“And he did?” Anice ran her fingers through Piquette’s hair. “Why?”
“I promised to marry him.”
Anice’s eyes went wide. “You did what?” She spoke too sharply, and Leila stirred on the bed. “Marin, say it isn’t so,” she said in a whisper.
“He needs the cooperation of the castle to hold it. I promised to marry him, and to convince the people to allow him to stay in peace without trying to kill him. He feels he has always been at the mercy of rich men.” She hesitated. “I also had to vow to cease my attempts to kill him.”
“What of Papa?” Anice put her hand over her mouth. “Will he be barred from entering his own home?”
Marin's eyes prickled with wet heat and she knew tears would soon be upon her once more. It was true. After all her father had taught her, after everything he'd entrusted her with, she had completely, ultimately and horrendously failed.
“If Bran and his men hadn't come, you would all be dead.” Marin drew in a shaking breath. “I could not lose all of you.”
“Oh, Marin.” Anice gazed at her with such sadness, it cut into the quick of Marin’s heart. “You gave up everything.”
Though they hadn’t been meant to be cruel, Anice’s words hit Marin like a slap.
The angry emotion thickened into a knot in Marin's throat. At her helplessness, at her choice, at her perceived loss carved so evidently on Anice’s face. But Marin refused to allow her sister to know how much the statement hurt.
Marin had to appear strong, the way she always did, especially when they had already experienced so much sorrow and strife.
Piquette nudged his cold nose against Marin’s palm, a mute offering of comfort that nearly undid her control.
“I will be back to check on Leila later.” Marin made her way to the door to keep Anice from seeing any of her hurt.
“I will remain by her side.” Anice’s vow of loyalty plunged the dagger of agony deeper into Marin’s soul. After all, it was Marin’s fault Leila had been wounded. It ought to be Marin who remained in vigil.
She closed her eyes and a hot tear rolled down her cheek. There was nothing she wanted to do more than stay in this room she had shared with her sisters in the years after their mother’s death, with its walls painted with red and gold whorls, and various dressing tables. She wanted to curl against Leila on the bed as she'd done when they were children, to watch the rise and fall of her breathing, to be perpetually reassured Leila would live.
But as mistress and master of the castle, Marin had too many obligations to handle. She had soldiers to see to, lives lost to pray over, and a man to tend to–a man who would soon become her husband if he lived.
Nay, she could not linger. She had to endure the emotional torment of her decisions, even when she was so close to breaking.
Bran wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them more tightly to his stomach. The men shouted and threw a chair across the room, where it clattered against the wall of their simple home. The men were angry; even Bran could see that through the cracked door in the cabinet. Their faces were red and snarling beneath the limp chainmail coifs drawn over their heads.
One of them stalked over to the table.
Bran's heart nearly beat out from his chest.
Ena was under that table.
She put her hands over her head and shrunk down, as if she might be able to make herself blend into the floor below. Bran scrunched lower in his own hiding place.
They couldn't find her. They couldn't—
The man threw the table on its side and Ena screamed. A long, high pitched note that pierced Bran's soul.
She ran, but the man caught her by the hair and jerked her back. Mum came out from where she was hiding behind a small trunk, her hair wild and her eyes wide with fear, with Gregor leaping in front of her.
Gregor, the brave elder brother with their father’s sword in his hand, though it was nearly as tall as he.
“No' my child,” Mum cried. “Take me but leave my child.”
The man gave a snarling grin in reply and drew back his blade.
The sharp, wet scent of brewing herbs pulled at Bran. Jars clinked together and the subtle pop and hiss of a fire sounded in the background. Beneath him was the downy thickness of a feather bed, and smooth fine linens. Despite the luxuries of heat and bedding, his body was in hell.
His head thundered with agony. He shifted slightly and the room dipped into a dizzying spin.
“That's enough out of ye.” An older woman's voice spoke over him. “Drink this. It'll ease the need to purge yerself again.”
Again? Had he been ill?
“How is he?” the voice was a new one, feminine and familiar. Marin.
“He isna doing well, my lady,” the healer replied.
“I'll give that to him.” Marin's voice was closer now.
He opened his eyes and the brilliance of the firelight seared into his skull. He winced back.
“You need to drink this,” Marin said. The bed shifted slightly on his right and he knew she settled herself beside him. The clean scent of lavender drifted toward him like a cooling balm. He breathed it in and some of the tension drained from his stiff muscles.
The whoosh of a breath exhaling sounded several times. He cracked an eye open and looked up to find Marin next to him, gently blowing onto a steaming mug of tea.
“Come now.” She eased a hand behind him and helped him sit forward.
His side pinched at the simple action and dizziness caught him in a swirling grip. He grunted, unable to even warn her he might retch.
Marin's hand was firm behind him. “Lean against me, Bran. I am stronger than I look.”
“I know,” he ground out.
“At least you haven’t fully lost your senses.” There was a smile in her voice, and it was as beautiful as she.
A cup pressed to his mouth.
“Drink,” she said. “It should not be too hot.”
Obediently, he opened his lips and the liquid poured into his mouth. As promised, the temperature was comfortable. Warm and appeasing on his dry throat. It quelled a ragged thirst he did not know he possessed, and he drank it until there was naught left.
Marin settled him back against the bed, and her fingers swept over his brow. A pleasant, heated glow followed the graze of her skin over his. He wanted to turn into her touch, to encourage more.
The bed shifted again, and the welcome presence of her body left his side. He wanted her back beside him. He craved her gentle voice as much as he did more of her delicate caresses.
The pull of sleep grew stronger. It wrapped around him in a cradled embrace and dragged him toward the temptation of oblivion. And yet the vestiges of his nightmare hovered at the edge of consciousness, ragged and raw. Ena.
Ena.
“Ena.” He spoke without meaning to.
Marin was at his side once more, her delicate hand set atop his. “She is well. The arrow missed her heart. She is resting now.”
“My lady, do ye speak of Leila?” The healer's voice sounded distant.
He'd begun to relax at Marin's words, but the healer jarred him in his confusion.
There was a pause, then Marin continued. “Ena is well, Bran. She is abed resting but will heal.” Something cool stroked over his face, and her perfume of lavender water washed over him as surely as did the need to sleep.
“Rest,” she breathed in a whisper.
The tension drained from his body as if by magic and he floated toward the deep darkness of sleep with the knowledge Ena was safe.
“Will he live?” Marin spoke low in a volume meant to not be heard by others.
Bran roused back to awareness once more, his ears straining around the thickness of his jumbled thoughts.
“Aye, he'll live.” The healer's voice was just as quiet. “He's got a few cuts. I wager he's had worse by the look of him. But it's the knock to the head that's got him addled. He'll be well upon the morrow when he's had a fine bit of sleep.”
&
nbsp; There was a click of something glass set atop a hard surface, followed by silence.
He'd almost thought the conversation was done when the healer spoke again, so discreetly he wouldn't have heard her had he not been straining. “He doesna have to recover, my lady.” The simple words were heavy with a suffocating implication.
Marin did not respond. Her lack of a reply pressed upon him, crushing at his rapidly beating heart.
“I could poison him,” the healer whispered. “A mix of herbs and no one would be the wiser.”
“You mean to say,” Marin said slowly. “You would kill him?”
“Aye.”
Marin's answer did not come readily, and with that great hesitation, Bran was sure he knew her choice.
14
Poisoning Bran would be such an easy solution. A lightness filled Marin at how many problems his death would alleviate. Her father would not need to fight for his home upon returning from battle, peace would be restored through the castle and Marin could remain unwed and free. She gazed at the man lying abed, his face peaceful with sleep.
Her mind still echoed with the pained way he’d called out for Ena. Whoever the girl was, or had been, it was obvious she meant a great deal to him. Somehow, she imagined that affection was part of the reason he’d agreed to help her rescue her sisters.
He had risked his own life and the lives and loyalty of his men. Even after she had betrayed him, even after she had returned with the intent to kill him. He had protected her in battle, and he'd saved Leila from certain death.
She could not bring herself to give the order to have him poisoned, not when he had spared her from so much loss.
“Nay,” Marin answered Isla finally. She pulled in a breath for fortitude. If she were to keep him alive, she needed to uphold their agreement–not only marry him, but to put forth a credible performance that their union was one she wanted.
“He will live,” Marin said. “And once he has fully recovered, we will marry.”
“Marry?” Isla chuckled with incredulity, flashing her impossibly white teeth. It was whispered that they had been taken from the mouths of the dead. A distasteful rumor, but then there were many surrounding the aged healer.
“Aye.” Marin glanced once more to Bran’s sleeping form. He lay on his back with his hands folded peacefully over his flat stomach.
She needed to convince her people that their union was what she truly wanted. Otherwise the effort would be for naught.
The healer squinted with skepticism and she gave a little grunt. “Him?”
“Of course.” Marin was not doing well with this. “He is a much better man than he seems.” She almost winced at how bad her attempt sounded. “That is to say, he is…”
This was far more difficult than she had anticipated, but she must be more genuine. If she couldn't fool one old woman, how could she convince an entire castle?
She pulled her lower lip into her mouth and remembered his kiss, how his mouth had set her aflame.
What other good attributes had he that she could elaborate on?
“He is brave,” she said sincerely. “He saved my sisters and our soldiers. None of them would have returned had he not agreed to help. And he is a fierce warrior. I…care for him.” She stumbled over the last part, unable to say she loved him. Surely caring was sufficient.
Isla regarded Bran with consideration. “He's a fine-looking man, I'll give ye that. Wrought with hard muscle and easy on the eyes. Other bits of him are nay so bad either.” She winked. “Ye could do far worse than the likes of him for certes.”
Marin’s cheeks heated and she breathed a discreet sigh of relief.
The older woman patted Marin gently on the face. Her withered fingers were dry and held the clean scents of sage and meadowsweet. “Dinna ye fash, lass. I'll have yer man well enough to give ye a worthy wedding night, aye?” She issued forth a cackling laugh and shooed Marin from the room.
Marin said nothing as she was pushed out the door, grateful to be free of the awkward conversation. Isla had been fooled, but Marin would need to improve on her earnest declarations of affection if she was going to sway the castle into believing she truly wished to marry Bran. Part of that lie would involve visiting him daily while he recovered, sitting by him with care and affected fondness.
And so it was that Marin found herself going often between Leila’s bedside and Bran’s. Leila had healed quickly with the resiliency of youth and was sitting up within days of receiving her injuries, smiling and nodding as Cat chattered on about all Leila had missed.
And so it was that Marin remained at Bran’s sleeping form for hours on end in an effort to play the part of the doting betrothed.
The days were mind-numbingly dull. She found herself speaking to him as she stitched silk embroidery over a fine new gown she was making for Leila, or reading to him from one of the ornately decorated books from the solar. She even took to going over accounts and replying to correspondence while in the confines of his room. None of the missives received had been from her father as yet, though it was common for him to be unable to reply on his missions with the king.
Never had she been more grateful for his lack of communication.
Oftentimes, Bixby kept them both company from where he curled up along Bran's sleeping body and watched Marin as she read.
Her time was not all spent attending Bran as he slept, though it was the larger part of it. She also helped feed him the drinking broth Nan sent up from the kitchens when he was awake, fortified with cattle bones and goose fat. She saw to his medicine to ensure he took what was needed without fail, and she swept a cool cloth over his face before and after his meager meals.
Isla was there to do most of the other things he needed, things she insisted Marin not have to deal with, like bathing his body and seeing his clothing changed. Though in truth, Marin harbored a suspicion the older women found much enjoyment in those tasks.
Regardless, it was in those respites where Marin found herself seeing to the wounded soldiers, all of whom were recovering well. They had lost twenty-eight men in the attack. More than half of their remaining force. In truth, having Bran as Marin's husband would be beneficial in affording her more troops to stand guard. As long as the reivers could remain loyal.
His man, Drake, came to visit Bran daily, despite his newfound wealth. A man without loyalty would have taken the treasure and never returned. Yet the man came every day with concern bright in his dark eyes.
Marin took care to visit with Bran’s men as well, to make certain they received proper treatment for their wounds and were fed well enough. She even went so far as to speak with Drake regularly to confirm the men had all they needed.
It was not until the fourth day that Marin found Bran sitting up in his bed, his gaze fixed on the fire in the hearth. She stopped short when she entered and held her book close to her chest. She had intended to read it aloud, not necessarily for his benefit, but to fill the gaps of empty silence.
His stare shifted mutely from the hearth to her and her heart gave an unexpected little squeeze. Bran was awake. Which meant soon she would have to make good on her vow and marry him.
Bran’s gaze lingered over Marin. She clutched a blue bejeweled book in her arms, the encrusted volume nearly large enough to cover her whole chest. Her purple gown had been trimmed in black fur and called to attention the dark smudges under her eyes.
“You're awake.” The sweet sound of her voice pulled at his memories, of the ebb and flow of her speaking to him as he lay in recovery.
There had been pieces of stories and the whisper of parchment pages turning. Other times there had been mention of tales from her youth with her sisters and her father and even some of her mother, all fractured through moments of sleep. And yet all had been told in her beautiful, soothing tone.
“Aye, I woke this morning.” Bran’s voice came out craggy from disuse.
She nodded and swept into the room as though she hadn't stalled in the entryway at all. “
And are you feeling well?” She set aside her book and handed him a glass of ale, which he drank gratefully.
The cool liquid glided down his throat and eased the rasping dryness. His body was in good enough repair, with the wounds not giving him much trouble. Apparently, the arrow he’d thought had glanced off him had actually grazed the skin, and a slash at his side had left a wee bit of a mark. Both were nothing more than pink scars now. Even his head had finally stopped aching, which had brought about the clarity of his mind, and the memory of his family’s fate on that fateful night.
For during those blurry days of his recovery, when he had been worried after his family, they had been alive. At least, to him. Now, awake, he knew they were merely distorted memories. Ena lived, but she was not safe, while Mum and Gregor…
The realization plunged into his heart as sure as any dagger. He had lost them. Again.
“I'm well enough,” he answered simply. “I was told ye'd be by today. That ye’ve been by me every day.”
She approached his bed and turned abruptly to examine a neat row of bottles set along the back of his bedside table. “I wanted to be certain you were well.” Her fingers plucked at various bottles, unstopping them and plugging them up once more after a brief sniff.
No longer without his wits, he was well aware of what her options had been with him ill. He knew also how much easier her life would be with him conveniently absent. There had even been a dream somewhere in the fog of his memory of her being asked if she would like him dead.
“Why would ye check on me?” he asked.
She gave a surreptitious glance around the room, then leaned forward over the bed. Her unbound hair fell around her shoulders like a gilded cape and draped over the bed sheets, a mere inch from his hand. He wanted to lift his forefinger and stroke the silkiness of the cool golden strands.
“It's part of the facade,” she said levelly. “To safeguard the acceptance of our marriage.”
Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 12
