Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Read online

  “On the morrow?” She could not keep the nervous pitch from her tone.

  “Aye.” Bran settled back against the bed with a grin and winked.

  Marin stood with her leather soles rooted firmly to the cold stone beneath. It was so soon. Too soon. Her heart pattered into a frenzy and her breath came faster.

  “Ach, I've got something to help ye with the pain, my lady.” The healer, obviously mistaking Marin's fears, patted her arm with good natured reassurance. “It's much better after the first time, I promise ye.”

  “Perhaps you ought to help bathe him after all,” Marin offered. “To ensure he is fully clean before our wedding night.”

  Isla beamed wide enough to show all of her perfectly white teeth. “With pleasure.”

  Bran sat a little straighter and threw an incredulous look at Marin, his face mockingly aghast at her betrayal. She offered him a playful smirk and slipped from the room. She almost laughed aloud at the expression he'd cast her way. Almost.

  Her mirth faded in the crush of reality.

  Her marriage. The very next day. Too soon. Far, far too soon. Heat blazed in her chest.

  She pressed herself to the wall and lay her burning cheek against the cool stones. It soothed the steady ache in her head somewhat but did not quell the rapid pounding of her heart. She wanted to curl up on the floor and let the frustration roiling inside her break free in an angry howl.

  Footsteps rang out just down the hall, men's heavy, bulky steps. Marin pulled herself from the stonework and rested her now-cooled hands to her hot brow. She would not be seen by Bran's men weeping and piteous. Nay, she would rise to this challenge the way she had every other one placed in her path–with resiliency and strength.

  She would fulfill her obligation and marry Bran the following morning. But first she'd have to tell her sisters.

  16

  First, Marin informed Nan of the impending wedding. While the older woman agreed to her mistress' orders, it was obvious the cook remained skeptical. As were the servants and the guards who had survived their attempt to flee to Mabrick, and everyone else she encountered and told. Putting on a convincing show of her affection for Bran was a difficult task when her own spirit flinched from being forced into marriage.

  And yet she could not banish from her mind the image of Bran as a boy, curled into a frightened ball within the cabinet while his family was slaughtered, and then forced to care for his elder sister as they lay for days among their lifeless bodies. The idea of a child enduring such trauma opened a chasm in Marin's chest.

  Yet to look at Bran, it was impossible to see him as that boy when the man who intended to marry her was as battle-hardened externally as he was within.

  And this man was to be her husband.

  The resignation lodged in a stubborn lump in her throat and left her thoughts racing for any possibilities that might bring her freedom. But what could be done before the following day? No matter how many times she cycled through that question, she came up with no viable solutions.

  After all, she had given her word.

  She stopped in front of her sisters’ door after she'd dealt with the staff, knowing if she'd told the girls first, they would try to convince her to recant her vow. And such an idea was far too tempting.

  Anice came around the corner urgently with Piquette trailing behind her, his tail nervously tucked low. Her eyes were wide and glossy, as though she was on the verge of tears.

  Marin's knees went weak with fear. “Is it Leila?”

  Anice shook her head. “She's fine. It's Papa.”

  Their father had gone to King Edward knowing he might have to go to war. She hadn’t told her sisters in the hopes it would not come to him having to fight. Her stomach twisted. “What is it, Anice?”

  “He is at Berwick now with the king, and the Scots are threatening to march to Bamburgh to capture the queen.” Anice's voice trembled and she pushed a crumpled missive into Marin’s hand. “He and Timothy are to fight. Even Geordie if needed.”

  Marin unfolded the parchment with trembling hands. Her father’s squire, Geordie, was only slightly older than Catriona. Certainly not of an age to fight. “We cannot tell our sisters,” Marin said. “Especially not Cat.”

  Anice nodded in agreement and absently reached for Piquette.

  Cat had been beside herself at Geordie’s departure. Though she kept up her usual cheerfulness, it was easy to see his absence had left its mark on her. The boy acted with the brave determination of a man. Such conviction might be the death of one so young in battle.

  The thought ripped into Marin.

  She pushed the rumpled parchment to her chest, though it did nothing to still the wild beating of her heart. Her father had seen enough war in his time. But he was the West March Warden for England, and he was an earl. So, it was his duty, even though there were younger men who could have gone in his place.

  She could not help but recall Anice’s betrothed. Dear Timothy, who was always chivalrous to a fault. His heart was good, and she hoped it would keep him safe rather than put him to harm.

  “Marin, they can’t go to war.” Anice’s lower lip trembled, and suddenly she was not the confident, beautiful sister Marin knew, but the frightened young girl she had once been after their mother’s death.

  “Father has gone to war before.” Marin pulled her sister into her arms. “He will come home to us as he always does. And Timothy is young and strong. He will come out of this a hero, no doubt. In the meantime, we will keep this between us.”

  Piquette’s heavy body pushed against Marin’s legs as he tried to join their embrace. Anice allowed herself to be held for a long moment before pushing back. “And when they return home? Will they be able to save us?”

  Marin shook her head, uncertain. “I do not know Bran’s intentions for the castle, nor do I know if he will allow father and his men in.”

  Anice took Marin’s arm and led her to an alcove. “Will you still marry him?”

  Marin glanced to where Piquette sat obediently several feet away. “Aye.”

  “We need to fight harder to stay together in such terrible times.” Anice took her hand. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “I need to make the most of this situation.” Marin drew from a well of strength within her, one on the verge of running dry. “Help me convince our people to accept Bran.”

  “It isn't fair you must marry him. You never wanted to marry-”

  “None of this is fair.” Marin tried to maintain her own composure. For Anice was correct, it was not fair. Thinking on the awfulness of it all would only serve to crumble Marin's strength, and God knew she needed all she could muster.

  Anice nodded with a patience Marin knew to be forced. “When do you wed him?”

  Marin sighed, already knowing her sister's reaction before she even answered. “On the morrow.”

  But Anice did not protest as Marin had expected. Instead she gazed reverently at Marin, her eyes still glossy with tears. “My poor sister.” Anice's lips pursed with determination. “We must let Nan know to prepare a feast. Perhaps we ought to have the pickled eel cooked.”

  Marin held up a hand to stop her sister. “We will save the eel for Father's return, no matter how tumultuous a homecoming it may be.” Even if they had to roll the barrel out past the portcullis for him, it would at least be waiting for him when he returned. “The household has been told to make preparations.”

  The skin around Anice's almond-shaped eyes tensed. “Then we, your sisters, are the last to know of your wedding day?”

  “I was afraid if I told you first…”

  Anice nodded. “I understand. You are always brave and fearless…” She embraced Marin in a fierce hug. “I have the perfect gown to lend you, and we will rouge your lips and cheeks. You will be the most beautiful bride ever forced to marry in all of Christendom.”

  Marin smiled against her sister's perfumed hair. Only Anice would think feeling beautiful might somehow set all things to rights.
And yet Marin knew it was Anice's way of helping. “Come in with me, for I must inform the others as well.”

  Anice straightened and offered Marin her hand to hold before the two summoned Piquette and walked into the girls’ chambers together. For any challenge was easier to take head-on with her sisters at her side.

  Bran wasn’t sure how a man was supposed to sleep the night before his wedding, but he hadn’t slept well. The irony had occurred to him that Ena had been arrested for having married an Englishman, and his marrying an Englishwoman would put them in a better position of power to save her.

  True to the old healer’s word, a bath was readied for him that morning, and thankfully, Isla had not arrived to assist him. The warm water eased away the remaining stiffness of battle and the deeper ache in his back from laying abed so long. His wounds were doing well and gave him few issues.

  He stayed in the water until it began to cool. Bathing like a rich man was yet another luxury he found he could get used to. He stepped from the wooden tub and was just draping a linen around his naked waist when a knock came from the door.

  Mayhap it was Marin, come to see him before they were officially wed. Having her find him with only the thin linen about him held great appeal. He could envision her pretty blush even as her eyes dipped low with innocent curiosity. “Enter,” he called in an easy voice.

  Unfortunately, it was not Marin who stepped through, but Drake. The young reiver pushed the door closed behind him and held out a bundle of cloth. “They want ye to wear this.”

  Bran lifted a brow. “They?”

  “The ladies of the castle.”

  Bran gave a hum of acknowledgment and came closer, leaving a path of wet footprints.

  “Lady Anice mentioned they were the fashion to wear now.” Drake draped the items over the back of a chair.

  “Ah, Lady Anice.” Bran shifted his attention from the clothing to the younger warrior.

  Color rose in Drake’s cheeks and he assumed a militaristic stance with his hands behind his back, his expression blank.

  Bran sifted through the clothing. “I have it on good authority Lady Anice is betrothed.”

  “Aye, she is.” Still Drake’s face betrayed nothing.

  Bran lifted a pair of dark woolen hose. The fabric was fine, not rough, scratchy wool he was used to, but a tighter, more precise weave that left it soft to the touch. “There willna be much hope with her for ye, lad.”

  This time Drake fixed his gaze on Bran. “I would never presume, nor attempt to take advantage.” He spoke with finality before returning his gaze forward, the soldier once more.

  Bran hid his smile at the lad’s reaction and fingered a doublet of deep blue. The sisters intended to dress him now, as though he could not be trusted to ready himself for the upcoming ceremony. Apparently, his peasant clothes would not do for a man marrying an earl’s daughter.

  It was on the edge of his mind to refuse, to show up in his stained gambeson and leather trews. But this was, after all, his wedding. And his first day as a wealthy man. He ran his hand over the woolen hose once more.

  “Ye’ve become quite friendly with the lasses, it would seem,” Bran commented.

  Drake’s mouth twitched at the corners and the determined set of his face relaxed slightly. “The younger ones remind me of my own sisters.”

  “And if I dinna wear the clothes?” Bran asked not because he intended to refuse the request; he was merely interested in seeing how far the younger man would go to ensure his compliance for the young women.

  Drake snapped his head toward Bran. “I was instructed to remind ye that it is yer wedding and fine clothes are expected. And I promise ye, ye willna want to go against their wishes.”

  “Is that experience talking?”

  Drake gave a half-shrug, sufficing as all the answer Bran needed. Never once did Drake have a bad thing to say about his mother or sisters. His father had been an English knight who fell in love with Drake’s Scottish mother. When Drake’s father died at an early age, the burden of his mother and sister fell on his shoulders, strapped to him by love and obligation, and yet he only spoke of the good in them. In fact, when he did speak of them, his eyes would brighten, as though he appreciated bearing the weight.

  “Should I even ask what the ladies are about this morn?” Bran lifted the doublet and found clean linen underclothes.

  “They are…” Drake squinted into the distance, as if he might find the words he sought hovering there. “Preparing.”

  “Preparing.” Bran dropped his towel and pulled the linen braies on, securing the belt about his waist. The fabric was of exceptional quality, like the bed sheets, and sat cool and luxurious against his still-damp skin. Likewise, the shirt was of the same fine cloth, and caressed over his flesh as he put it on. Perhaps he did not mind so much having the sisters of Werrick dress him. “Do I wager to guess what their preparations entail?”

  Drake's mouth twisted. “Flowers.”

  Bran paused before sliding the wool hose over his braies. “Flowers.”

  “Aye.” Drake lifted a shoulder in helpless question. “Bits of blue and white.” He nodded formally to the doublet on the bed. “To match, so I was told.”

  Bran tied the hose to the belt. “I trust the ladies of the castle dinna go gather the flowers themselves.”

  “I would never let them do so.” Drake's chest swelled and his expression grew grave with his earnestness.

  Bran approached the reiver and eyed him suspiciously. “Have they got ye wrapped about those dainty fingers of theirs?”

  Drake's gaze slid right. “Nay.”

  “Mmm…” Bran turned from his most trusted soldier and picked up the doublet. It was thick wool, yet unlined, as it was not necessary in the summer months. Something at the base of the hem where the fabric would be folded against itself caught his eye. He lifted it closer to examine it and found neat stitching noting M and B entwined together.

  It was a simple gesture, but a kind one. While he hadn't anticipated himself being the marrying sort, and he’d never seen himself as a rich man, he found he was anticipating life as Marin’s husband. Certainly, he anticipated their wedding night. The thought heated his blood.

  “There's something ye should know,” Drake said. “While I was gathering the flowers—”

  “Ach, ye picked them then?” Bran shot a glance at Drake.

  “Some of Graham's men were lingering nearby the castle.”

  The playfulness fell from Bran's countenance. “How many?”

  “We saw four. There were more of us than them, enough to send them back on their way.”

  Bran slipped his arms into the doublet and fastened it at the waist with a leather belt. “For now.”

  Drake nodded.

  It wasn't good to have the Grahams sniffing about the castle. No doubt they were noting the defenses, planning ways around them, counting the men on guard. The same as Bran had done.

  Damn. He knew interfering with the Grahams would make them a bitter enemy, especially when the bastards still spoke of their victory at Werrick Castle many years prior.

  “How many of our men remain with us after the battle?” Bran asked.

  “Sixty-four of ours and twenty-two of the original castle guards remain.”

  Bran swallowed down his incredulity to keep Drake from seeing how disconcerting he found the dismal numbers. Between death and desertion, their army was reduced to less than half of their forces. A great number had apparently left upon seeing Bran so gravely wounded, assuming him dead and their plunder lost. A reiver's loyalty only ran as deep as the pockets paying them.

  Mayhap Bran ought to send another missive to Kerr. He had not yet gotten a reply from his first one about the capture of Werrick Castle. Surely the Scottish Warden would understand the importance of a quick exchange.

  “Is that all?” Bran asked.

  Drake shook his head. There was a grim set to his mouth.

  Dread wound an uncomfortable knot in Bran’s stomach.
“What is it?”

  “It would appear the war brewing between England and Scotland may finally be coming to a head. They will fight at Berwick.”

  Bran cursed. “Kerr willna be coming any time soon.” He scrubbed a hand over his wet hair, reminding him he still needed to comb it. At least now he would be able to keep the castle despite Kerr’s delay. Marin’s offer to marry him was more convenient than she realized.

  “Send scouts to Mabrick Castle to see what the Grahams may be planning,” Bran said after a long moment. “In the meantime, we shall hope the men assemble quickly for Berwick and the battle is quickly won.”

  Drake glanced at him, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He said nothing as he fixed his gaze forward once more.

  “What is it?” Bran dragged the comb through his wet hair.

  “What will ye do when the earl comes back?” Drake asked. “And if Kerr comes first, will ye give him Werrick?”

  “I’m a rich man with bargaining power after today.” Bran gave Drake a confident grin. But in truth, he wasn’t confident at all.

  He had set down this path to simply take the castle and save Ena. It was a situation that he would need to work through as events came up. There was no better plan, and Bran had always been good at split-second decisions.

  “Are ye ready to be my second?” He turned and lifted his brows.

  Drake bowed. “It's an honor.”

  Bran adjusted his doublet. “Then let's get me married.”

  17

  Marin should have been frightened. Mayhap even anxious. At the very least, she'd expected her stomach to be a chaotic swirl of emotion and fear. But instead, she felt absolutely nothing, as though she were simply empty within, like a doll. Certainly, she looked like one with her hair brushed to shining, and the smudges of rouge at her cheeks and lips. Her gown sparkled with small gems, made to look like a thousand stars winking in a midnight blue sky.

  Her sisters sat back on their heels to admire their handiwork, all with triumphant grins. They supported her, for they knew it was what she must do. Marin, however, questioned every moment of it, from when she’d told Isla to stay the poison to now, standing to the left of the alter.