The priest’s head gleamed, having been freshly shaved, and he spoke the words of matrimony in Latin without once stumbling. As awkward a man as Bernard could often be, he had truly found his calling as a member of the clergy. His bright blue eyes glanced up from time to time to regard both her and Bran during the endless stream of words that closed her fate around her like a noose.
Bran, for his part, appeared elegant in the woolen hose and doublet of the same deep blue as her gown. His dark hair was clean, and his beard freshly trimmed. He'd lost a bit of weight during his convalescence, but he was still an imposing figure of stature and virile strength.
She did not let her attention linger upon him, though, for the grip on her control was tenuous. It was better to feel nothing than to fall prey to the crash of emotion.
The flower crown Catriona had ceremoniously draped over Marin's head that morning tickled her brow. The daisies had grown limp from the heat of her skin and cast about her a cloying, damp perfume.
Outwardly, she was aware of the wet heat of her palms, despite the chilled room, and how her feet ached from standing on cold stone for so long in delicate slippers. The priest's words rattled through her mind like dice being rolled in a cup, clunky and heavy with risk.
She exchanged her vows with Bran. Her mouth moved, her voice spoke, and still she did not feel.
A band of cool metal slipped over the third finger on her left hand, directly over her vena amoris, not that the vein running to her heart would make her love this man she married. The fat sapphire of the ring winked up at her in the multi-colored light of the stained-glass windows. It had been her mother’s and was the nearest thing possible to having her there.
Marin took a flat gold ring, procured from the smith just that morning, and nudged it onto Bran's finger. His skin was warm and dry.
“Marin.” He said her name so gently that it pulled her regard up to his brown gaze watching her with lingering concern.
Suddenly, the emotion hit her with the force of a tidal wave and threatened to drag her below its torrent depths. Each one powerful as it tore into her, the sadness, the anger, the excitement, the 1ust.
She blinked at the surprising prickle of tears in her eyes and flicked her focus to the floor before she succumbed. Who would possibly be convinced of her love if she began to weep? Bran gently touched her chin with his fingertips and directed her face upward. She looked up at him once more.
“My beautiful wife,” he murmured.
Her breath sucked in. “My husband.”
The entire room watched them with the weight of the world. They observed her stand uncomfortably in front of her new husband as he drew closer and closed his mouth over hers.
The kiss was chaste, as was expected within the confines of the church, but the connection of their mouths, and the familiarity of his spicy, clean scent, left the heat of desire winding through her body. She closed her eyes and gave in to the pull of lust. If nothing else, it would serve to see the people of Werrick Castle better convinced.
Bran pulled away and ran his thumb over her cheek. Her mouth hummed from his kiss and she bit her lower lip gently, enjoying the sensation, prolonging it on purpose. She opened her eyes and turned to the waiting congregation behind them. Despite her resolve, her cheeks grew hot with reticence at having been caught publicly enjoying a kiss.
They strode from the church together, as husband and wife. Though they did not make it far before her sisters surrounded them in a flurry of excitement.
Ella threw her arms around Marin. “You played the act well,” Ella whispered. “It all looked so romantic.”
“I hope it continues,” Marin said through a smile. In truth, her sister's complimentary words bolstered Marin's confidence and gave her the fortitude to withstand the feast. She took the arm of her new husband with a believably feigned joy and allowed him to lead her to the celebration.
Bran did not protest at her sisters accompanying them into the great hall. It was there that Marin stopped and gasped at their efforts.
Her sisters had outdone themselves with the decor in the great hall. Thick bands of blue cloth ran down the lengths of the trestles, and clusters of white and blue flowers dotted the walls, sconces, and tables of the massive room. The fine silver had been polished and set in a sparkling array along all tables, not just the dais. A true testament to the immense wealth of the Earl of Werrick.
Marin's smile had not been forced to see such lavishness at her wedding feast, for she knew all had been orchestrated by her sisters and all had been done with kind intent and love.
Even Piquette wore a crown of daisies as Marin did, though it kept falling every time he moved.
Bran led her to the dais, where flowers had been linked together and draped over the carved wood backs of the chairs. She sat first at his behest, but he did not join her. Instead, he took a long moment to stare out at the great hall from his elevated seat of honor. He raised his chin in a display of masculine pride. A man marveling at what he had conquered. And though she sat to his right, it was she who suffered loss at her own mighty capitulation.
“My fellow reivers.” He lifted his goblet, already brimming with the fine Noirien wine from Burgundy. “And the men and women of Werrick Castle.”
The excited chatter of conversation fell into complete silence as he spoke. Marin’s insides clenched with anticipation. He had not told her he would make a speech, that he would address her people as though they were his. Aye, he would get great wealth from her dowry, but he was in no way a lord.
He casually held his goblet by the rim with his fingertips. “We come together today to unite our lives, and our people, together as one. For peace and for prosperity.”
The reivers all shouted and banged their fists on the trestles with enough force to set the platters of food chattering atop the linen-covered wood. The men and women of the castle, however, looked to Marin with uncertain faces. She was, after all, their lady, and they still looked to her for answers and safety. Their trust twisted a chord in her chest and spurred her to action.
To show discontent now would not only violate the truce she'd enacted with Bran, but it would also cast an ominous shadow of doubt. To do so was far too dangerous.
She rose from her chair and held up her goblet. “We thank you for joining us to celebrate this most joyous occasion.” She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Bran's cheek.
The hair of his beard had been trimmed back and tamed with a spiced oil. The prickly whiskers were soft against her lips and left the pleasant scent clinging to her even as she pulled away.
Several cheers rose up and Werrick’s inhabitants offered genuine nods of approval as many toasted the union. The revelers drank deep from their cups in appreciation for the peace, as much as for the limitless quantities of good spirits. For their parts, Bran and Marin drank to their own toast.
The wine was rich and robust as it hit her tongue, fortifying her in a way she so desperately needed. Conversations rippled to life once more and people began reaching for the trays laden with food.
Marin sank to her seat and dipped her fingers in the rose water at her side. The cool, scented water was refreshing against her uncomfortably hot skin, and provided her some much-needed energy to get through the interminable feast. She wished she could pat a bit of it on her cheeks.
It was only just beginning. Though there had been scant time to prepare, her sisters had managed the impossible in what they'd assembled for entertainment. There was a troubadour brought in by Ella's recommendation and a new dance taught by Cat, along with bountiful food and drink and good cheer. And following everything would be the wedding night.
Nervous excitement swam low in her belly, mixing like honey and vinegar. For as much as she dreaded knowing the permanence of a consummated marriage, so too did she anticipate what her husband would bring to the marriage bed. The passion they'd only sampled before would now be feasted on together.
Heaven help her for her wanton thoughts, bu
t she could not help the eagerness singing in her veins and the heat growing in her cheeks. As much as she did not want a husband, she found Bran immensely desirable.
Bran had spent the better part of the feast not touching his wife. The people were used to an earl, to nobility and chivalry. Bran was the son of a widowed villager from a place so small its name had been forgotten after it was destroyed.
For certes, he was no earl.
While he did not understand the delicate rules of the titled and wealthy, he knew above all else he would do nothing to bring his Marin to shame, regardless of his station or hers. It had been difficult to sit beside her and not caress the length of her arm encased in sumptuous silk or touch her skin that looked like rose petals and cream. He couldn't draw the veil of hair from her face to better see her loveliness. Not when one touch would lead to more, and the rush of his driving need to have her would leave him overwhelmed.
He had contented himself to sit and watch Marin dance with her sisters, their hair fanning about them in gold and onyx, their matching blue eyes bright with joy.
The people of Werrick castle danced as well as the reivers, the two oftentimes coming together. Even Drake had appeared tempted when Lady Anice had tried to draw him into a dance. In the end, he’d resolutely shook his head and refrained.
The evening had been enjoyable, but it had been long, and Bran’s patience was drawing to a close. He could no longer be on display on the dais as he fumbled through dainty eating and frivolous customs. Ones that were apparently created to establish a distinct line between men of his station and the otherwise wealthy and overly educated. The time to claim his bride without restraint was nigh.
He got to his feet and the room hushed. “The hour grows late.”
“That isna all that's growing,” a voice jeered from the back. Laughter followed as well as several more ribald jests.
Bran turned to where Marin had just taken a seat once more after dancing with her sisters, her cheeks flushed from her exertions.
He held out his hand to her. “My lady, shall we retire?”
She smiled up at him with the reserved affection she'd afforded him since they'd spoken their vows. Another few bawdy calls rose above the din, and she placed her hand in his. It did not escape his notice how her fingers trembled.
“Ye dinna need to walk us to the bed chamber,” he called to the waiting crowd as he aided Marin to her feet. “I'm sure enough in my abilities to see the task done without the lot of ye.”
The people laughed at that and settled back to their drinking and dancing. Better to appeal to their tawdry humor than to subject Marin to the humiliation of the barbaric old custom.
His wife moved without thought, the way a warrior does in battle when their body reacts independently from their mind. Her fragile smile continued to hover on her lips as they made their way across the hall. It stayed through the long walk up the stone stairs and into Marin’s room.
It had been Bran’s idea to occupy the earl’s former rooms, but Marin had asked that they share hers instead. A consideration Bran had agreed to.
Once the door was completely closed, her pleasant expression wilted. The performance was over.
Whatever was left was what lay between them, cold and foreign, a yawning gap of discomforting silence. Not what Bran had been anticipating.
An unexpected awkwardness seized Bran.
He'd had plenty of women in his life, but never had he needed to work to woo them. None of those women had been ones of noble birth. And certainly, never had they been his wife, nor a maiden for that matter.
The women who had lain with him were lusty, experienced, and eager to sate his passions.
He made his way to the wine flagon and poured a cup. The liquid splashed into the chalice like a wave of blood and obliterated the quiet.
He turned to her. “Ye look lovely.” And she did, like a pagan goddess with her loose flowing hair gleaming like spun gold and her eyes sparkling with the excitement of the feast.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. The intensity of her shrewd stare darted briefly to the bed before returning to him.
He followed her gaze with a forced languid ease, pausing to take in the fresh linens and creamy white bed clothes as well as the pink rose petals scattered over its surface. A bed made for consummation.
He lifted the goblet and approached her. His footsteps were thunderous on the hard floor and he swore he could hear the tapping of her rapid heartbeat.
“I told ye before, ye dinna have to be afraid of me.” He dipped his finger into the wine. “I willna force ye. I told ye as much in the beginning.”
She nodded.
“I want to give ye pleasure, lass.” He stepped closer to her and welcomed the sweet tease of her lavender scent. “I want ye to want this as I do.”
He drew his finger from the cup and slowly brought it close to her mouth. When she did not move away, he traced his digit over her lower lip, painting her rouged flesh with rich wine. Her breath drew in and she watched him with wide eyes as she tucked her lower lip into her mouth to suck it clean.
Heat fired through him, singeing away the foreign awkwardness.
“Do ye know I willna hurt ye?” He dipped his finger into the wine again and drew it over both lips this time. The lower first, then the sensual shape of her upper lip. A dark red droplet beaded and threatened to run down her chin. He caught it with his thumb before it could drip and licked it from his skin.
Marin ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, so they glistened with temptation. “I know.” She said it with such conviction, it cleared the lingering vestiges of his discomfort.
“I've thought about ye, Marin.” He touched his forefinger to the wine and brought it to her once more. “More than I ought to have.”
Her lips parted and she drew his finger into the moist heat of her mouth with a little suck.
His cock tensed with eagerness. “Have ye thought of me?” He set the wine aside. “How I kissed ye, how I touched ye?”
Her gaze darted away, and her cheeks flushed darker than the rouge.
He leaned to whisper in her ear, his voice intentionally sensual. “Be honest.”
Her breathing hitched, and her eyes brightened. “Aye.” She closed her eyes as she whispered the solitary word, as if she were confessing a sin.
God's teeth, he could not stay himself any longer. He held her face in one of his hands, while curling the other around to the back of her head, threading his fingers through the glossy wealth of her hair, and pressed his mouth to hers.
She parted her lips and the tip of her tongue grazed his with an innocent's eagerness. She tasted richly of wine and sexual hunger. He groaned and deepened their kiss, eager to experience her once more, eager to claim the woman who had become his wife.
18
Marin didn't want to think on what her marriage to Bran meant for her family. She didn't want to consider her father’s reaction when he came home to Werrick Castle and found it overtaken, or what dangers lay in wait for him at the battle in Berwick. Nor did she want to ruminate on how egregiously she had failed to protect Werrick Castle.
With such unwanted thoughts pulling at her, it was easy to give in to the heady rush of lust stoking fire in her blood. She let her world center on pleasure, on the skilled caress of Bran’s mouth, the power of his body beneath the fine doublet, the silkiness of his hair despite his powerful and undeniable masculinity.
His arousal pressed into her stomach and piqued her curiosity, as well as several other emotions she was all too eager to embrace. She put her hands to his chest without trepidation, empowered by a wife's permission. He pushed against her palms, welcoming her touch.
Her fingers moved down the fine wool of the blue doublet, one of her father's that Anice had insisted on having altered to fit Bran for the wedding. Bran groaned against her mouth and swept his tongue deeper, his kisses hungrier, more insistent. The smooth leather of the belt at his doublet met her fingertips. She moved blindl
y to pull the leather free of itself. It fell to the floor with a slap.
He broke free from the kiss, his gaze fixed intently on her as he shrugged off the doublet. It joined the belt on the floor.
The memory of him without his shirt sizzled in her mind. She had been too timid then to touch his firm flesh, to see if it was as solid as it had appeared.
“The leine too,” Marin said boldly. “I want to see you.”
His mouth lifted in a cocky half-smile. While the arrogance might have ordinarily rankled her, there was a confidence behind it that heightened his allure.
“I like a woman who knows what she wants.” He lifted the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head, revealing the rippled muscles of his stomach and the swell of his chest, all shadows of raw, masculine strength in the firelight.
Marin's mouth went dry. The tips of her nipples tingled. She'd practiced with soldiers long enough to know a physique such as Bran's was hard-won and not common. A man who fought with diligence. With passion.
The scent of sandalwood rose from his skin, enticing and sensual–his scent. She breathed him in and let her gaze stroke over him.
“Ye can touch me, wife.” His words startled her, and she pushed her hand to his naked chest to mask the sudden foolishness washing over her. After all, she had asked him to remove his shirt and then merely stared.
His skin was warm and soft, the slight furring of dark hair prickled against her palm, while his heartbeat beneath was steady. And faster than normal. The same as her own frenzied pulse.
His deep brown eyes watched her intently from underneath hooded lids. Marin let her hand drift over his chest, letting her fingers dip and glide over his beautiful, war-honed flesh. First his chest, then the bulk of his chiseled arms, carved no doubt from the swing of his battle axe.
She hadn't yet had a chance to skim her fingertips over his abdomen when his hand cupped her chin and he forced her gaze upward.
Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 15
