Page 24 of His Scottish Duchess

“That isn’t true,” Catherine replied, her voice soft. “Not for me, at least. Home is a feeling. Home is a collection of imperfect memories. Home is knowing that you are cared for and thought of. Home is where you go when you are tired and hurt and you need help putting yourself together. It is warmth, comfort, belonging.”

Sampson was silent for a moment, and she thought she had managed to get through to him. But then he tipped his head back to look up at her with a cheeky smirk.

“Those are also words you could use to describe owning a blanket. It gives me warmth and comfort. It is a part of my belongings.”

“You are unbearable,” Catherine huffed, feeling annoyed that her profound speech had been taken as a joke once more.

She was so irritated that she tugged on his hair without much thought. He winced visibly, and she gasped.

“Oh. Oh nay. I-It was an accident,” she stuttered, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

Sampson stared at her in disbelief, his jaw almost slack.

Catherine was not sure what surprised him more—the fact that she had pulled on his hair, or that it hurt.

However, before she could get to the bottom of that issue, Sampson took advantage of her distracted state and tugged her forward. With a flail of her limbs and a half scream, she landed in the warm bathwater. On his lap.

Her clothes were immediately soaked, and she somehow became even more aware that he was naked.Verynaked. Naked enoughfor her to feel the warmth of his body seeping through her clothes, much like the water, and heating her up.

“Accident,” he repeated, his lips curving into a mischievous smile.

“Ye’re unbelievable,” Catherine sputtered, trying not to scream over her messy state.

She felt like she had been turned into a washcloth, waiting to be wrung dry and used to wipe up even more water.

“That would be you, Duchess. It was you who started this little game.”

“Ye and yer games!” she snapped. “Do ye ever get tired? Is it always worth it, making others feel foolish for yer amusement? I am a person, nae a pawn for yer silly games.”

Something flashed in Sampson’s eyes, and he pulled her closer, his gaze settling on her lips momentarily before he lifted it to meet her eyes.

“You are no pawn. In any game of mine, you will always be the queen,” he told her, his voice low and sultry as he dropped his gaze to her lips.

Catherine’s heart began to beat erratically, and she tried her best not to squirm, going perfectly still as one of his hands brushed her jaw, his thumb pressing down on her lower lip.

“You are far too interesting, far too special to be something as common as a mere pawn. You can only be a showstopper—thequeen,” Sampson emphasized, with a smile that looked a little odd on him.

Before Catherine could speak, he leaned in, his lips finding hers.

She felt her body melt in his embrace, her heart beating so fast that it felt as though it would burst into flames. Sampson’s hand trailed from her jaw to the nape of her neck, his fingers gripping her hair and pulling it slightly.

She whined into the kiss, giving his tongue access to her mouth. She braced her hands on his shoulders in the hope of grounding herself. One of Sampson’s hands that had been resting on her lower back—effectively keeping her pressed to him—started to slide lower and lower, making her shiver when his fingers caressed her buttocks.

There was nothing more that concerned Catherine at that moment other than her husband, the humidity around them, and the growing fire in her chest. She pulled back for a moment, inhaling deeply before his fingers gripped her jaw and brought her lips back to his.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, sighing when he playfully tugged on her lower lip with his teeth, his tongue swiping over it. The world around them faded away, leaving only the heat of their bodies and the intensity of their embrace.

Soon after, they broke apart, but the kiss lingered, a silent promise hanging in the humid air.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind reeling from the sudden intimacy. She gazed into Sampson’s eyes, searching for answers, for a glimpse of the man beneath the playful façade.

He gazed back, his eyes dark and intense, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken emotions.

“Catherine,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

That seemed to bring her back to her senses. She quickly wrenched herself from his embrace, climbing out of the tub.

“Catherine, wait?—”

---