The Virgin's Debt
Tatiana March
Melisande, Duchess of Gifford, has enjoyed running wild since surviving her unhappy marriage–but she knows it's only a matter of time before her brother forces her to settle down and be respectable.Determined to make herself free, Melisande decides to escape into ruined exile with an absolutely scandalous affair and leave London forever. But her heart may have other plans when she meets intriguing Lord Grayson Sanbourne…
Scotland, 1540
Katrina McLeod fled an arranged marriage, decreed by King James of Scotland, to a man with a fearful reputation, only to find herself on trial for her life! Accused of witchcraft, her salvation lies in the hands of brooding nobleman Duncan Rothmore….
When Duncan saves Katrina from a grisly fate in exchange for warming his bed, he has no idea she is really an untouched, high-born lady. He knows only that she stirs something in his wounded heart and afflicted body that no other woman ever has. But if he wishes to make Katrina his bride, Duncan must betray his king.
The Virgin’s Debt
Tatiana March
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
The Virgin’s Debt is the first book in my miniseries Hot Scottish Knights, and my first Harlequin title. I’ve been writing a number of years, and it’s a huge honour to become part of the Harlequin team.
I’ve always been a romantic. My tears flow easily, both for sorrow and happiness. My heart aches for people who are denied love, or who struggle to find their place in the world.
All my books start with an idea, a situation. In the opening of this story, the heroine faces a terrible death by fire and the hero steps in to save her—but at a price. The hero, the son of a noble family, was born with a club foot and has spent his life overcoming the disability. The rest of the story flows from their wants and needs.
When I researched women accused of witchcraft and other historical aspects, the timing settled to 1540-1541. The rest of Europe was coming out of the Dark Ages, but Scotland lagged behind. King Henry VIII ruled England, King James V Scotland, and the two countries were either at war or uneasy peace. Religion had a huge influence on the everyday lives of both rich and poor, but reformation was starting to erode the power of the Church.
Middle Ages were a violent and restless period, and the Scottish Highlands are a rugged, majestic place. Duncan Rothmore is a gallant hero, and Katrina, the Countess of Glenstrachan, is a warm, courageous heroine. I hope you’ll love them both as much as I do.
Contents
Chapter One (#u1eb926d3-722f-5b9f-8e3b-ce7a26181332)
Chapter Two (#u8815d66b-94ac-5014-a646-22c7e680b1d9)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Scotland, 1540
They were going to kill her anyway, so she let her contempt show.
Katrina McLeod glared at the three men in front of her. Like apostles of a pagan god, they sat behind the table of roughly hewn pine, their faces frozen in pious outrage. Behind her, she could hear the rustle of skirts as the two women ordered to witness her interrogation shifted restlessly on their feet.
‘Can you see the devil?’ asked Jonathan Crawford, the leader of the court.
‘Aye.’ Katrina gave the man a firm nod. ‘I can see the devil clearly.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘He is tall and gaunt, dressed in a grey doublet and a thick black coat with a patch over one elbow.’ She directed an unblinking stare at Crawford as she described his appearance.
The man’s narrow face twisted with fury. He lurched forward, arms outstretched, as though wanting to strangle her with his bare hands. Katrina recoiled. For an instant, the mental wall she had erected around her fear shattered, and images of what awaited her broke through.
They would burn her on the stake. Flames would lick at her feet, and then grow into a roaring inferno that consumed her. How long did it take to die by fire? Did your flesh scorch or melt? Could she tolerate the pain, or would she in her last moments lose her sanity and enter eternity in the grip of madness?
At the rear of the room, the door opened and shut with a slam. Footsteps thudded across the floor in an odd rhythm of clomp and drag. A cold draft swirled around Katrina’s bare feet, fluttering the hem of the long white linen robe she’d been ordered to change into for the trial.
In front of her, Jonathan Crawford surged to his feet. ‘Baron Rothmore.’
‘It’s no longer Baron Rothmore. Just Rothmore.’
The deep voice drew goose bumps on her skin. Katrina whirled. A sound of surprise caught in her throat as she saw the newcomer. Lean, broad shouldered and no more than medium height, he was dressed like a working man, in dark breeches and a plain white shirt under a black coat. But despite the simplicity of his garments, they were made from the finest of fabrics, and on his feet he wore tall boots in gleaming black leather.
Drawn by her startled cry, the stranger gave Katrina a sharp look before abruptly glancing away. The expression on his face hardened. An instant later, his eyes returned to linger on her, although she got the impression that he regarded her with reluctance.
‘What is this all about?’ he asked, his manner gruff. ‘Why has my presence been requested?’
‘It is Baron Rothmore we sent for,’ Crawford informed him.
‘My cousin is the Baron now and he is busy,’ the man said. ‘You’ve got to deal with me or manage without.’
‘We need the Baron’s authority to condemn Katrina MacLelland as a witch.’
Katrina flinched. She’d misled the villagers about her name, and chose not to correct it now. If she suddenly claimed to be of noble birth, no one would believe her. She would be branded a liar, which would only make matters worse.
‘A witch?’ The man turned to Katrina. ‘Is that what they think you are?’
Her gaze collided with his, and the room faded away. His eyes were a clear golden-brown, like those of an eagle, and in them she detected a suffering that made her want to reach out and lay her hand against his stubble-shadowed cheek.
The stranger had the rugged Highland looks, with sharp angles and planes to his features, softened by a sensual wide mouth. Thick locks of brown hair fell to his shoulders, shiny and untangled. Everything about his appearance spoke of an odd mix of a commoner and a nobleman.
‘That is what they say,’ Katrina told him in a low voice. ‘That I’m a witch.’
‘I beg you not to address the prisoner,’ Crawford cried.
The newcomer shifted his attention to the three men behind the pine table. ‘I’ll address whomever I wish,’ he declared bluntly. ‘Why is this woman accused of witchcraft?’
‘She cast a spell on my brother. Despite his God-fearing nature, he has become besotted. A week ago, he offered to marry this penniless slut who appeared from nowhere a month ago. Out of torment, the woman rejected him, and last night she put a spell on him and made him forget God’s commandments. She almost tricked him into fornication.’
Katrina’s hands clenched into fists as she recalled how Kenneth Crawford had accosted her at the cemetery last night. People had seen her fleeing past the church. Her torn clothing, together with the fact that the incident took place on sacred ground, had triggered the accusations of an alliance with the powers of darkness.
‘I see.’ Rothmore rubbed his fingers along his jaw in a thoughtful gesture. ‘Has there been a physical investigation for marks of the Devil on her body? Has her skin been pricked with a witch-needle to see if she bleeds?’
‘Not yet.’ Crawford’s eyes narrowed. ‘We haven’t progressed that far.’
‘Let’s not waste any more time.’ Rothmore gestured at the two witnesses.
The women stepped forward. Plain cloth caps covered their tightly pinned hair, and shapeless brown garments hid the contours of their bodies. Their faces remained carefully empty of expression. Only their eyes seemed alive, and in them Katrina detected a flicker of pity that gave her some consolation.
‘Strip her naked,’ Crawford ordered.
The women glanced at Rothmore for confirmation.
He shook his head. ‘Just lower the robe down to her waist.’
Katrina closed her eyes in an attempt to hide her shame. She stood in the centre of the room, her body rigid as the women undid the buttons on her white linen shift and pushed the fabric down her shoulders, releasing her arms from the sleeves and bunching the folds around her waist.
‘Are you cold?’ The question came in the deep voice that made her skin tingle.
‘Yes,’ Katrina murmured, without opening her eyes.
She heard the odd halting footsteps again, and the clanking of an iron poker against the hearth as someone stirred the dying embers. Another log landed in the fire with a thud, and tendrils of acrid smoke began to drift around the room.
The women finished the task of disrobing her and stepped aside. Katrina opened her eyes. Holding her head high, she focused on the picture of the Christ on the cross that hung on the wall above the heads of her tormentors. Her mouth tightened with bitterness. By now, she’d lost all illusions of the glory of martyrdom.
The stares of the four men felt like hands on her skin, three greedy and lecherous, one gentle and reverent. Disturbed by her acute awareness of the stranger, Katrina stole a glance to her left. The flames had leaped to life, crackling as they grew. Rothmore stood between her and the fireplace, legs braced, arms crossed over his chest, his body a dark silhouette against the glow.
Fire.
Horror welled up anew inside Katrina at the prospect of how she might burn on the stake. The humiliation of being exposed in front of a group of leering men added to her helpless rage at the injustice, and tears that she had managed to control all day trickled down her cheeks. She felt a light touch on her arm, and when she turned to look, she saw the older of the two women give her a small comforting nod. Then the woman cast a frightened glance toward the pine table and resumed her blank expression.
‘Have you inspected her long enough?’ Rothmore asked, anger edging his voice.
A chorus of subdued replies rose behind the pine table.
‘Stand up,’ Rothmore ordered.
‘What?’ Crawford sent him a puzzled frown.
‘On your feet.’ Rothmore crossed the room, this time moving in front of Katrina, and she saw the pronounced limp that caused the uneven cadence of his boots against the floor.
Chairs scraped over the timber planks as the three men shuffled to their feet.
‘Look at your groin.’ Rothmore proceeded past them and gestured at their bulging codpieces. ‘Hard as an iron pike, every one of you.’ With a rueful twist to his lips, he glanced down. ‘And I’m no different. That’s how God created men. We lust after women, and when a woman is as beautiful as this one, a man can lose his reason. There is no witchcraft involved, only the basics of physical science and human behaviour.’
Willoughby, a slight man in his thirties who had from the start been the least eager to condemn Katrina to her death, cleared his throat. ‘Are you telling us that the reaction of Kenneth Crawford to this woman might have been natural and not the result of witchcraft?’
‘Completely natural.’ Rothmore flung up his hands. ‘If I suspected a woman of being a witch every time one gets me into this state, I’d be forced to conclude that the entire female sex has made a pact with the Devil.’ He nodded at the three men. ‘It is the virility of a man that drives his arousal. If a man does not react to beauty, there must be something wrong with him. I’m glad to see that you’re all in full health.’
Katrina’s eyes grew wide as she watched Rothmore’s performance. The man had the audacity to pander to the male pride of her tormentors. If a small ray of hope hadn’t risen in her heart that she might be allowed to continue her time on earth, she’d have intervened and contradicted the nonsense the man was spouting. But instead, she stood still and observed his oratory skills, almost forgetting her half-naked state.
‘Where will she go if we release her?’ Willoughby asked. ‘She’s been staying in the cottage her grandfather used to rent, but the new tenants will arrive next week.’
‘I want her to leave the village,’ Crawford said. ‘My brother is a good man. I won’t have him corrupted by feminine tricks, even if there is no witchcraft involved.’
‘I could take her with me,’ Rothmore suggested. ‘I no longer live at Rothmore Castle. I have set up household on a farm at the north end of the estate, and I need servants.’
Dazed, Katrina listened as she was declared innocent and the witch trial was formally concluded. She was allowed to cover herself, and the two female witnesses departed, casting relieved smiles in her direction.
‘Where are your clothes and shoes?’ Rothmore asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘They took them and gave me this robe to wear.’
‘The garments were thought tainted by the Devil’s touch,’ Willoughby explained. ‘They were taken away and burned.’
‘Get me a blanket,’ Rothmore ordered.
When the three men lingered, he scowled at them. ‘Leave. Now. All of you. Find me a blanket and leave it in the vestibule.’
As soon as they were gone, he turned to Katrina. ‘I already have a housekeeper and two maids, but I need a woman to see to my personal needs. If you want the position, I’ll take you with me. If not, I’ll leave you in the next village, and you can find your own way from there.’
Panic seized Katrina as the meaning of his words sank in. Her gaze darted over the man standing before her, took in the handsome features and the physical handicap that he couldn’t hide. She recalled the dark shadows of suffering she’d glimpsed at in his eyes, and a wave of sympathy swept over her.
He had shown her kindness, had saved her life.
The need to repay the gift by easing his pain swelled in her heart.
Beneath her silent scrutiny, the stranger’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. ‘I’m not going to change however long you keep staring at me. I’m only half a man, and always will be.’ He shuffled his weight on his infirm leg. ‘Well, what’s it to be? Are you accepting my offer or not?’
Katrina flinched. His angry tone told her more clearly than eloquent words might have done that Rothmore needed affection, the comfort of a woman’s touch. She expelled a long sigh as the choice took shape in her mind. She had fled her father’s estate to avoid an unwanted marriage to a man she despised. Being burned on the stake would have been too high a price to pay for her freedom, but becoming another man’s mistress was not.
‘Yes,’ Katrina said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Chapter Two
Wrapped in an itchy wool blanket that reeked of manure, Katrina rocked across Rothmore’s lap on his black stallion. His left arm around her shoulders secured her in place, and his right hand held the reins. She’d been acutely aware of him while he lifted her on the horse and mounted behind her, and the sensation had escalated during the ride out of the village, where people had gathered by the roadside to stare at them.
The witch is Rothmore’s whore, she heard someone shout.
Whore. Mistress. The words pounded in her head. Was there a difference?
By nightfall, she’d be a sinner, in the eyes of God and man. At least her father would never find out. For the first time, there was consolation in the fact that illness would finally take him before the month was out. And then, she would be alone. She would be the Countess of Glenstrachan, the lands and knights and tenants and servants her responsibility.
Katrina stole another glance at Rothmore.
His face was like granite, but a dull stain of colour darkened the crest of his high cheekbones. Was he thinking of the coming night, of what he would do to her? Would it hurt? How long would he want her? Would he tire of her soon, and discard her to deal with her fate alone?
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.
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