XVIII

The dawn over the port of Leith brought with it a sky that resembled a canvas of scattered violet clouds, illuminated by a soft light struggling to break through. The air, thick with the characteristic smell of salt, brushed against the marquess's face as he stood on deck, watching. In the distance, the small town of Edinburgh began to take shape, its stone piers extending like arms welcoming the ships arriving from the south.

Yet, the image of the harbor did nothing to calm the internal storm that Westlin carried within him. Over the past few nights, he had barely managed any sleep. Grace's name echoed in his mind, and the anxiety over what he was about to face kept him on edge. How would she receive him? Would she hate him after all this time? The uncertainty gnawed at him, though with every step closer to her, his determination also grew.

The shouts of the sailors and the hustle of the port reached his ears, but for him, it all seemed like distant noise. His thoughts remained fixed on a small village in Scotland, where the woman he truly loved had hidden herself for more than five years.

The unmistakable sound of Holloway's retching interrupted his thoughts yet again.

" Thank heavens we've arrived, " the butler muttered, clinging to the railing as though the ship itself might devour him. His skin had taken on a shade somewhere between green and gray, making him look like the walking dead.

Westlin glanced at him, a mix of compassion and resignation flickering in his eyes. The three days at sea had been a true ordeal for Simon, who, from the very beginning, had shown a predisposition to seasickness that even the marquess hadn't anticipated. On land, Holloway was the picture of composure, but aboard the ship, he had become a shadow of himself. His pale and sunken face hadn't known rest since they set sail from London. He spent the days clutching at anything for support, unable to stay on his feet for more than a few minutes before nausea overwhelmed him. Every meal had been a torment, with each attempt at eating ending the same way—fleeing to the deck to empty his stomach.

" Milord, I think I— " He had tried to say on more than one occasion. However, he never managed to finish the sentence before rushing off.

For the marquess, the spectacle had provided some unexpected entertainment amidst his worries. He couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the young man, but watching him stumble around, battling the wind and waves, had an undeniable comic touch.

" This trip is going to kill me, milord, " Simon had whispered countless times, clinging to life with the same desperation he clung to the ship.

Now, on the last day, the poor man seemed on the verge of collapse. Even with the harbor in sight, his body refused to surrender to the sickness. With every movement of the ship, his green face twisted in agony.

As the ship began to maneuver toward the pier, Leith's morning bustle was in full swing. The docks seemed to come alive, with stevedores unloading barrels and goods using pulleys and hoists, while port workers rushed back and forth, shouting orders and securing the lines of the vessels. The harbor buzzed with sound and motion—the creaking of wood, the slap of waves against the dock, and the constant echo of voices filling the air.

The smell of salt and fish pervaded every corner, mixing with the tar sealing the decks of the ships. Westlin watched the activity with interest, though his mind remained focused on Grace. With every passing second, he was closer to her. Despite the commotion around him, his thoughts were consumed by the image of their reunion. He had no idea what to expect. Would he find her happy? Resentful? What if she refused to speak to him? The uncertainty gnawed at him, and as the ship drew nearer to the dock, his anxiety grew. Leith was just the first step. Soon, he would have to face her, and he wasn't sure if he was ready.

The captain gave the order to disembark. The sailors began preparing the luggage and organizing the descent. When the gangway was set, the marquess stepped down with firm strides. From the deck, he spotted a man who matched the description Cassian had given him perfectly—tall, rugged, with a face so serious it looked carved from stone. This must be Gregor Aife, the trusted man his friend had sent to receive him.

As he descended the wooden gangway, the commotion around him turned to laughter. Intrigued, he stopped to discover the cause. Turning, he couldn't help but frown at what he saw: Simon lay sprawled on the deck, sliding like a snake as he struggled in vain to stand up.

" I'm sorry, milord, I can't assist you at the moment, " Simon said in a pained whisper.

Marcus stifled a sigh. The scene was almost surreal, but the most sensible thing at that moment was to let Simon suffer through his torment in peace. He turned on his heels and walked toward Gregor Aife, who stepped forward and extended his hand upon seeing him approach.

" Lord Westlin? " he asked, his voice firm and devoid of emotion.

" Yes, I suppose you must be Mr. Aife, " Marcus responded, extending his hand.

" Indeed, milord. Gregor Aife, at your service. "

" Have you found a decent place for us to stay? " Marcus asked with interest.

" Yes, I have. And if you don't mind, I suggest we head there immediately. I have some important information for you. "

" About her? " Marcus asked, his voice tense with anticipation.

" Exactly. "

" In that case, there's no time to waste. "

Marcus took a few steps toward the waiting carriage, but when he noticed that the Scotsman wasn't following him, he turned to face him.

" Milord, I think it's inhumane to leave that poor lad lying there, " Gregor said, nodding toward Simon, who had lost consciousness mid-crawl.

Marcus surveyed the scene, shook his head, and with a mix of exasperation and resignation, said, " Do with him as you wish. "

Gregor approached the young man and lifted him off the ground with the ease of hoisting a sack of grain. He slung him over his shoulder and walked toward his horse without a second thought. He hoisted the unconscious butler onto the animal's back, securing him so he wouldn't fall. Then, he mounted and urged the reins forward.

As the carriage set off, Westlin leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window. He paid no attention to the landscape. Each passing second brought him closer to facing his past. What information did the Scotsman have for him? Was Grace married? The thought of her possibly being wed pierced his heart with sharp pain. He placed a hand on his chest, hoping to calm the turmoil inside. After a few moments, the rhythm of his heartbeat steadied. Then, he did something he hadn't done since his father's death: he prayed.