back to Catherine. He spent hours—lost most of them, honestly—wondering if she was all right, wondering if she truly despised him.

On his loneliest nights, as he sat up in bed and waited for his heart to calm down, he let himself wonder if he would ever see her again.

Frederick came to visit several days after his return and found him slumped behind his desk, surrounded by empty decanters, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot.

“Sampson,” Frederick said, his voice laced with concern. “What in God’s name has happened? I thought it was strange that you had returned, but I had yet to receive any reports on your meeting in York. You look like death warmed over.”

Sampson merely stared blankly ahead, the hollow ache in his chest a constant reminder of his loss.

Frowning in concern, Frederick began to pick up the empty bottles and glasses. “What on earth has happened?”

“She knows,” Sampson finally rasped after a few moments, the words heavy with despair.

Frederick sighed, understanding dawning in his eyes. “About Thomas?”

Sampson nodded, his expression blank, while his soul was weighed down by so much inner turmoil.

“It was bound to happen eventually, Sampson,” Frederick said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You couldn’t have kept that buried forever.” He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he added, “Though I must admit, I saw from the start that your carefully constructed walls wouldn’t stand a chance against her.”

“I should have tried harder,” Sampson muttered, his voice thick with self-loathing. “I was weak. And now… now I have lost the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Frederick was silent for a moment, his gaze filled with understanding. Then, he let out a sound that was a cross between sympathy and exasperation.

“So,” he asked, “you love her then?”

A wave of panic—a feeling that Sampson had grown intimately familiar with in the last few days—washed over him as he came to a sudden, terrifying realization.

Everything started to make a little more sense at that moment—why he was so upset he could barely handle basic duties and why it felt like her absence had left a gaping hole in his chest.

He loved her. He did. He truly did. The past few weeks had been a testament to it. He had lived for her smile, worried about her well-being, and had been willing to bend and break his rigid rules just to see her happy.

But what was the point of acknowledging it now? He had driven her away. No one could truly love a man with blood on his hands.

“She said she loved me,” he said, the words a hollow echo of Catherine’s heartfelt confession. “And she told me it wasn’t my fault.” He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “She was always kinder to me than I deserved.”

“Why do you not believe her? I met your wife, and she doesn’t seem like the sort to say things she doesn’t mean. Especially not just for the benefit of the person she was speaking to,” Frederick pointed out, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Sampson shrugged, the movement heavy with resignation. “There’s no reason to. No sane person would believe that they could still love me, not after what they heard.”

Frederick sighed again, stifling a groan of frustration as he shook his head slightly.

“Let me tell you something, my friend. If she merely pitied you, she would have offered sympathy and perhaps suggested that your marriage remain in name only. But instead, she declared her love and her desire to be with you. While her actions might not be entirely rational in the face of such a confession, they are undeniably kind and loving. You doubted her too easily.”

“I did not. Anyone would! How could she?—”

“Has she ever given you a reason to doubt her? From what I heard, she has shown you nothing but sincere affection for so long, and the only reason you are in disbelief is that she came clean about how she felt about you after you had come clean about your past.

“She even said what I have been trying to tell you for years—it was not your fault. You should not punish yourself for a mistake that resulted in a fatal accident. And you shouldn’t deny yourself the chance to be truly happy by choosing to let yourself be haunted for the rest of your life. Your wife loves you. Do not throw that away.”

Frederick’s words struck a chord deep within him.

Was it possible? Could Catherine’s love be genuine? The thought, however faint, ignited a fragile spark of hope within the darkness of his self-loathing.

Sampson couldn’t leave the question unanswered. He had to know. Did Catherine truly love him, or was it merely pity?

Without another word, he rose, a newfound determination hardening his gaze. He had to go to her.

As he left his study, Frederick called after him with a grin, “Good luck, friend!”

Going back to Scotland was not in any way difficult for Sampson. The hard part came when he arrived at Spranklin Manor and had to face her family.

He understood that he had greatly disappointed them, and it would not be an easy feat to see his wife.

Just as he had expected, when he arrived, Fergus was standing outside the front door, his face devoid of his usual warmth.

“Yer Grace,” the Baron greeted stiffly. “What brings ye to my humble abode?”

The cold reception was one Sampson had expected, but still, it stung.

“Lord Spranklin,” he returned. “I apologize for the sudden intrusion. I need to speak to my wife, please.”

Fergus frowned. “Forgive me, Yer Grace, but ye dinnae sound like ye intend to make up for the hurt ye caused her. In fact, it sounds as though ye’ve come to serve her wi’ divorce papers.”

Sampson’s heart sank. “No! That is not my intention at all?—”

“As ye can imagine, I am less than happy with yer presence, because ye might nae be aware of the state my daughter was in when she arrived here. As her faither, it would be remiss of me to send her back to the very person who caused her such pain. I dinnae care if ye wish to reinstate the debt. Do what ye will, but dinnae come near my daughter again if ye dinnae wish to honor yer vows.”

It was as though the floor was falling apart from under Sampson’s feet. For a moment, he considered giving up.

But the idea of leaving without seeing Catherine left a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn’t even about his need for confirmation anymore. He had hurt her, and he needed to undo whatever pain he had caused.

“I understand, Lord Spranklin. But the fate of our marriage rests in her hands. I made a mistake a long time ago, and I confessed it to her, expecting to be shunned. But she said she would stay by my side, and I did not believe her. However, I have realized that I cannot live without her.

“I have no intention of causing her any more pain, I swear. All I want is to speak with her and try to mend our marriage in whatever way possible. If she’ll have me. I am sorry for breaking my promise. If… if we do manage to overcome this, I swear on my life that she will be my priority. Please, give me a chance to make this right.”

Fergus was silent for a moment, then he stepped aside.

“Graham will take ye to her room. She hasnae eaten much since she arrived. I fear she’s feelin’ rather poorly.”

Sampson’s heart stuttered at the mention of Catherine feeling sick, and he quickly thanked Fergus. Then, he inhaled deeply and began the walk back to his wife’s side.

Although Catherine was at home, she was far from at peace. A deep unease settled within her, a constant ache in her heart where Sampson should be. Sleep offered little respite, her dreams filled with images of his departure. She felt adrift, caught between the love she felt for her husband and the horrifying weight of his past.

She could barely do anything other than lie in bed and worry for his well-being. It was strange, how concerned she was about a man who had broken her heart.

Then, one afternoon, she was sitting by the window in her room when she noticed a carriage approaching. At first, she paid it no mind, but the closer it got, the more familiar it looked.

Her heart leaped in her chest.

Could it be? Was it really him?

It came to a stop in front of her house, and the passenger disembarked.

It was truly him. Sampson.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she watched him speak with her father, wondering what they were discussing, but she was also scared to find out. She waited and watched with bated breath as he walked into the house.

Nervous, she sat on her bed, waiting for a member of her family to come and tell her that she had a visitor. The moments that passed were excruciating, and it was all she could do not to race downstairs to find him.

After what felt like hours, there was a knock at her door, and she raced to it.

Only when she opened it, she didn’t see a member of her family. It was Sampson who stood on the other side.

“Sampson?” she gasped, her heart soaring at the sight of him.

He looked… unwell. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his usual composure replaced by an unease that reflected the nervousness she felt. She wanted to reach out to him, to embrace him.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice hoarse, the single word a plea. “Did you… did you mean what you said?”

Catherine’s heart ached at the sight of his distress. She stepped back a little so he could enter her room, frowning when he did not follow her.

“Sampson,” she murmured, reaching out to touch his arm. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. Come inside, you need to rest.”

She gently tugged him into the room, her instinct to care for him overriding her inner turmoil.

He resisted her gentle pull, lifting his hand to cover hers on his arm, his grip surprisingly firm. His blue eyes, usually so commanding, were filled with desperate uncertainty.

“I must know. Did you mean it? Do you… do you really love me, Catherine? Are you sure? Because…” His voice cracked, the barriers around his heart crumbling. “Because I love you, too.”

Catherine froze, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she could only stare at him, tears welling up in her eyes. He sounded so worried and scared that she had been lying or worse, and she couldn’t bear to hear him sound so defeated.

Then, overwhelmed by her own emotions, she burst into tears, her hands flying to his face.

“Oh, Sampson,” she sobbed, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Yes. Yes, I love you. I love you so much, my dear husband. I love you, and I want to stay by your side, to support you while you heal. However long it takes. Please do not leave me. I love you, and I want to be by your side forever.”

Tears had begun to stream down his face too, but before she could wipe them, he pulled her into his embrace.

“Do you really mean that? Because I cannot live without you. I know that I am undeserving of you and your pure heart and understanding spirit. But I am selfish and greedy when it comes to you. I do not want to lose you.”

“You will not lose me, Sampson,” Catherine said, pulling back slightly to stroke his face tenderly, her eyes locked onto his. “You are the love of my life, Sampson. I am deserving of you, just as you are deserving of me.”

He nodded silently, his gaze dropping to her lips, but it was she who rose on her tiptoes and initiated the kiss.

The kiss wasn’t the most passionate they had shared, but it certainly was heartfelt, bearing a promise of healing and a shared future.

Sampson embraced her again, and finally, Catherine’s restless heart found peace, feeling thankful to have been able to work things out with her husband.

Later, Sampson walked them downstairs to where her family awaited the verdict, their expressions a mixture of concern and worry.

“Forgive me for worrying you,” he said, his voice humble and soft. “I promise you, I will never let her go again.”

A soft smile spread across Mary’s face. “We kenned ye cared deeply for our Catherine, Yer Grace. We’re just glad ye both found yer way back to each other.”

Fergus clapped Sampson on the shoulder, beaming at them both. “Welcome back, son. We’re happy to have ye both.”

Margaret, ever the teasing sister, winked at Catherine. “Took ye long enough, wee sis. But I’m glad ye finally knocked some sense into the stubborn Duke.”

Graham grinned, clapping his hands excitedly. “I am glad that ye’re nae leavin’ us, Yer Grace.”

Catherine watched her family and her husband, their faces filled with warmth and acceptance, and a profound sense of peace settled within her. She was utterly blessed.