Page 62 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Panic seized Catriona, piercing her deep in her gut. The image of Lydia’s small, happy face just moments ago twisted into a vision of danger.
“We have to find her now!” Catriona cried as she set into motion, pulling her hair behind her shoulders and steadying her gaze up and down the alleyway. “Where could she have run off to?”
“Spread out! Question every vendor, every entertainer. Anyone who might have seen her! Catriona, you take the east side of the fair and I’ll take the west. We meet back at the main stage in ten minutes to regroup,” Richard ordered, with all the skill of a military general.
They went their separate ways in haste as they plunged into the crowd. The joy of the day was replaced in an instant by a frantic, desperate search for Lydia.
“Lydia!” Catriona cried as she looked high and low, in every stall and corner for her small frame. “Has anyone seen Lady Lydia!” she called out in desperation, only receiving sad, worried looks from the villagers in return.
These minutes are an eternity. Where are ye, lassie?
Suddenly, a small cry reached Catriona’s ears. It was faint and muffled, but undeniably Lydia’s voice. She knew it as well as her own.
She followed the sound as her heart pounded in her ears, pushing through the dense crowd towards the edge of the fairgrounds. She neared a cluster of less-frequented animal pens and looked around frantically. The sounds of animals grunting made it difficult, but she was able to isolate the cry. She ran as quickly as she could, looking for the source of the sound.
Lydia was sitting on the ground, her small face streaked with dirt and tears. Her skirt was hiked up, exposing knees that were scraped raw. Catriona looked up in shock to see Lord Mortridge looming over her, his face a visage of exaggerated concern that made her nauseous.
She dropped to her knees and hugged Lydia to her chest tightly.
“Richard! Over here!” Catriona shouted, not giving a damn about using his name in a social setting. “She’s here!”
“The poor dear had a fright and took a tumble,” Lord Mortridge offered as Richard approached them, his voice smooth as silk. “I was just about to bring her back to you. Nasty little fall, but I was here to catch her before she hurt herself too badly. Isn’t that right, Lady Lydia?”
But Lydia said not a word.
“Tell us what happened, Lydia,” Richard demanded as he considered the severity of her scrapes. “You must tell me what happened. How did you get hurt?”
Lydia remained silent. Her small body trembled violently as she clung to Catriona, her face buried in the folds of her skirt.
Sampson offered a small smile as his eyes flicked between Richard and Catriona.
“It is clear she cannae talk about it now,” Catriona offered as she scooped Lydia up to her feet. “I think it best we return home and get her scrapes cleaned.”
“Thank you for your help, Lord Mortridge. I do not know what has come over my niece, but I am glad you were here to see to her safety,” he said as she shook his hand.
“Think nothing of it,” Sampson said with a small bow. “I’ll pay you a call soon to finish our other discussion. Good day to you all.”
As he made his way back to the fair, the maids found them and helped to get Lydia prepared to make the journey back to Wilthorne. They fussed over her, the relief of finding her a tremendous burden lifted.
In contrast, Richard could not help. He could not say anything. His ashen face mirrored the gnawing guilt inside of him as he became lost in the reel of his own thoughts. Distracted.
Gods, how could I have been so utterly stupid? Just a fleeting, selfish moment of pleasure in an alley. What am I, a schoolboy? And Lydia… how could this have happened again? I cannot let this happen again.
And Sampson of all people, appearing just then to save the day.
Was it a bit too convenient?
No, it had to be pure, blind luck that he saw her. Nothing more.
That’s all Richard could think. For now, he had to focus on what mattered and never allow himself to get distracted again.
Richard could not sleep that night. He had long since abandoned the bed, his body restless, his mind worse.
He sat hunched in his chair near the fire, the poker clenched in his hand, feeding the flames in quiet penance.
Lydia’s tear-streaked face haunted him. The weight of her safety—so briefly, so carelessly risked—pressed down on his chest like stone. And Catriona. Her touch, her mouth on his, the urgency between them—it all curdled now, tangled in guilt.
It all tasted wrong now. It had been a lapse. An indulgence. One he couldn’t afford.
