The Virgin's Debt Page 7

  ‘Why me?’ Rothmore’s jaw clenched as he sought to restrain his temper. ‘Is it because you thought I’d be easier to persuade than others?’ He made a helpless gesture toward his club foot. ‘Every night we’ve been in bed together, has it been a planned seduction so I would defy my King?’

  ‘No.’ Katrina blinked away a tear. Her chest felt near bursting with emotion. She wanted to take Rothmore’s pain, share his suffering, but she couldn’t think of a way to make amends. ‘I chose you because I hoped that affection could grow between us...and I thought it already had. I would have told you but there was no time—not with Navarro riding up the hill and no message from the King to respond to my petition.’

  A cloud of doubt drifted across Rothmore’s lean features.

  Each day and night they had spent together in the past three weeks flickered through Katrina’s mind, like a string of rosary beads slipping through her fingers. The passion. The gentleness. The small gestures of affection that she had taken as confirmation that Rothmore was beginning to care for her.

  It now occurred to her to look back at her own actions. She had wanted Rothmore to welcome her with humility, to accept that she came to him out of her own free will.

  Perhaps she owed him the same courtesy.

  She needed to offer him the choice she had stolen from him.

  Seeking to capture his gaze, Katrina pushed the shabby green velvet gown down her shoulders. Rothmore fell silent. His hostile stare mellowed, and instead a reluctant flame of desire began to burn in his amber eyes as Katrina slowly disrobed before him.

  ‘I’m sorry for not asking, but I’m asking now,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is not too late to annul a marriage which has not been consummated since we said our vows. The choice is yours. I’m offering you all that I am. My hand, my heart, my lands. My respect and affection. I’m asking you to travel the road of life as one. I’m offering to bear you children, grow old with you and be buried by your side. I’m offering you the love that I have for you, a love that you have made blossom by your own deeds since you rescued me.’

  ‘Love,’ Rothmore said dismissively, but his voice rasped with emotion.

  ‘Yes,’ Katrina said. ‘Love.’

  Rothmore reached out to her. Curling his hands around her upper arms, he roughly yanked her against his chest. His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry. Katrina recognized the signs of passion riding high on anger. She’d seen it in her father when he returned home from the battlefield. Her parents would disappear into a bedchamber, whatever the time of day, and her mother would emerge hours later with a secret shine of excitement in her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she told Rothmore. ‘I offer you all that I am.’

  With a harsh growl, he lowered one hand and groped at his waist. Tugging open his breeches, he pushed the fabric down only as far as was necessary. Then he stretched Katrina out on the timber floor, barely pausing for an instant to arrange her discarded gown beneath her, creating a soft layer of fabric to protect her from the discomfort of the hard surface.

  That small act of gallantry snapped the last cord of doubt around Katrina’s heart. Love flooded her mind, clear and bright. She reached up and carelessly shoved her hands into Rothmore’s glossy locks and pulled his head down to a fierce kiss. Their mouths duelled, greedy and rough, ebbing and flowing between attack and surrender, as both of them released the fear and anger they had carried inside.

  Breaking the kiss to haul in a deep breath, Rothmore braced up on his arms. He entered her in one fierce thrust and then stilled, as if to allow them time to become fused together. Katrina wrapped her legs around his waist. Circling his shoulders with her arms, she clung tight, holding on to his body, with as much strength as she was using to hold on to his affection.

  ‘Show me what you feel,’ she said.

  His brows rose in question, and then he comprehended her meaning. He took her in a fierce, hammering rhythm that explained more than words—that told her about his doubt, the scars that he carried inside from past disappointments, the hopes buried too deep to take root and seek daylight again.

  The pounding force of his thrusts rocked Katrina on the hard planks of the chapel floor, but she welcomed the discomfort. It was her penance. She released her legs from around Rothmore’s waist and planted them on the folds of her gown, so she could rise up and meet his invasion, welcoming him, telling him that she understood, in the same wordless language he was using to tell her about his lifelong yearning to be valued for who he was, despite, and including, what he was.

  All too soon for Katrina, he bowed above her, bold and ferocious, a knight in battle with himself. After a few more pummelling twists of his hips, he closed his eyes and froze. Then he lifted his lids and captured her gaze, looking deep into her eyes while they throbbed and pulsed together, in a release that seemed to reach into the very depth of their souls.

  His anger fully spent, Rothmore’s features eased from their fierce frown. He lowered down to Katrina, supporting his weight on his elbows as he caged her in, sheltering her with his body, keeping their flesh joined in the intimate bond. His breath came in deep gusts that tore rasping sounds from his throat. The quiver of his muscles hadn’t ceased, and it surrounded Katrina, like another life force to match the one that had just spurted in violent gusts inside her.

  Still silent, Rothmore pressed a languid kiss on her throat.

  Then he spoke at long last.

  ‘I would have died for you.’ The words muffled against her skin.

  ‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ she told him.

  Tugging at his hair, Katrina urged him to raise his head so she could look at him.

  Rothmore obeyed, bracing back up on his arms, and she assumed he thought that she found his weight too heavy a burden to bear. Katrina let go of his hair and laid her palm flat over his heart, feeling its swift thundering beneath the solid layer of muscle.

  ‘I’m asking you to live for me,’ she said.

  For an endless moment, he studied her expression.

  ‘Aye,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll live for you.’

  ‘There is a chapel at Glenstrachan.’ Katrina blinked away the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes and sent him an impish grin. ‘Mass is said every day, and the Earl is expected to stand at the head of the crowd.’

  Duncan leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. ‘I guess I could manage.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I was wrong. There is a God after all, but even if I didn’t believe in Him, I’d attend the mass for you.’

  He raised his head again and smiled.

  ‘When a husband loves his wife, there’s little he won’t do for her.’

  * * * * *

  Look for the second Hot Scottish Knights story by Tatiana March, Submit to the Warrior.

  About the Author

  Tatiana March is a novelist who writes both historical and contemporary romance.

  She studied economics and enjoyed a successful career as a finance director in several international corporations. Now a full time writer, Tatiana lives in the UK near the river Thames with her boyfriend of more than two decades. No kids, no pets, apart from spiders and other forms of wildlife seeking temporary shelter.

  When Tatiana is not reading or writing, she enjoys going to the gym, hiking, camping, and travelling around the world.

  You can read more about Tatiana and her books on www.tatianamarch.com

  Tatiana loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at tatiana.march@yahoo.com

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  ISBN: 9781460304129

  The Virgin’s Debt

  Copyright © 2013 by Tatiana March

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