Chapter 21 #2
“You cannot guarantee his safety.” Her voice cracked on the last word, barely more than a whisper.
The sound of it made Duncan’s heart hurt.
He drew a steady breath, forcing calm. “You won’t help him if you fall apart, Catherine.”
“I’m not falling apart.”
“Why must you be so stubborn?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a spark that still managed to steal his breath. “Stubbornness. Yes…I understand that is a quality that I must cultivate if I want to thrive in this marriage.”
Duncan exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. He did not understand her little speech, but could see that she had delivered it with a sense of conviction. “You’ll make yourself ill.”
“Then you’ll have two patients.”
Before he could reply, a low whimper broke through the silence.
Henry.
Catherine turned instantly, her exhaustion forgotten. She leaned over the bed, murmuring the boy’s name, while Duncan stepped closer, hand braced against the bedpost as he watched her gentle touch. The tenderness in her movements was unbearably kind.
“Shh,” she whispered to the boy, smoothing his damp curls. “It’s all right, my darling. You’re safe.”
Henry stirred, breathing uneven but steadying beneath her hand. She reached for the cloth to cool his brow, but Duncan was faster. He dipped it into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the child’s forehead.
Their fingers brushed again. The brief contact sent heat through him, ridiculous and unwanted. She didn’t even seem to notice. Her attention was all on the boy.
“Sleep, my darling,” she murmured, her voice low, almost a lullaby. “We’re here.”
The boy quieted, his breathing easing.
Duncan watched her for a long moment, then reached for the chair beside hers. He sat and rolled his neck. The tension in his shoulders refused to ease even as the room settled into fragile calm.
Catherine remained upright, her eyes never leaving the bed. Then, gradually, her head tilted, exhaustion claiming her. Her temple rested against his shoulder. The weight of her hit him harder than he expected. He couldn’t move.
Her voice came quietly after a long stretch of silence. “I grew up here, you know.”
Duncan turned slightly, enough to see the soft curve of her profile in the candlelight. “At Brightwater?”
She nodded. “My mother ran it. She called it her purpose. Every morning, she came here before breakfast and tended to the children, mended their clothes, and read them stories. She said no title or fortune could make a person noble, only kindness could.”
Duncan’s throat tightened. “She sounds remarkable.”
“She was.” A faint smile touched Catherine’s lips, but it faded quickly.
“When she died, I thought the world had ended. And perhaps it had, for my father. He wasn’t cruel, only broken.
He drank. I was fifteen, and the house… it grew quieter every year.
The debts came, the servants left. Sometimes, I’d sit up all night with him when he was ill from it.
Brightwater fell into ruin. The roof leaked, the walls crumbled, and many children were sent away. ”
She swallowed hard, her voice barely steady. “And then you came. You didn’t even know me, yet you saved this place.”
Duncan said nothing. He couldn’t trust his voice.
“You restored it,” she went on. “You gave them walls again. You gave me something I thought I’d lost.”
Her words lodged deep, quiet, and devastating. He looked down at her hand, where it lay curled around the boy’s small fingers. Her touch was light, careful. He could see the faint tremor still in her wrist.
“Catherine,” he said quietly, “you’ve done more for this place than I ever could.”
She shook her head. “No. You gave it a chance to live again. And if Henry…” Her voice faltered. She drew a sharp breath, blinking rapidly. “If he doesn’t survive, I’ll have failed them all over again.”
He turned toward her, his voice firm. “You will not lose him.”
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and wet. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“How?”
“Because you are the light that keeps this place alive,” he said simply.
Catherine went still. For a long, breathless moment, she just looked at him, disbelieving. Then her face crumpled, the first tear slipping free. He caught it with his thumb, the gesture instinctive. She didn’t pull away.
Her head found his shoulder again, this time willingly, and he let her stay there. Her breath came unevenly, brushing against his throat. Her hand tightened around his sleeve, as though anchoring herself to him.
Duncan lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed it gently through her hair. The strands were damp, tangled from the long night, but soft against his skin. She sighed, the sound barely audible, and leaned closer.
He felt her tears soak into his coat, and the feeling was followed by a swell of something else—some emotion he had trouble describing.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll watch him.”
Her answer was muffled against his chest. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll fall asleep too.”
“I won’t.”
“You always think you’re stronger than you are.”
He almost laughed at that. “I could say the same of you.”
Her lips curved faintly against his shoulder, a ghost of a smile. “We’re both wrong, then.”
“Likely.”
They sat in silence. The room was dim, the candle guttering low, the air heavy with the scent of rain and fever.
Henry’s breathing had steadied; each soft exhale was a fragile promise.
Duncan’s arm ached from holding still, but he didn’t move. He could feel her heartbeat against his side, quick and uneven. The sound of it pulled at something deep in him, something he had spent years keeping buried.
Perhaps Catherine had found his heart tonight, without even trying.