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
