The Virgin's Debt

‘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.