Page 76 of His Scottish Duchess

“Thomas… Thomas died that night. And it was my fault.” He finally looked at Catherine, his eyes hollow and haunted. “Don’tyou see? It was all their fault,” he said, his voice laced with bitter anger now.

“Our parents. If they hadn’t raised Thomas with such neglect, such indifference, he wouldn’t have been filled with such rage. I… I was beaten too, Catherine. Abused. But I was the heir. They wouldn’t have harmed me beyond what I could endure. But Thomas was offered no such grace because he wasn’t as important to them. He was my b-brother, Catherine. And he died at my hands.”

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his gaze filled with a profound self-loathing. “And iftheywere such terrible parents, what kind of father would a murderer like me be? I am tainted, Catherine. Marked. I cannot bring a child into this world—cannot taint an innocent soul with the blood running through my veins. I want no child. No heir. Nothing of the sort.”

He turned away again, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his confession, years of buried guilt finally coming out.

Catherine stood frozen, the horror of his confession washing over her. The passion they had shared moments ago seemed like a distant dream now, shattered by the brutal reality of his past. She didn’t know what to say, how to even begin to comprehend the pain that had been festering within him for so long.

She finally found her voice, a whisper in the weighted silence of the room.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sampson,” she began, her heart aching for the tormented man before her. “It was an accident. You said it yourself—you did not mean to hurt him. You had gone to those docks to warn him. It was an unfortunate accident, but no fault of yours. You are not a murderer.”

Sampson finally turned to her, his blue eyes filled with so much doubt and a deep, harrowing self-loathing.

His gaze was hollow and resigned as he stated in a flat tone, “That’s not true. Do not lie for my sake, Catherine. I am undeserving of such kindness.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“But Sampson… I wasn’t saying itjustto be kind.”

Catherine’s voice trembled, a desperate plea against the wall he had so suddenly erected between them. She reached for his hand, her fingers closing around his cold ones, trying to anchor him to her, to the intimacy they had just shared, to the fragile hope that had begun to blossom in her heart.

“You are deserving of kindness though—always. From what you have told me, you were hardly ever given that as a child. And I have no reason to withhold such kindness from you when I care for you so deeply.” She paused, inhaling deeply. “You are not a murderer. It was an accident. You said so yourself.”

Sampson pulled his hand away, his movements stiff and jerky. He kept refusing to meet her gaze, preferring to keep his eyes fixed on the floor as if the rough wooden planks held the answers to the torment that consumed him.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion in a way that devastated her. “Don’t offer me your pity, Catherine. I don’t need it.”

Seeing him recoil from her and regard her so coldly, when not long ago he had embraced her and spoken to her so tenderly, sent a sharp pain through her heart.

She understood why he was withdrawing from her, why he was so intent on running away, and she wanted to give him the space he needed. But the greedy part of her that craved him so deeply, that yearned for him so desperately, couldn’t afford to be apart from him.

She wouldn’t let him go. Not without a fight.

“It’s not pity, Sampson,” she insisted, her voice rising with a desperate urgency. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek, her fingers trembling against his rough skin. “It’s… it’s understanding. And… and it’s love.”

The word hung in the air between them, a fragile declaration offered into the darkness of his pain.

Sampson flinched at her touch, turning his face away as if her hand had burned him. His reaction was like a punch to her gut.

He did not believe her? But why?

“Love?” he scoffed, the sound hollow and devoid of any warmth. “Don’t be foolish, Catherine. You barely know me. You feel sympathy, perhaps a sense of obligation. But love? Don’t mistake kindness for something it is not. Do not try to sympathize when it is clear you do not understand what I have just told you. You cannot love me. No one can. Not after what I did.”

His words were like shards of ice, piercing the warmth that had kept her heart beating. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t let him push her away. Not now, not when he needed her the most, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I do love you, Sampson,” she insisted, her voice trembling but firm. “Your past doesn’t change that. It hurts me to see the pain you have carried, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. We can overcome this. I want to overcome this with you.”

He finally looked at her, his blue eyes filled with stark disbelief.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice low and resigned. “Not really. You say it out of kindness—out of some misguided sense of duty.” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Even if you cannot understand the rest of what I have told you tonight, understand this—I don’t need your pity, Catherine.”

He turned away, his movements abrupt and stiff. He strode around the room, picking up his clothes and putting them on, before making his way to where his coat lay discarded on a chair. He snatched it up and shrugged it on with a jerky, agitated motion.

“S-Sampson? Sampson, what are you doing? Sampson, please—please. Please let us just—let us talk about this. Sampson, I beg of you. If you would just let me explain,” Catherine tried, desperate and devastated.

But he wouldn’t meet her gaze again, his focus solely on escaping from the room. From her.

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