Bran grunted in reply and allowed himself to be nudged away from the strewn bodies remaining, out of the grass gone muddy with blood, and back to the place he realized he now thought of as home.
“Papa!” A girlish squeal sounded from the battlements and echoed over the field. A figure in front of the archers leapt up and down several times before disappearing.
So, the man was indeed the Earl of Werrick. Despite the hollowness that knowledge wrought in Bran's gut, he could not help but smile at Cat's delight to see her father alive.
The portcullis opened and the men shifted with restless eagerness to be reunited with their families, whether their time outside the castle walls had been over an hour, or over the last month.
Two women waited on the other side, so eager for it to open, they finally ducked underneath and ran to the earl. As they got closer, Bran realized they were Anice and Cat, Anice racing with the same girlish excitement as her younger sister. They flew into their father's arms and remained there a good, long time.
The earl kissed each of their heads in turn and held them as though he never intended to let them go. When his eyes opened, tears shone, making them glow like a summer sky.
The rest of the men pressed onward into the bailey, giving the earl his privacy in the reunion with his daughters. Though not all of them.
Bran scanned the courtyard as he entered the castle grounds, but he did not see the rest of Werrick's daughters. Not Ella, nor Leila. And not Marin.
The other men were greeted by the grateful women and children, kissed and held and crooned over. The earl returned to his men once more, his face beaming with pride and love. He was exactly the man Marin had described him as, the kind of father any child might want. Even a boy who had never known his own.
Before foolish thoughts of a happy outcome could take root in Bran's mind, the earl released his daughters and the expression on his face went from adoring father to fierce warrior. The summer-blue eyes frosted to a wintery gray and the lined scowl transformed his features into something menacing. His stare pierced Bran and chilled his soul.
“You forced your way into the castle by threatening my daughter.” The earl's lip curled.
Cat stepped toward her father. “Papa, he—”
“You took my castle, you slept in my bed, you ate my food and sat at the head of my table.” Spittle flecked out of his mouth and shone in the brilliant sunlight. He stopped just before Bran and glowered down at him with such authoritative disapproval, Bran had to force himself to remain upright. “You married my eldest daughter.” He blinked slowly, as if the act pained him to do so. “You laid with her.”
Bran opened his mouth, but the earl reared back his fist and pain exploded in Bran's cheekbone.
“I'll have none of your excuses, you reiving bastard,” the earl hissed and strode away. “Guards, this marauder has led a life he does not deserve, his pleasures stolen for too long.”
The men surrounding Bran hesitated only a moment before seizing his arms. Drake lunged toward them but was immediately restrained by three of the filthy Werrick soldiers.
Bran bit back any explanations he might offer. It didn’t matter. Not with a man like the Earl of Werrick, a nobleman exactly like every other Bran had known. He only hoped Anice would remember her promise to save Ena, and that Marin would help.
Sir Richard appeared beside the earl and stared at Bran. “Shall we take him to the dungeon, my lord?”
The earl spit on the ground. “Kill him.”
29
The hum of voices greeted Marin before she exited the castle, far too many to be the remaining people left behind, and far too tame to be a winning band of marauders descended upon them for rape and pillaging. Her pulse stumbled and resumed with a wild patter.
Was it true? Had they won?
Ella and Leila gripped her hand with the same level of excitement, and together they ran the length of the castle entry. Sunlight blinded them, but they did not slow, not until a familiar voice slammed into her heart.
“He has brought dishonor to us all.”
She stopped, blinking against the brilliance to the mass of faces before her. Ella and Leila ripped their hands free of Marin's grasp and continued to run. “Papa!”
Marin's knees went weak and she almost pitched to the hard ground. The only thing keeping her upright was the beloved figure of her father standing tall with the light of the late afternoon sun limning his slender frame, as though he were some kind of saint. For truly, to them, he was. A man full of goodness and love, a man returned from the dead.
“Father.” Her lips were numb and yet still she managed to whisper the word. She repeated it louder, in a shout of joy. Suddenly the legs nearly too weak to hold her were carrying her across the cobblestones and into his arms.
He caught her beside Ella and Leila and crushed all three of them to his chest in a great bear of a hug, the way he’d done when they were girls and they would squeal for him to stop. His whiskered chin rasped at the top of her head and the odor of peat and death clung to his filthy chainmail.
“You're filthy.” She pushed back with a chuckle and reached out to gingerly touch his silver beard. A bit of dried mud dropped from the once well-trimmed hair and fell to the ground.
He grinned at her. “Is that any way to welcome home your father?”
She laughed, a giddy, happy laugh, earnest and free of all the tension built up over the last month. “I would welcome you home no matter how you looked.”
Though, in truth, it pulled at her how much he had aged, the lines on his face were creased deeper beneath the spatters of muck. He was thinner, almost frail. All the men carried about them a haunted look. Their faces were streaked with peat. Even Geordie, Sir Richard’s squire who had gone into battle for experience, appeared to have the worn features of a man rather than the boy he still was.
Cat stood at his side, beaming up at him as she chattered on. Despite his apparent exhaustion, the young man grinned down at her and nodded along with whatever she was saying.
“Papa, they told us you were dead.” Ella hugged at his arm and pressed her face to his sleeve, heedless of how it left a streak of mud on her cheek. “Where is your armor?”
Marin had not noticed until her sister mentioned it, but the fine decorative helm with gilt whorls was now a simple, serviceable helm.
He scoffed. “Some jackanape stole my armor before we were attacked.”
“They told us you were dead,” Marin said weakly. Her gaze shifted to the crowd of men, seeking out her husband, and finding him almost immediately. In a wild chain reaction, she immediately experienced the rush of elation at his safety, followed by the fear and confusion of his capture.
“Aye, many died, daughters,” Father said solemnly. “A great many. The battle had been a victorious one. The attack on us was meant to get us when we were away from England’s forces. When we were vulnerable. The bloody Kerrs.”
“Father, why is my husband restrained?” Marin asked sharply.
Her father's face darkened. “Sir Richard told me about him. You needn't worry after him any longer, Marin.”
“What do you mean?”
“He forced you to marry him. No one else need know, save those of us in this castle.” Father's eyes narrowed. “I'll kill the whoreson and take back my castle.”
“Kill him?” Marin gaped in horror. “He's my husband. You can't—”
“He forced you into marriage, Marin.”
“I offered my hand in marriage to save the lives of my sisters.” She shifted to put herself between her father and her husband, to break the glare of hatred he cast Bran's way. “He made sacrifices to save them and has saved us all many times over. He is a good man.”
“A good man? He raped you. Like your mother, he—”
She put a hand to her father's chest to stop his ugly words and shook her head. Her cheeks scorched with heat to be discussing her consensual fornication with a man. As a wife it was her right to do so, but as a d
aughter, it was humiliating. Still, it was better for him to believe the truth than the lie Sir Richard had put in his head.
Sir Richard.
She shifted a hard look at the man she had trusted so often in her father's absence. “What is the meaning of this? Is this your plan? To see him destroyed. First with the letter and now with this…this betrayal.”
Sir Richard did not so much as have the decency to wince at her words. “You needed to see the letter; you needed to know what he was about. He forced his way into our lives. He brought war when there was none. He endangered the lives of every person in this castle and lost just as many. His men ate up our food stores and left us to the dire situation we're in now.”
“One page,” Marin growled under her breath. “You only gave me one page of it.”
“The one you needed to see.” Sir Richard lifted his chin.
“I don't know what bloody page you are discussing,” Father said in an exasperated tone. “But I'm tired and hungry and in urgent need of a good bathing.” He stepped around Marin and addressed the soldiers holding Bran. “Kill him.”
“Nay.” Marin threw herself in front of Bran, blocking his body with her own, and looked frantically to the soldiers. “I order you to stop.”
“You no longer give the orders.” Her father spoke sternly, as though she were a chastised child.
Bran's chest was warm against her back. His breath blew delicately against the nape of her neck. She shook her head with the force of her insistence. “You will not kill him.”
“I will do as I damn well please with this usurper.” Father nodded to the soldiers. “Marin, cease this behavior at once. Guards, kill him.”
The men cast glances at one another, apparently unsure what to do.
“Lock him in one of the chambers, please, but don’t kill him.” Marin cast a look at the countless eyes watching in fascination while their family battle publicly ensued. “We can discuss this privately.”
Father's eyes narrowed into a shrewd squint and his eyes glittered with something she could not make out but knew she did not like. “Put him in the dungeon.”
“Father,” she admonished.
He glared at her. “You forget yourself in this madness, Daughter.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him to the dungeon.”
“Nay,” Marin gasped. She spun around to face Bran and clung to him. His arms were restrained, and he could not wrap them around her. The loss of his embrace was palpable, painful.
“Nay,” Marin whispered against him. “I won't let them take you to the dungeon.”
Bran pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Aye, ye will, lass.”
Surprised, she looked up.
He stared at her with a solemnity which cut into her heart. “’Tis better than death.”
“I don't want you down there,” she protested.
“Separate them,” Father's voice said from behind her.
She tightened her grip. By God, she would never allow them to drag her free.
“Let go,” Bran said. “I'll no' have ye getting hurt.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth, greedy and desperate. “Save Ena. Please.”
Strong hands grasped Marin's arms and Bran was wrenched from her grasp. Sir Richard and another soldier dragged him to the mouth of the castle.
“Nay,” she cried. “Please.” She tried to run after him, but the hands on her arms held her back. She was entirely helpless to do anything save watch her husband be forcefully taken to the dungeon.
Bran paced the narrow floor of his cell. All around him was darkness, so heavy it seemed to be a living thing more than nothing at all. It squeezed at him and made his eyes ache with the strain to see. Ten paces and he stopped short to avoid running into the grates. Turn. Ten paces and he stopped short to avoid running into the grates. Turn.
He had been down there a while, without even the courtesy of a torch. Though it was obvious they were not attempting to be conciliatory. His stomach had begun to growl two thousand, four hundred and twenty paces ago, and his throat burned with thirst. He'd given up trying to swallow, for it only made his throat stick together and caused him to cough. And that made his throat drier still.
He still wore the chainmail from battle, the blood of his enemies long since dried and stinking on his armor. All of his discomforts were minor though, at least in comparison to the torment of worrying after Ena. Would Anice be able to help her? Marin?
Marin.
Her name was a dagger in his heart.
Her shrieks had accompanied him to the dungeon, or at least into the heart of the castle where the sounds from outside were dulled by thick stone walls and countless winding corridors. And yet sometimes he swore he could still hear her cries, echoing in the darkness.
Two thousand, four hundred and fifty-five paces.
He staggered and fell to his knees as though dragged down by the weight of his suffering. Marin.
He dug his fingers into the hard-packed earth, ignoring how his fingernails bent backward and gritty dirt scraped at the tender skin beneath. He would sell his soul for one last moment with her, to hold her in his arms and confess the extent of his love for her. But in truth, he would doubtlessly never see her again. Something awful and wretched twisted in his chest and a gasp of pain choked from his lips.
He clenched his jaw and pulled himself to his feet while releasing the handfuls of earth back to the ground. Two thousand, four hundred and fifty-six paces. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight…
He would need a plan and wallowing in self-pity would not get him out of the damned cell any faster. Footsteps thumped over the flagstones, distant at first before growing louder, closer. The flickering light of a torch filled the room from a low glow to brilliant light that left him blinking and squinting. The torch shoved toward the bars, as if the wielder knew the discomfort of bright firelight on a man too long in the dark.
“Your time to do as you please has come to an end, reiver.” The volume of the earl's voice echoed off the walls. “You'll no longer have access to my castle, my people, or my daughters.” He emphasized the last word.
Bran stood resolutely in place. “Let me speak with Marin.”
“Nay.” Werrick set the torch into a metal sconce jutting from the wall. With the light over his head, Bran could make out the older man, his wizened face locked in a scowl of displeasure. He'd bathed and changed into a fresh tunic and hose. Freed of the filthy garments he'd worn mere hours ago, he appeared every bit as regal as was expected of an earl. He examined Bran with a sneer. “She fancies herself in love with you, the foolish girl.”
“Girl?” Bran repeated. He curled his hands around the cold metal bars and peered through them at Marin's father. “She hasn't been a girl since her mother died.”
The earl's eyes narrowed. “You have no right to speak to me in such a manner.”
“They’re words ye should hear no matter who they come from.” Bran pinned the earl with a hard gaze. “Ye know she took over the role of mother to those girls, and mistress of the castle. Then later when ye ran away from the castle to escape, she had to become the master. Ye tell me to have a care how I speak to ye when ye dinna even give her the respect she deserves?”
Bran curled his lip at his father-in-law. “I tell ye: have a care when ye call my wife a girl, as she is more woman than any other in the whole of this world.”
The earl's narrowed eyes widened briefly. Finally, he scoffed. “Because you feel this way about her, you believe yourself entitled to see her?”
“Nay,” Bran replied slowly. “I'm her husband, and I love her.”
“Love.” The older man shook his head. “What do you know of love, boy? You forced her to marry you as surely as you'd forced yourself into the keep. You've spent every moment here forcing people to do things against their will, especially my daughter. And what's more, you did it with the intent to sacrifice Werrick Castle to Kerr. To Scotland.”
“I dinna have a choice.”
The earl lifted a brow and his fo
rehead crinkled. “So I heard. I also heard the missive had been stopped before it could be delivered.”
Bran's shoulders sagged in defeat. “There was another missive sent to Kerr.” The confession was damning, but then there had already been enough other evidence stacked against him for it to not matter now. At least he could protect Marin’s people. “It was sent the day I took the castle.”
“The one given to your reiver who saw the laundress before he left?” The old blue eyes sharpened. “Aye, I know.”
“The laundress?”
“Aye, a lass all too eager to keep your reivers from destroying her life here.” Sir Richard entered the dungeon with a flat expression. “The missive never made it to Kerr. It's been sitting in the chest in my room. Yer man thought it best to see the laundry lass the day he left, and she slipped it off him.”
“So, Kerr never knew.” Bran’s blood ran cold.
Sir Richard shook his head. “He did not.”
If Kerr never knew Bran had secured Werrick Castle, then Ena would never have been released. She would be in prison still, thinking Bran had let her down. Or, if Kerr had grown impatient…
Bran’s stomach churned. “Nay,” he gasped. “Please. My sister.”
“Is it time?” The earl asked of his captain of the guard.
Sir Richard nodded, his mouth a hard line.
Bran's heart knocked against his ribs. “Let me see Marin. Just one last time. Please.” He was begging, pleading with these men, and he didn't give a damn. He'd kiss the dirt at their feet if it would give him one more second with Marin. To beg her to save Ena, but also to be with her. To stroke Marin’s lovely hair and commit every sweet curve of her face to memory. He wanted her scent on his clothes and her love in his heart when he met his death.
“You cannot see her,” Werrick said with vehemence. He drew in a slow, deep breath, as if trying to reign in his control. “She does not know of this plan.”
Plan?
Bran squeezed the iron bars against his palms to keep his thoughts from whirling out of control.
“If it were up to me, I'd kill you.” The earl slid a regretful look in Bran's direction. “But my daughters have spoken for you, as has my captain of the guard.” He nodded to Sir Richard. “I will allow you to leave and never return. I also will work with Kerr to have your sister freed. However, if you do return, I will kill you myself and put your bloody head on a pike for all to see.”
Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 24
