Page 51 of His Scottish Duchess

“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—yearslater—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.”

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