The Virgin's Debt

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Or...could he become the protector she needed?

‘Why have you not taken a wife?’ she asked without preamble.

‘How do you know that I haven’t?’

Her heart gave a hard thump in her chest. With a jerk of her spine, Katrina straightened in his lap. She hadn’t realised that she’d leaned into him, her body seeking the shelter of his. Tears of humiliation gathered in her eyes as she realised that like a weak woman, she had instantly seized upon the dream that a man could be what she needed him to be.

‘I just...assumed,’ she muttered.

‘You thought that a married man has no use for a mistress?’

Her head inclined in a nod of agreement.

‘I’m not married,’ Rothmore informed her. ‘And never will be.’

He tipped her over his arm so he could study her face. A shiver shook Katrina when she saw his fierce expression. She guessed that the heat that burned in his amber eyes came from anticipation of how she would fulfil her duties as his mistress.

‘There’s no need to look so frightened,’ he remarked bluntly. ‘I’m taking you to my house and to my bed, not to the gallows.’

Katrina gasped. She sought for something to say, some means to fight back, to prove her courage, but she came up with nothing. Beneath her, she could feel Rothmore shifting in the saddle, attempting to get more comfortable. Conscious of the fact that her buttocks bounced against his thigh on every gait of the big stallion, Katrina tried to ease her body away from his.

‘My leg doesn’t suffer from your weight,’ he told her curtly. ‘But your wriggling is testing my patience.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel awkward, the way I’m trapped inside the blanket.’

‘I won’t let you fall. I can control the horse with one hand.’

‘I’m aware of your skill as a rider.’

‘You know how to ride?’ His voice betrayed surprise.

‘Yes,’ she replied, and looked straight ahead, lapsing into a silence that would discourage further questions. From the first, when she had fled from Glenstrachan Castle, she had tried to avoid lies. Not telling the entire truth wasn’t nearly as great a sin as voicing an outright falsehood, and so far she had managed to protect her immortal soul.

She had referred to the man whose cottage she had occupied as Grandfather, and the villagers had assumed they were blood kin. Katrina had felt no need to explain that the man had been related to her maid, any more than she had felt compelled to correct anyone when they misheard her family name, McLeod, which she had deliberately mispronounced.

At the thought of her heritage, worry clouded her mind.

She needed one man, only one, but he had to be a man of great courage, someone she could trust with her life and the lives of those who depended upon her for protection. That man would have to be willing to defy the King’s command by marrying her, even though she had been pledged to another.

For a few fleeting moments, she had hoped the stranger could be the one.

He had confronted the officials at the witch trial with valour, and something about him had convinced her that once he gave his loyalty, he would never waver. She was drawn to him, in a way she had never been drawn to a man. Her eyes kept straying to his broad shoulders and stern features, and the golden eagle eyes beneath the level dark brows. Heat flared to her face as she admitted she didn’t expect a night in his bed to be a hardship.

But...being a wife would be much better than being a mistress.

The man had sworn he would never marry, but according to Katrina’s experience, every groom she had congratulated at a wedding feast had said those words at some point in his life. She would wait, keep her secrets while she learned more about her rescuer, and then she would decide if she should confide in him and seek his help.

Rothmore.

She recalled the name from the lessons with her father, before he became too ill to teach her. One of the most powerful vassals of King James, Baron Rothmore commanded more than two hundred knights. And the late Baron Rothmore, who had died two years ago, only had one son—born with a club foot.

I’m no longer Baron Rothmore. Whatever had happened to the handsome man with eyes that were filled with too much suffering, he had lost his title and his lands.

‘Are you no longer pledged to fight for the King?’ Katrina asked.

‘Be quiet.’

‘Why?’ She bolted up inside the blanket. ‘Is someone following us?’

‘Settle down.’ His arm tightened around her, anchoring her to his chest. ‘I value silence in a woman more than beauty.’

Katrina forced her body to relax, seeking to hide her fear of being pursued. ‘In which case, it is fortunate that I have some of the latter, since I scarcely know the former.’ She managed to make the comment tart, although she couldn’t stop her voice from trembling.

‘You’ll soon learn. There isn’t anyone to talk to where we’re going.’ With that ominous statement, her rescuer ended the conversation, and didn’t say a single word in the two hours it took to reach their destination through the hills covered in purple heather and evergreen trees.

* * *

Duncan Rothmore cradled the woman against his chest. For the thousandth time, he wondered what foolishness had ruled his mind when he offered to take her. What was he going to do with her in the rambling old keep he’d made his home after he ceded his position to his cousin?

Train her in the use of halbard and longbow?

Discuss the politics of King James’s court with her?

Shoulders sagging, he released a frustrated sigh. He had no wish to become entangled with a woman. Eight years ago, on his twentieth birthday, he had told his father that he would never marry. His father was dead now, but the promise held. Let someone else take care of bringing up the next generation of Rothmores.

Someone better equipped for the role.

With a bitter tilt to his mouth, Duncan thought back to the moment he’d entered the parish hall where the witch trial took place, and had seen the woman in the white linen robe. The sight of her had hit him like a thunderbolt. Her hair cascaded past her shoulders like a stream of molten gold, and no artist could hope to improve upon the beauty of her features.

In his youth, it had taken Duncan two painful years to dismiss his dreams of love. All he wanted now was efficient satisfaction of the flesh. That was the reason he had offered to take her on as his mistress.

He needed a woman in his bed.

Ruthlessly, Duncan pushed aside the thought that he could have any one of the camp followers that served the Rothmore knights, any night he wished. He would walk all the way to Edinburgh in his bare feet before admitting that he wanted one particular woman and no other.

On the final rise of the road muddied by the autumn rains, Duncan brought his horse to a halt. ‘We are at Darklands,’ he told Katrina, and surveyed the ancient stone structure ahead. ‘It will never be grand, but it’s a roof over your head, and not every room leaks. As an alternative to Hell, it ought to be preferable.’

When they crossed the drawbridge permanently lowered over the overgrown moat, Duncan listened to the beat of the horse’s hooves on the timber. The hollow sound seemed to echo his bitter thoughts.

Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between this world and Hell.

* * *

Katrina craned her neck at the blackened stone walls that flanked the opening through which the horse clattered. ‘Why is everything so dark?’ she asked.

‘Signs of old battles. Boiling tar was poured down the walls to keep invaders from climbing in from siege towers.’

The bleak disrepair around them seemed more fitting for a ruin than an occupied dwelling. Weeds covered the empty bailey and sprouted from the waterless moat. Only a few tiny windows punctuated the grey stone walls.

‘Who lived here during those battles?’ Katrina asked.

‘My ancestors did, until the King hung the neighbouring baron for treason and erected the adjoining lands into a single barony. The family acquired a more modern castle two miles to the south of here. Darklands became a widow’s retreat. Since my grandmother died, the place has been empty.’

Katrina’s heart sank as she carried on her assessment of their surroundings. ‘When did your grandmother die?’

‘Twelve years ago,’ Rothmore said curtly. He dismounted, visibly flinching when he put his weight on his left leg. ‘I only took up residence last week. It is not as bad as it looks. The ovens in the kitchen work, and the roof doesn’t have too many holes. The chimneys have been swept and the garderobe shafts have been cleaned.’

He reached up to lift her from the black stallion. Settling her in his arms, he scaled the stone steps with hollows worn in the centre from centuries of footsteps. Katrina stared up to his face. An odd sense of purpose stirred in her heart as she studied his lean features and guarded eyes. She could see the tightness in Rothmore’s jaw, and knew that humility didn’t rest well on his shoulders.

‘It will be all right,’ she attempted to reassure him. ‘After a few repairs, Darklands will be a comfortable home.’

To her surprise, Rothmore threw his head back and laughed. His mirth rocked her against his chest, and his hold on her tightened, lifting her up and bringing her face close to his. He would barely need to lean down for their lips to meet. The thought seized Katrina with a throbbing intensity. During the ride, his nearness had made her edgy and restless. The rough texture of the blanket had scraped her breasts through the thin linen shift, sending an odd sensation of guilty pleasure streaking through her.

She had tried not to think of the night to come, but now the idea slammed into her. Heat surged in her veins. Her breath stalled, and her body tightened. Almost against her will, she craned her neck and pursed her mouth for a kiss that didn’t come.

Instead, the rusty sound of a man who found little amusement in life faded, and Rothmore raised his left foot to give the massive iron-girdled front door a series of sharp kicks that echoed around the bailey.

‘After a few repairs?’ he said when he stood firm again. ‘I intend to do what I can, but reversing twelve years of neglect will take a miracle.’

‘I’m sure you can manage,’ Katrina told him, struggling to keep her wits against the unfamiliar currents of physical attraction that buffeted her. ‘I’ll help,’ she hastened to add. ‘I can embroider cushions and polish silver and arrange furniture.’

‘There are no cushions to embroider, no silver to polish, and very little furniture to arrange,’ he countered. ‘And such comforts will have to wait until the dirt, the leaking roof, the broken drawbridge and the overgrown moat have been dealt with.’

Before Katrina could reply, the door flew open. A sturdy woman with grey hair pulled into a tight coil stood before them.

‘I’ve acquired a mistress,’ Rothmore said, not attempting to soften his explanation of Katrina’s status. Carrying her in his arms, he stepped over the threshold and propped her to her feet. ‘I expect you to see to her needs,’ he told the older woman.

‘And how am I supposed to see to her needs when the larders are empty and the house is falling down around my ears?’

‘You’ll think of something.’ Rothmore gave a single nod and turned to Katrina. ‘This is Agnes, who rules my household. If you were serious about helping, she’ll direct you to the most pressing tasks.’

‘I suppose the mistress will want hot water for bathing,’ the woman muttered. ‘And I’ll have to carry the buckets upstairs.’

Rothmore raised his attention from the boot he’d been adjusting. ‘Where are the other servants?’

‘They’ve taken a horse and cart and gone into the village in the hope of buying enough supplies to keep us from starving to death during the winter.’ Agnes gave Katrina a measuring look. ‘Are you to have your own bedchamber, or will you sleep with the master?’

If hunger and exhaustion hadn’t rendered her numb, Katrina would have burned with shame at being treated like a chattel without a mind of her own. Now she merely shrugged her shoulders in reply, although she couldn’t ignore the tension that gathered at the base of her spine at the reference to where she would spend her nights.