Page 13 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“I hold no grudge against you, my friend. Anselm was bound to locate me at some point. At least I have you with me now,” Verity said.
Marion savored that rare, precious moment of shared vulnerability with her closest friend. Despite everything, she felt safe, warmed by the bond that chased away the lingering chill inside her.
But as the fire dimmed low and the room grew quiet, a question weighed too heavily on Marion’s heart to ignore.
“Verity…” Marion’s voice broke the stillness as she turned toward her in the dark. “Why did ye run away? Truly.”
Verity was silent for a moment, her silhouette still beneath the covers. Then, with a sigh, she whispered, “I suppose I owe you that answer.”
Marion waited, watching her friend’s profile in the faint glow of the dying hearth.
“I told you I fled an arranged marriage,” Verity said quietly. “That much is true. I couldn’t stomach the thought of marrying a man I didn’t love, a dull, respectable lord chosen by my brother.”
Marion’s heart gave a faint, startled jolt.
“Yer brother arranged it?” she asked softly.
Verity let out a soft, rueful laugh. “Oh yes. He meant well, I think. He thought he was protecting me. Securing my future. And I tried, Marion. I truly did. I tried to be the dutiful sister, to push aside my own dreams for the sake of family honor.”
Her voice tightened, thick with old emotion.
“But as the wedding drew near, it felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into a life I didn’t want. A life where I would disappear into someone else’s expectations. So I ran.”
Marion said nothing, watching her friend in awe.
“I left a note for Anselm,” Verity continued, her voice softer now, tinged with regret. “I begged him to tell society I’d gone to care for a distant aunt or fallen ill—anything to shield him from scandal. I didn’t mean to wound him, but I needed my freedom more than anything else.”
Marion reached out and gently squeezed Verity’s hand.
“I went to Elspeth,” Verity said, a faint smile creeping into her voice. “Posed as her companion, slipped into the village to buy books and write in peace. And then I met you.”
Marion’s heart ached with understanding. “Ye never told me it was yer brother who arranged the match.”
“I didn’t dare,” Verity whispered. “I suppose… I felt guilty. I still do. I hope he won’t hate me forever.” She exhaled slowly. “I lovehim, Marion. He’s my brother. But I hate the way he tries to control everything and everyone around him. I kept my dreams hidden for so long, afraid of disappointing him.”
They fell quiet, the weight of Verity’s confession settling between them.
“I just want to prove that I can live on my own terms,” Verity finished, her voice barely audible. “Even if it means risking everything.”
Marion squeezed her hand again, her heart full. “Ye already have.”
Later, curled beneath unfamiliar covers, Marion willed herself to sleep, but her mind drifted elsewhere.
She couldn’t stop thinking abouthim. The duke. His sharp wit, his searing gaze, the way he had looked at her in that carriage, as though he could see every secret she kept.
That unexpected intimacy hummed beneath her skin, lingering as she prayed that, when sleep finally claimed her, it would carry her straight into his arms.
Five endless days later, the rhythmic jolt of the carriage had become a familiar companion.
They had made their way from Edinburgh to Berwick-upon-Tweed, then Alnwick, Newcastle, Darlington, and finally, they approached Stamford.
Anselm had mostly kept to himself. The conversation he and Lady Marion had shared when alone was starkly contrasted now that they had Verity with them. The ladies did their best to fill the void with quiet chatter, but exhaustion clung to them all like a dark shadow.
“If I do not stretch my legs soon, they might just shrivel up and fall off. Could we walk around for a bit, Anselm?” Verity asked as the carriage pulled up to another inn.
“We shouldn’t waste time, Verity,” Anselm replied. “We need to press on.”
“You are tired too,” Verity countered in a frustrated and determined fashion.
