The Virgin's Debt Read online

  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.

  ‘Put her in the room at the end of the corridor,’ Rothmore said. ‘The one with the working fireplace.’ Then he addressed Katrina. ‘I need to go and attend to the horse and deal with other pressing chores. I won’t be back until late. You can have supper with Agnes and the other servants. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.’

  Hunger twisted in her stomach, and Katrina brushed aside her pride and embarrassment, as well as the new sensation she had yet to understand that swamped her every time Rothmore glanced in her direction.

  ‘Might I have something to eat?’ she asked. ‘They came for me before I broke my fast. I haven’t eaten since last night.’

  ‘I can give you bread and ham and a jug of ale,’ Agnes said, her tone softening.

  ‘That would be very welcome,’ Katrina replied.

  ‘I’ll join you after I’ve put the horse in the stables.’ Rothmore pointed across the vaulted room to the long oak table. Then he turned to Agnes, ‘If you set water to boil for a bath, I’ll carry it up after I have eaten.’

  The old woman made a snorting sound that could have meant anything from surprise to disapproval at the master’s interference with household chores. Offering no further comment, she spun on her heels and disappeared into the kitchens.

  Taking mincing steps inside the blanket, Katrina eased her way to the table and slumped on the bench, where she waited in silence for the food to be served and for Rothmore to return.

  Voices echoed in her mind.

  The witch is Rothmore’s whore.

  I’ll send for you when I’m ready.

  Her mouth tightened. She hadn’t been brought up to wail and moan and wish that circumstances could be different. She’d been brought up to be a fighter. If she were a man, she’d face Rothmore across the tourney field, and only one of them could win. Now she would face him in the bedchamber, and she could only hope that both of them would come out feeling that they had conquered the other.

  * * *

  ‘Why did they accuse you of witchcraft?’ Rothmore asked, watching Katrina eat with undisguised greed that bore witness to her hunger. ‘The witch mania raging on the continent hasn’t reached Scotland yet, and normally it is older women that have become a burden to the community who get murdered by the bloodthirsty crowds.’

  Katrina glanced up at him, but didn’t stop bringing the pewter mug to her lips for a long gulp of ale. ‘You don’t believe in witchcraft?’ she asked after a pause.

  ‘No,’ Duncan told her.

  ‘It was nothing to do with witchcraft.’ Katrina used a knife to cut another piece of cheese, her movement so violent it made the blade clash against the wooden board. ‘Crawford’s widowed brother is a wealthy yeoman who owns his own land and has no children. If he marries and produces an heir, Crawford will lose the inheritance he covets.’ She gave a resigned shrug that indicated her acceptance of the ways of the world. ‘It was simply a question of eliminating the threat I posed.’

  ‘They said Kenneth Crawford offered you marriage.’ Duncan gave voice to the thoughts that had occupied his mind during the long ride home.

  Katrina didn’t reply, merely shifted one shoulder to dismiss the question.

  ‘Did he?’ Duncan pressed.

  ‘Does it matter?’ She laid the knife on the table and directed the full force of her blue gaze at him.

  ‘Why did you turn him down?’

  ‘I didn’t want him for a husband.’

  ‘They say you are penniless and arrived from nowhere a month ago.’

  ‘Everyone comes from somewhere.’ She turned to the plain fare on the table and tore off another chunk of bread. ‘I came to see to the grave of an old man who lived in the village and died a few weeks ago. John Smithson was his name.’

  ‘Was he a relation?’

  She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Aye. He was family.’

  ‘If you are penniless, why didn’t you marry Crawford? He would have given you a comfortable life and a place to belong.’

  ‘I already have a place in the world, and it is not with him.’

  Duncan opened his mouth to probe further, but Katrina interrupted him before he got out a single word. ‘My head hurts and my muscles ache with fatigue. Would you kindly cease your questions? I do not wish to dwell upon my past.’

  The steely strength beneath the softly spoken request made him frown. Instinct told him that she had lied, and it gnawed in his gut to realize that she had brushed away his interrogation with the skill of someone accomplished in deceit.

  ‘I’ll go and carry up the water for your bath,’ he told her gruffly, and rose to his feet, controlling his reaction to the pain in his leg that had come under strain during the day. ‘If you need anything, Agnes will see to your needs until the maids return. I’ll ride out to the village before it gets dark and talk to a stonemason about mending the roof.’

  As he limped across the room, Duncan fought the urge to look back at her. Thoughts of the coming night made his loins ache. For an instant, the bitterness that had been his companion all through life soared to new heights. What would it be like if things were different? If he were perfect in body, and instead of this ramshackle ruin, he had ridden home to Rothmore Castle, with a woman like Katrina as his betrothed bride?

  Duncan suppressed the gust of mocking laughter that rose inside him. Where did that pretty tale spring from? Romantic ideas had no place in his world. Not even ones about a blue-eyed goddess with hair the colour of sunshine and compassion in her voice.

  Her kindness was bound to be a lie, just like her words.

  Efficient satisfaction of the flesh.

  That was their bargain. He would ask for no more—and no less.

  Chapter Three

  Katrina eased down the corridor where a single candle flickered in a wall sconce, casting leaping shadows on the stone walls. A draft swirled about her feet, but the thick woollen socks protected her from the autumn chills. Neither of the two maids who had knocked on her door for a brief introduction upon their return from the nearby village owned an extra pair of shoes and, although one of them had offered her a kirtle, Katrina had chosen to keep her linen shift. Her hair fell in a damp curtain down her back, but her body retained the heat from the bath, and she didn’t suffer from the cold.

  Reaching the heavy oak door decorated with iron studs, Katrina hesitated.

  All after
noon, her thoughts had centred on Rothmore. New restless urges plagued her body. He had become a temptation, a man who drew her in, a man who made her pulse quicken and sent a tug of excitement coiling deep in her belly. She knew little about the physical act of love, and the lack of knowledge made her fear what he wanted from her. She had tried to conquer her anxiety by dreaming of what could grow between them. She would offer him the comfort of her body and the balm of her valiant, caring spirit. In return, she wanted him to become her knight, the protector of her inheritance.

  Katrina lifted her hand and rapped. Once. Twice.

  ‘Come in.’ Despite being muffled by the solid timbers, the husky resonance of Rothmore’s voice sent shivers dancing on her skin. It happened every time he spoke. She had never realised a man’s voice could feel like a caress.

  Katrina took a deep breath. This was it. Her virtue, her future, the teachings of the Church. She would throw it all away, in the hope that God had sent her a miracle to secure her future—a miracle in the form of a man with a club foot, anguished eyes and the skills of an experienced knight.

  Pressing her palm against the oaken planks, she pushed the door open.

  Rothmore sat on a low stool in front of a roaring fire, shirtless, his naked back toward her. The glow of the orange flames reflected on his muscled shoulders. She watched as he leaned down to pick up an iron poker from the floor and rammed it into the pile of logs in the narrow hearth, causing a hissing burst of sparks to shoot up the chimney.

  ‘You sent for me,’ Katrina said, unnerved by his silence.

  ‘Aye.’ He stared into the fire. ‘Did you not think that I would?’

  Katrina swallowed. ‘I thought you might decide to wait. That you might have more important things to do upon your arrival, or that you might wish to rest after the journey...’