Page 36 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Thirty

M arion woke the next morning, nestled against Anselm’s side as they lay in his bed.

She felt the weight of his arm around her.

It was a warm, anchoring presence across her waist that pulled her tight against his body.

She arched her backside into him, earning a sleepy, satisfied sigh from her husband.

Aye, I could get used to this, she said, feeling every bit the goddess Anselm said she was.

She looked up to the soft light of dawn.

Her eyes followed the rays of sunshine that painted the room.

She realized it had been too long since she just laid still and observed the light.

She took a deep breath, realizing that she was utterly content.

Anselm’s embrace was the embodiment of peace, something she did not know she needed so badly.

“Good morning, wife,” he whispered in her ear.

“I dinnae ken ye were awake,” she said as she turned around to face him. “Good mornin’, husband. It seems about time for yer fencin’.”

“I think I will be skipping that today,” he said as he ran a hand over his eyes, shaking off his heavy sleep. “If I recall, I exerted myself quite a bit last night and think I earned a reprieve from exercise. What do you say, Duchess?”

“I am happy to grant ye a reprieve,” she said. There was a silly, playful tone in her voice.

“Tell me though,” Anselm started, his tone serious. “Do you feel all right this morning? Are you feeling well?”

“I hate to tell ye, but I daenae feel so good…”

He sprung up from the bed and ran to a nearby chair to fetch his dressing robe. He threw it over his shoulders quickly and then fumbled for his slippers, nearly falling onto the floor. A laugh escaped Marion’s lips at the sight.

“Why the devil are you laughing at me?”

“Ye dinnae let me finish. I daenae feel so good… I feel fantastic, husband. Completely and totally fantastic.”

He plopped down onto the chair and smiled at her as a small chuckle came from deep in his chest. He shook his head from side to side and wagged his finger at her.

“I do not know what to do with you,” he said. “But I think I will find a way to sort that out. One thing is for sure… will never again sleep elsewhere. You belong in my bed, wife. Do you not agree?”

“I agree very much, husband.”

True to her word, from that night forward, Marion only slept in Anselm’s bed. The vast, intimidating room transformed into their shared sanctuary. She brought her favorite pillows and some paintings, combining his aesthetic with her own to make a room that was truly theirs.

At first, she assigned it to coincidence, but slowly Marion noticed that the only thing absent from their bed was his nightmares. She knew in her heart that something about her presence steadied him, just as he did for her.

She thought of all he had been through. The many years of nightmares, like the one that had led to that raw, agonizing scream that brought her to him.

They had simply ceased. She watched him most nights and found joy in how he slept deeply and restfully.

She knew it was something he had not done since his childhood.

Perhaps we are meant to be , Marion wrote in her journal one morning before she went down for breakfast. Our movements and lovemaking are as if we are one being.

The way I sleep with him is so restful and pure, as if we have been together since the beginning’ of time.

I cannae wait to see what the coming weeks bring.

“If I have to look at one more number, I think I may go blind,” Anselm said with a frustrated sigh.

It was a blustery afternoon, with rain lashing against the windows of his study. The world outside seemed to match the tempest within Anselm, furious and unyielding. He had been hunched over his desk, poring over ledgers trying to account for a small overage in his account.

“I know I should not obsess about having more money than anticipated, but I do not like it when numbers do not perfectly add up,” he said as he closed the heavy book with a soft thud and pushed it aside. “I will have to look at it with fresh eyes later.”

He turned fully to Marion then, who was sketching quietly in an armchair nearby. He liked her presence in his study. He grew fond of the scratching of her charcoal and the steadiness of her breathing. He was fond of her.

“Marion,” he began, cutting over a crack of thunder. “There is more you should know about my father. About my mother. As I have been going through these ledgers, there has been more on my mind. I think…I want to talk to you about them. Is that all right?”

“Oh, Anselm!” she said as she put down her sketchbook, the charcoal stick rolling silently onto the plush rug. “I am all ears. Please, I would love to know more.”

“Well,” he said, trailing off as he looked out at the rain pouring onto the distant London streets in thick droplets. “It is not pleasant.”

“Ye daenae have to, Anselm, if it is too painful,” she offered, her voice soft with concern. “But I am here if ye are ready.”

“No. You deserve to know. All of it.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if steeling himself against the storm itself. “After my mother’s death… it was not just that he struggled to manage the duchy. He… he was a broken man, Marion. Utterly.”

“How was he broken?”

“His mind began to deteriorate long before my mother passed, when I was about fifteen years of age. It was subtle at first, hard to see. He would forget something that was obvious, like the name of a nearby town, or repeat himself. I thought he was tired.” Anselm shook his head.

“One day he caught a terrible cold and mother called a physician to examine him. After he finished his examination, he asked to speak to my mother, who in turn fetched me. They explained that the cold was benign, and we were so relieved but confused at the look in his face. I can still see that look.”

“Oh Anselm, was he sick in the mind?”

“Yes, the physician explained that he was experiencing a wasting of the mind, which would ultimately render him incapable of running the estate and fulfilling his duties as Duke. Mother bribed him to keep it a secret, knowing well there was no treatment and even if we were to empty our coffers in search of it. We managed the best we could, keeping him concealed. To save his reputation and legacy, the good name of our family. It was the only way. And Verity…” His voice tightened.

There was a raw edge to it she had not heard before.

“It must have been so hard for her as well…”

“She was just a child. Lost most days, wondering where her father was. Yet, mother and I kept it a secret. We made sure she saw him, but only in short visits. But then, he got worse…”

The thunder cracked and Marion rose to her feet. She walked to Anselm’s desk chair and sat in his lap. They shared a long embrace and the silence was broken by another crack.

“He became angrier as his condition became more grave. He would suffer erratic episodes where he would yell or lash out. One day, mother was trying to comfort him during an especially bad one. He…he pushed her too hard, at such an angle that she fell and hit her head on the stone.”

Marion made the sign of the cross.

“I was the first to find him and he was beside himself with grief. I held him in my arms, forced to grapple with the fact that my father had murdered my mother…and that I had to cover it up.”

“Does anyone else ken this?”

“Just you, and Emmanuel. He has been my closest friend all these years. Without him I do not think I could have endured it. From that point on, I was Verity’s guardian for all intents and purposes. And when father finally succumbed to his disease, it was official.”

“How long after did he pass?”

“He did not pass until I was one and twenty. Verity has no idea of this and if I have it my way, she never will. This is my burden to carry, and I thank you for lessening it.”

Marion fell to her knees in front of him then and took his hands in hers.

“Oh, Anselm,” she whispered. “Ye carried such a burden. All that time. All that grief. You were just a lad... I cannae imagine how hard that was for ye. I ken in me heart yer parents would be so proud of the man ye have become and how well ye have cared for yer sister.”

She squeezed his hands gently as he pulled her up to her feet. He held her tight against him as he buried his face in her shoulder. He felt the weight of decades of suppressed agony release.

He did not cry, but his body shook slightly. Showing his vulnerability was a new sensation, but something about her presence steadied him.

She continued to hold him as he shook and her arms wrapped tightly around him. Slowly, as the rain began to subside, so did his tremors. His breathing became more even before he finally gave a silent nod.

“Ye are so brave, me husband,” she said, planting a soft kiss on his warm cheek. “Thank ye for trustin’ me and confidin’ in me. Much as I hate that ye have kent so much pain, I am grateful to be here with ye.”

The following evening, Verity, Marion, and Anselm shared a quiet moment in the drawing room.

The fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows, and the only sounds were the crackle of the logs and the rustle of pages.

Verity was engrossed in a particularly romantic passage of her own writing and when she suddenly looked up, her eyes narrowed playfully at her brother over the top of her manuscript.

“Anselm,” she announced, her voice laced with a mischievous curiosity. “I have finally figured it out. You look… well less like a thundercloud these days. What exactly has changed? Because as I was reading this passage, I decided you have finally discovered the joys of a well-written hero.”

Anselm cleared his throat. A faint blush touched his cheekbones which was a sure tell that he was caught. He knew it. And better yet, he knew that Verity knew it.