The Duke’s Scottish Bride Bonus Epilogue

Bonus Epilogue

Eight Years Later

“Kitty, my darling,” Catriona called, her soft Scottish brogue echoing through the thick oak door. “You cannot remain locked in there all evening. The ball will begin without ye, and then what shall I tell yer father? That his beloved daughter was taken ill with nerves?”

A muffled groan was her only answer.

Catriona pressed her forehead to the door and sighed. “Sweetheart, everyone is waiting. Ye have been dressing for hours.”

“I cannot go, Mama,” came the wail from inside, followed by a heavy thump that sounded suspiciously like a shoe being hurled at the floor. “The gown is dreadful, my hair is worse, and if I step one foot into that ballroom, I shall faint dead away. Then all of London will know I am an utter fool.”

At Catriona’s elbow waited a small knight with hair like new copper and a face currently smudged with the last evidence of jam tarts pilfered at nuncheon. He was seven years old, fiercely loyal, and wearing a sash across his miniature waistcoat because he insisted that important officers must wear something that looked official.

“I shall shoot anyone who hurts you,” Jamie announced to the door with grave, brotherly devotion.

From his post along the opposite wall, Morgan crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling, visibly fighting a smile.

“That is very brave of ye, Jamie,” Catriona said with a soft smile. “But perhaps not everyone in London needs to be shot.”

Jamie frowned, thinking very hard about that. “Only the rude ones, then?”

Morgan arched a brow. “Restrain your violence, son. It is generally frowned upon to begin a London Season with a duel—even a miniature one.”

Jamie sighed dramatically. “Very well. But if anyone makes her cry, I shall—”

“You shall offer them a very stern talking-to,” Morgan interrupted smoothly.

Jamie nodded. “With my pistol.”

Catriona bit back a laugh and turned again to the door. “Kitty, darling, yer brother has volunteered to defend yer honor. Ye have an army at yer command, and a perfectly good chaperone waiting to guide ye into society. Surely you cannot wish to remain a prisoner of your nerves.”

A muffled noise that might have been a laugh drifted through the door.

“Come now,” Catriona coaxed gently. “Tell me what frightens ye, my love.”

There was a pause—then, quietly, “Everything.”

The word was so soft, so terribly sincere, that Catriona’s heart twisted. She reached for the doorknob and rested her hand there. “Do ye recall the day ye learned to ride, Kitty? Ye were certain ye would fall. Ye clung to the saddle and shouted that the pony had teeth like a wolf. But ye did not fall. Ye rode halfway across the meadow before I could catch up with ye.”

There was a rustle from inside—the faintest sniffle.

“Fear only means the moment matters,” Catriona said softly. “And ye, my dearest, were made for moments that matter.”

Behind her, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Ewan appeared, tall and composed, his blond hair neatly tied back, the candlelight brushing his broad shoulders. At eighteen, he carried himself with quiet authority, the kind that could never be taught.

“What is this?” he asked, taking in the scene—his mother at the door, his father leaning against the wall, his younger brother standing guard with a pistol. “Are we staging a siege?”

“Your sister has declared war on her nerves,” Morgan replied.

“All that for her debut?” Ewan smirked. “Women have it easy. All this fuss for a ball, while I have lands to manage and tenants to appease.”

That did it. The door flung open.

Kitty stood in the doorway, her gray eyes flashing. Her silver gown shimmered as she moved, the candlelight dancing along the embroidered hem. Her hair, though slightly mussed from her tantrum, was a masterpiece of soft curls pinned with white blossoms.

“Try wearing a corset,” she snapped. “Then tell me how easy it is.”

Ewan threw back his head and laughed. “Point taken.”

Morgan chuckled, and even Jamie grinned from ear to ear. Catriona exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Well done, my love,” she said to Ewan. “Ye have managed what no one else could.”

“Merely exercising brotherly authority,” he said, grinning. “I know her too well.”

Catriona slipped inside the room and closed the door gently behind her, leaving the men in the hallway.

Morgan found himself staring at the door, his expression softening in a way that Catriona alone had always been able to coax from him.

“She is terrified, isn’t she?” Ewan murmured beside him.

“As was I, once,” Morgan replied. “And your mother. And likely you, though you will never admit it.”

Ewan smiled ruefully. “Perhaps.”

Morgan placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, the gesture simple but filled with unspoken pride. “You have done well, Ewan. Taking on your responsibilities, leading the estate, and protecting those under your care. You have become a fine man, a fine laird. I could not be prouder.”

Ewan’s expression softened, his usual composure cracking for just a moment. “Thank ye, Father.”

It was still a word that carried meaning between them—a word that had once been uncertain but now sat comfortably between affection and respect.

Morgan gave his shoulder a final squeeze before releasing him. “Now, if we can only get your sister down the stairs without fainting, I may yet survive this evening.”

The door opened once more, and Catriona emerged with Kitty on her arm. The transformation was astonishing. Her color had returned, her nerves seemed soothed, and the faintest spark of excitement glowed in her eyes.

“There now,” Catriona said proudly. “Ye are perfection itself.”

Kitty smiled shyly. “Do you truly think so?”

Morgan let out a slow breath. “I have never been more certain of anything.”

Jamie gasped. “Kitty, you look like a princess!”

She bent and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, my brave knight.”

Ewan extended his arm gallantly. “Shall we, sister? I promise not to let ye fall, unless ye start lecturing me about corsets again.”

She laughed, her earlier anxiety forgotten, and took his arm. Together, they began their descent down the grand staircase. Jamie ran ahead to announce their approach to the butler, shouting, “She is coming! Lady Kitty is coming!” at the top of his lungs.

Catriona lingered a moment beside Morgan, both watching their children below. Kitty’s laughter echoed through the hall; Ewan’s calm voice answered her; Jamie danced circles around them, his toy pistol still in hand.

“They are growing so fast,” Catriona said softly.

Morgan slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. “Too fast. I remember when she was small enough to hide under my desk, demanding biscuits.”

“Ye were far sterner then,” Catriona teased gently.

He smiled down at her, with the same boyish tilt to his lips that had once undone her entirely. “You softened me.”

She looked up at him with warmth in her eyes. “Aye. And ye steadied me.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the laughter drifting from below. Then Morgan leaned in and kissed her temple. “I love you,” he murmured. “More every year.”

Catriona smiled, her fingers brushing over his heart. “And I love ye. Always.”

The sound of Kitty’s laughter rose again—bright, ringing, full of life—and Morgan smiled. “We did well, Catriona.”

“We did,” she agreed. “Though I suspect the real work begins anew when Jamie decides he is ready for mischief.”

Morgan chuckled. “God help us when that day comes.”

She grinned. “We have survived worse.”

The End.