Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1)

by Madeline Martin

  The scent of sweat and horseflesh prickled at her awareness and something hard slammed against the back of her head. Her feet flew out from under her and she connected with the ground in a hard oof.

  Several rolls of bread tumbled from her bag, scattering about her. Marin yanked the bag from her shoulder as she flipped over, her dagger clutched in her fist. She was ready to fight.

  The world tilted, but she ground her teeth and forced herself to focus despite the injury. She'd had worse.

  There were five men. She'd fought five men before. Granted, not with a dagger, but it could be done. It had to.

  A man with ruddy skin and a thick black beard stared at her with amusement. “She's got a dagger.” He waggled his hands in the air in mock surrender and the other four men laughed.

  They would not be laughing long.

  “Hold her,” the man said. “I took her down. I get her first.”

  Despite her confidence in her own abilities, Marin's blood turned to ice. They intended to rape her. Like Mother.

  A man with red hair came forward, but she slashed at him with her knife. It nicked his forearm. He hissed and jerked his arm back.

  “Get on with it,” the dark-haired man said irritably.

  “The bitch cut me.” The redhead grimaced like a sullen child.

  “You'll get your revenge.” The dark-haired man gestured to her again. “Now hold her down.”

  This time a balding man came forward, his face screwed up in a scowl, his eyes cold and soulless. A shiver wound down Marin's spine. He pulled his foot back and kicked with incredible speed, before she had a chance to lash out.

  Pain shot from her side and radiated through her body, sending stars flashing and blooming in her vision. She cried out and curled toward the injury. She blindly stabbed at the air with her dagger to prevent from being grabbed in her moment of weakness.

  The blade caught and someone grunted in pain. A second kick landed in the exact same place as the first. The breath choked from Marin and did not easily return. She gasped and sputtered, made weak by her injuries.

  She dragged in a hard inhale and her insides lit up as though on fire. Her arm was wrenched painfully, and the dagger fell from her grip. Strong hands shoved her wrists to the ground, grinding them painfully into the packed soil. A primitive part of Marin's mind shoved past the discomfort and her body writhed in helpless desperation to get free. One kick landed at the redhead's temple and sent him reeling back.

  “Damn, but this lass is a fighter.” He drew back and his fist flew toward her face.

  She jerked her head to the side, but not quickly enough. His fist connected with her jaw and fresh waves of agony rocketed through her awareness. Her world was starting to dim, and a salty warmth filled her mouth. Blood?

  There were too many men, their tactics too brutal. Despite her father's efforts in teaching her to be stronger, she had not been strong enough to fight off these men. Not when she started on her back, already injured. Not with simply a dagger.

  She would end up just like her mother.

  The bald man grimaced down at her, a large angry cut showed on his cheek and dripped blood down his chin. “Too much a fighter for her own damn good.”

  Marin braced herself for another hit, but it did not come. Instead, her clothing was tugged, and the rending of fabric filled her ears. She shook her head and tried to speak. A low, pitiful moan erupted from her chest. Hot tears leaked from her eyes. She wanted the darkness to take her away, to keep her from living through this hell that had destroyed her mother and would surely kill her too.

  Sleep had evaded Bran. After everything he'd lost, how could he possibly calm his mind?

  He left the makeshift camp, letting Drake sleep as only young men could. They’d stopped as soon as they’d gone into the Scottish border to rest before deciding where to travel next. What to do next.

  Movement to the right of the patch of forest called his attention. A group of men leaning over something.

  No doubt a fresh kill of some sort.

  Bran was just beginning to turn his attention away when he noticed one of the men get on his knees while his hands moved over the ties of his hose. A warning bell clanged in Bran’s mind.

  They didn't find a beast—they found a woman and were clearly going to rape her.

  “Drake, get yer arse out here now,” he growled. He didn't wait for the lad to rouse. Years of working together gave Bran the reassurance of knowing the young man would be moments behind him. Especially when a lass was in danger. Drake always had a special sense of awareness when it came to ladies in need.

  Bran hefted his battle axe and ran toward the men. His blood fired with a rage that could not be quelled, a rage that had a purpose now to be sated.

  The kneeling man didn't see him coming any more than he expected the war axe slicing through his neck. He pitched to the side with his head knocked from his body. A woman lay beneath a ruined gown, one leg naked and exposed from a massive tear in the silk. Her blonde hair spread over her face, bright and wet with fresh blood.

  A bald man flew at Bran and managed to land his elbow into Bran's jaw. It was a hard hit, but not enough to break Bran's savage concentration, or deter him from his path. He roared his rage at the man and swung with his axe. Fear showed in his opponent’s dark eyes.

  Bran was relentless in pursuit of punishment, arcing his axe like a pendulum of death, sweeping closer with each step. The man turned and tried to run. The way that the lass on the ground no doubt had done. Bran launched his axe through the air, letting the handle leave his palm at exactly the right moment. It flew forward and sank into the back of the man's skull. He dropped like a sack of rotten grain.

  Behind Bran came the ringing of swords and he knew Drake had joined him. Bran ran to reclaim his axe and turned, ready to help Drake fight the last three men. Two already lay dead and the third remained locked in combat. The red-haired man's attacks against Drake lacked confidence and finesse. The fight would be over quickly.

  The woman on the ground shifted and let out a long, deep groan of agony. Bran's heart wrenched at the sound. What the bloody hell was this woman doing out alone and without a damn guard?

  He knelt beside her and gently covered her leg with the tatters of her dress. She flinched, and he immediately regretted the action. Of course, she would not want him touching any part of her or her clothing after what she'd just been through, especially when she couldn't see with all her hair in her eyes.

  Damn, but he was daft.

  He pulled his hands back from her. “The men who hurt ye are dead. My man and I have made sure of that.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Drake run the final brigand through with his blade.

  “We're here to help ye,” he said as gently as he could.

  She whimpered.

  “I want to move yer hair out of yer face, aye?” he said. “I willna hurt ye. I need to see yer injuries. To help ye, aye?”

  Her right arm curled protectively against her side and the breath shuddered in and out of her as if each inhale and exhale caused fresh waves of agony.

  She spoke, but it was an indistinguishable mumble.

  “I'll take that as an aye from ye.” He reached down to pull the hair from her face. “I'll no' hurt ye, I promise.”

  She whimpered again, and this time he understood the single word she spoke.

  “Bran.”

  His heart stopped and his blood ran cold. Though he could not recognize the voice, considering how garbled it was through her agony, the connection immediately shot through him. The long blonde hair, the fine dress. Dear God.

  One of Werrick’s daughters. Bran drew the tresses back from her face with trembling hands and his heart crashed into his stomach in horror. The face he'd once stroked so affectionately was already bruising an angry purple at her jaw, and her teeth and mouth were red with blood.

  A cry wrenched out of him, from the very core of his soul. This wasn't just any one of Werrick’s daughters, she was Bra
n’s wife.

  She was his Marin.

  32

  Bran was careful to lead his horse at a steady pace, quickly enough to get Marin to Werrick Castle where she would receive the best care, but slow enough that it wouldn't jar her any more than was necessary. He cradled her gingerly against him, minding her injured side.

  His throat was tight with emotion and his chest ached as surely as if he'd been stabbed. In truth, getting a dagger in the heart would be more easily endured than the pain of witnessing Marin in such a state.

  She had sucked in her breath when they'd gotten her on the horse and started on their journey, her lips pressed tight to suppress her tears. Some time back, her whimpers had ceased, and she lay silent and limp against him.

  At first, he'd feared the worst, but after confirming she still breathed, he pressed onward. Now, at long last, the castle rose before them.

  “Give her to me,” Drake said. “I will take her in.”

  Bran ground his teeth. “Nay.” He swept his hand under her nose and gave a sigh of relief at the huff of air coming regularly from her nostrils. It was light, but it was breath. She was still alive.

  His fear did not fully abate. Not when she was grievously injured, not when the reality of her survival was so perilous.

  “Let me take her in,” Drake said again.

  “Nay,” Bran snarled. He would sooner die than release his hold on Marin. It would be impossible to relinquish her to someone else and be ignorant to her fate. He had to be with her. He had to know.

  “They'll kill ye, Bran.” Drake's tone was somber.

  Bran gazed down at his wife and everything inside of him twisted in agony for her. “I know,” he said finally. “But I canna…” His words caught on the knot in his throat, croaking out before stopping short.

  The odor of death came before the castle rose into view. Soldiers stood outside, gathering the bodies of the fallen and loading them onto carts. Bernard, visible in a green robe, moved his hand in the air in the sign of the cross.

  They all stopped to watch Bran and Drake approach.

  “Tell them,” Bran ground out.

  Drake nodded sharply and rode on ahead. He returned moments later. “Ye are instructed to give her to me,” he said somberly.

  Bran said nothing and continued to ride forward. An arrow soared toward him and sank harmlessly in the soil beside his horse. A warning shot.

  Damn their warnings.

  There was not another shot fired. This time, the portcullis opened to reveal Marin's sisters and her father. The earl's face went gray. “Marin.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “What have you done to my daughter?”

  “I dinna know it was her.” The words choked out of Bran. “I saw a lass being attacked and went to aid her and it was…it was…” He couldn't say her name, it was too agonizingly awful to relive that moment he'd realized it was her.

  His Marin. His beautiful wife with all her fierceness, her passion and vitality.

  The earl's eyes filled with tears. “My daughter. Is she…” He clenched his fist and did not finish the question.

  “She needs Isla,” Bran replied. Drake leapt from his horse and held Marin as Bran got down from his own horse.

  Just in time too, for young Leila slipped to the ground like a puppet who'd lost its strings. Drake rushed forward, narrowly catching her in his arms before she could hit the cobblestones.

  The earl stepped forward. “We will take my daughter. You may leave.” He glared at Bran. “You've done enough.”

  “Like hell I will.” Bran cradled Marin in his arms. “Kill me if ye like, but I refuse to leave her side. I left once before, knowing she would be safe, and then I find her like this. I refuse to leave her side again.”

  “Cease yer bickering.” Isla approached somewhere between a run and a walk, certainly at a faster pace than she'd surely moved in some time. “Bring her inside so I can have a look at her. I'll no' have the lass die while ye stand there arguing like merchants at market day.”

  She leaned forward and peered at Marin. The lines on her crinkled face deepened. “Bring her.” She bade Bran follow with a crook of her gnarled finger, and he obeyed with haste.

  All around them, the keep had gone still, every person riveted on the battered body of their beloved mistress. Several made the sign of the cross as Bran passed by with her in his arms, pressed near his heart. Many of the women wept openly, their eyes bright with tears. Even several men averted their glossy gazes.

  Isla led them to a small bedchamber with a single bed. “Set her there.” She nodded toward the thin mattress.

  Bran did as he was told, taking care to move Marin as little as possible. He gingerly swept the hair from her face and draped the ruined dress over her bare leg.

  “Dinna bother with that.” Isla appeared beside him with a pair of shears.

  Bran shifted in front of Marin, ready to protect her.

  “Easy, lad.” Isla wriggled the shears. “Ye're covering her, but I need to see her, aye?”

  A hearty knock shattered the stillness of the room. “Let me in,” the earl's voice boomed.

  “No' during this part, m'lord.” Isla's reply came calmly, and she swept her hand to the side, indicating Bran need move.

  He did not. “I'm no' leaving.”

  “Ye're here, are ye no'?” She lifted her brows and waved him away again.

  This time he sidestepped out of her way. The older woman peered at him. “Dinna hover over me, or ye'll be joining her da outside.”

  He edged back even further, lest he give in to the temptation to do exactly as she asked him not to. Isla took the tattered edge of the once-fine gown in her withered fingers, put the shears to it and sliced into the fabric. Watching Marin be bared in such a way held him riveted with fear, worry and the overwhelming need to hide her naked body from observation.

  The healer pulled the fabric away from Marin's ribs and gave a low curse in Gaelic. Bran could stand the distance no more. He stepped forward and choked on a cry.

  The entire left side of her ribs was a mass of violent, angry purples and wicked reds against her fair skin. Isla ran her fingers along the swollen, bruised flesh and sighed. “She has a few broken ribs for certes, and she's had quite a blow to the face. I'll know more when I've looked her over more thoroughly. I must move fast to ensure she does not wake. ‘Tis a blessing for the pain to have taken her to slumber.”

  And move quickly she did. Her fingers shifted in a nimble exploration, skimming over Marin's naked skin, combing lightly over her scalp, assessing every intimate part of his wife. Bran's cheeks burned by the time Isla had finished and his hands ached from clenching them.

  “She's got a knock at the back of her head as well.” She slid a glance in his direction. “She was not used.”

  “I would love her even if she had been,” he stated.

  “Aye, but at least now ye know any bairns ye may have are yers.” She shrugged. “It matters to most men. Be glad for her sake then. 'Tis a harrowing thing for a woman to live through.”

  Bran nodded with as much understanding as he could. A woman's body was precious, sacred. He could only imagine the horror of such desecration to their intimate parts. His gut twisted, and he found he could not think further on it. Not now with such pain already on display.

  “Can ye heal her?” he asked.

  “I can heal anyone but the dead.” She considered Marin for a long moment. “She will need to be kept still lest her broken ribs pierce her lungs.”

  “If that happens?” Bran pressed.

  Isla frowned. “She dies.”

  “She willna move,” Bran vowed.

  The aging healer patted his back. “This is why ye were allowed in.” She glanced to the door. “Her da will no' be so easy to tell.”

  “I would do anything to save her,” Bran swore. “Even lay down my life if need be.”

  Isla smiled sadly up at him. “Ye may have already done exactly that.”

  “I never saw it. I neve
r saw it. I never saw it.”

  The fragile feminine voice chanted the words, each phrase ticking through Marin's conscious like drips of water from a leaking roof. “I never saw. Forgive me, Marin. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”

  A harsh sob came from beside Marin.

  Pain effused her body. Pain everywhere. It was agony to even breathe.

  She opened her eyes. That didn't hurt. Good. She slid her gaze toward the ragged weeping. A glossy dark head lay against the mattress of the bed.

  “Forgive me,” Leila said in a choked voice. “I never saw the attack, or I wouldn't…I couldn't…”

  Marin drew a breath to speak. Fire lashed through her lungs and the air she meant to draw broke off in a cough. Her chest wheezed at the intensity of the pain and she tried desperately to inhale as minimally as was possible.

  “Marin.” Leila stared at her in bewilderment. The tip of her nose was red and shiny, and her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. A tear trailed down her cheek. “I never saw the attack.” She shook her head. “I never saw it. If I had, I never would have freed you.”

  Her hand grasped Marin's, ice cold and clammy. “I almost killed you by doing so. Please, please forgive me.”

  Marin shook her head, confused. “What attack?”

  Her blood chilled as a memory came to surface. The men. Too many of them. They overwhelmed her after the strike to her head. Then Bran was there, his voice soothing and his touch gentle. Her heart ached with more intensity than even her lungs. “Bran. Where is he?”

  “Ye're da will bring him to ye. Leila, get the earl.” Isla approached the bed. “We've been keeping ye resting so ye'll heal.”

  “I must see Bran.” Marin tried to sit up and a lightning bolt of pain streaked through her, freezing her in place.

  “Ye're no’ well enough to move around, lass.” Isla put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It hurts like fire to breathe, aye?”

  Marin nodded, grateful that the healer understood her discomfort. Understanding meant there might be relief.

  Isla smiled with sympathy and her kind eyes crinkled beneath folds of wrinkles. “Ye've had some ribs broken. We've kept ye asleep on and off for six days with some of my teas, only giving ye time to eat. But I think ye've healed enough now to remain awake safely. Calm yerself, take smaller breaths and it will feel better.”