Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 19

  She never should have allowed Leila out there.

  Bran curled an arm around Marin, protective and loving. “I promise nothing will happen to her.”

  Marin leaned into Bran’s strength, grateful for his confident assurance. She needed it to put her mind at ease.

  “If it gets dangerous, Leila, you will have to return to the keep.” Marin’s concern put an edge to her tone she had not intended.

  Leila did not reply but stared out in the distance and tilted her face to the wind, as though doing so might enable her to read something unseen to all others.

  Marin cast an anxious glance at Bran. While she trusted her husband, she did not like Leila displaying her abilities so blatantly.

  She knelt beside her sister. “Leila, I—”

  A tear slid down Leila’s face while her eyes watched something in the distance.

  Fear dragged an icy chill down Marin’s spine. “What is it?”

  “Do you not see it?”

  Marin looked to the horizon, empty save for a few Graham soldiers. “What do you see?”

  “It is coming.” Leila blinked but still the tears fell down her cheeks.

  Marin pulled her small sister into her arms. “We must get you inside.”

  “Rider,” Bran said above them.

  Marin jerked her attention to the distance once more and spied a man on horseback, his body slumped over his horse. Graham reivers rode on either side of him, whooping and shouting. Something was amiss.

  “Summon Cat immediately.” Marin stood and nudged her youngest sister toward the castle. “Leila, get inside. Now. Send for Isla in case we have need of her.”

  Whoever the man on the horse was, he did not appear well.

  Leila ran, filling the battlements with the slap, slap, slap of her leather shoes over the stonework.

  “Archers,” Marin bellowed. “Ready your bows.”

  The creak of over a dozen bowstrings being pulled back answered her call.

  “Something isna right,” Bran said. “I’ll be at the gate in case we need to open the portcullis. If those bastards get through, my reivers will be waiting for them.”

  Marin tore her gaze from the rider to that of her husband. “Bran, nay.”

  His mouth lifted in a lazy half smile that made her stomach twirl. “Dinna worry about me, lass. I can handle myself.” He caught her around the waist, gave her one final, searing kiss and was gone.

  She spun back to the rider and found two Grahams closing in on him from either side.

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs. “I’m here,” Cat shouted breathlessly.

  “Stop them.” Marin indicated the Grahams.

  “Aye.” Cat drew back the string of her newly fashioned bow, slightly larger than the others, and loosed her first arrow. It soared beyond the stopping point of the other arrows and continued onward, straight into the chest of the Graham on the right.

  He fell from his horse and the rider lost one pursuer. Cat gave a hiss of victory and pulled another arrow from her quiver. Marin squinted in the distance. The rider did not appear in a hurry to escape them and seemed stiff, unmoving. “Wait.” Marin held up her hand.

  Cat sucked in a breath. “Marin, I do not think that man is alive.”

  The horse carrying the stiff rider trotted closer and the odor of rot rolled in on a breeze. Disgust knotted in Marin’s stomach and something gripped her heart. Fear.

  Her father had not come home. Timothy. Geordie. So many who had not yet come home. Could it be one of them? A taunt of the worst kind?

  “Arrows,” Marin said weakly. “We cannot kill the dead, but we can kill the Grahams.”

  Cat gave the call and volleys of arrows sailed over the battlements, peppering the field surrounding the castle. The Grahams shoved the corpse from its horse before the castle and rode away with the empty mount.

  Werrick arrows flew in earnest, no longer mindful of sparing any lives. The Grahams immediately fled and not one fell before they reached a distance out of the archer’s range.

  Marin sent a message for Bran to claim the body. Mayhap there was something on this man’s person to indicate his being there. Her chest tightened. Or perhaps he was someone they might recognize.

  Not Father. Not Timothy. Not Geordie. The words came in a form of a chant in her mind. Repeated over and over again until they scored her heart.

  The low, scraping groan of the portcullis sounded and Bran’s men ran out under the cover of watchful archers to grab the body and draw him inside.

  Marin remained with the archers until all of Bran’s men were off the grass and the portcullis had dropped closed once more.

  Secure in the knowledge all was safe, she locked her heart in her throat and ran down the stone stairs to discover who the dead man was, and what secrets he held.

  The man’s face had been beaten and his body mangled. His death had occurred some time ago given the gray pallor of his skin and the purplish hue of his lips. And the smell. God’s toes, the smell. Bran pushed the sleeve of his forearm to his nose and stared down at the man. Sir Richard and several of Bran’s men had dragged the poor bastard into the bailey.

  The body was one of his reivers. The one sent to bring the missive to Kerr. The Grahams had caught him and had their fun with him first before finally killing him. The bailey was quiet, save the violent buzz of a cloud of black flies feasting on the rotting flesh.

  Isla regarded the man. “I dinna think ye need a healer.”

  “The priest has been summoned,” Drake said.

  “Then I’m no’ leaving until I see the look on his face,” Isla muttered.

  A choked cry sounded from behind Bran. He spun around, but it was too late. Marin stood there with her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.

  “Marin, dinna look.” Bran tried to stand in front of the body, to keep the worst of it from her eyes.

  “My father?” She paled and reached for Bran with trembling hands.

  “Nay,” he answered quickly. “One of my men.”

  “It was the Grahams.” Drake braced his feet wide, as if he required extra stability in light of the horror of this death. “This was done with intent, this torture.” His lips curled and he gave a thick swallow.

  Bernard appeared, his panting suggesting his haste. “I came when…” His voice trailed off and his eyes went wide.

  “Are ye well?” Bran asked.

  Bernard blushed and nodded. His shaved pate glistened with a sheen of sweat. “Aye, of course. We are all God's creatures. That is, it matters not how we arrive to greet him. Which isn't to say this man's body is appalling, though it is a mighty shock but—”

  Isla scoffed.

  Bernard’s pale blue eyes shot up and found Isla. Immediately, he crossed himself.

  Isla chortled at his reaction to her, as gleeful at his fear as ever. “In my younger years, he wouldna have been making that sign.” She rolled her hand in the air. “Get on with it, ye spineless sap.”

  Bernard wiped his palm down the hip of his robe and began droning the last rites in Latin, his demeanor calming immediately with the application of his faith.

  While the hum of his voice cast reverent stillness over the gathered men. Bran looked to Marin and nodded toward the castle, indicating she go inside.

  She shook her head and stepped forward with her chin notched upward in that stubborn way of hers. Bran reached out and took her hand in his. Her palm was warm and damp, an indication she was not as calm as her demeanor would otherwise suggest.

  But as the last rites were given over the body, Bran could not help the flurry of questions racing through his mind. How long had the Grahams had the man? Had the message to Kerr been delivered? Was there a reply?

  Bernard made the sign of the cross over the body and it was done.

  Bran regarded Marin. “See to your sisters. Ensure they are not too distraught over what has happened. I’ll handle the burial.”

  Marin glanced to the body and then raised her e
yes to meet Bran’s. “Are you certain? I can assist you if—”

  “Nay, lass.” Bran shook his head. “Go to yer sisters.”

  Bran pressed a kiss to her brow before turning to Drake. “Take her inside, aye?”

  Drake gave a firm nod.

  Marin squeezed Bran’s hand and released her hold on him. “Thank you.”

  Her look of gratitude dug into his chest and squeezed at his guilt. He needed her gone so he could check over the body, to find any missive that remained to see how much the Grahams might have found, or not found. To verify for himself how far the man had made it.

  Damn.

  Things could not possibly be any worse.

  With a heart fuller than it'd been in some time, Marin ran to her sisters. For years, there had been so many moments of having to choose between comforting her sisters or overseeing difficult tasks. But not this day.

  In the face of horror and fear, Bran bore the brunt of the awfulness of the poor reiver's mangled body and tasked her with caring for what he knew mattered most to her.

  The sisters had gathered in the sunlit solar. Anice hovered over Cat, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. Ella and Leila sat on a window seat with Piquette, their heads bent over a book. All looked up when Marin and Drake entered.

  Marin immediately set to work caring for her sisters. Ella had lost herself in a book and pulled Leila with her. Cat had been distraught but had calmed down after drinking tea drizzled generously with honey from Isla. Poor Drake had hovered over them, his helplessness apparent in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Clearly wanting to offer his assistance, but unsure how. Anice had tried to set him at ease by constantly reassuring him they were all fine until he finally left to return to Bran’s side.

  In the distance, beyond the glass window, the sun sank into the landscape like a glowing ember and cast the sky in violent sprays of red and orange. Like watered down blood.

  There is great sadness on the horizon.

  A chill settled along the back of Marin’s neck and slid down her spine like an icy finger. She suppressed her shudder.

  “My lady.” Sir Richard's voice tugged Marin from her thoughts of Leila’s warning.

  Marin glanced at her sisters, and after confirming they had all calmed, she excused herself and met with Sir Richard in the hallway.

  His mouth set in a grim line. “I brought the man's body in.”

  Marin inclined her head graciously. “You have my thank—”

  “I'm not telling you for gratitude.” Richard kept his voice to a low whisper. “This was on the man. I brought it to you as soon as it appeared to be safe.” He lifted his gloved hand where he pinched a folded square of parchment smeared with blood.

  “Did you read it?” she asked even as she accepted the missive. She squared her shoulders, making herself a shield against prying eyes.

  “Aye, in case it was about your father.”

  She cast him a grateful look, knowing his intent to be good-hearted. However, any gratitude in her chest froze solid at the words written on the parchment. It was a call to the Scottish Middle Warden to send reinforcements to help secure the castle before the Earl of Werrick could arrive.

  The name signed at the bottom in a slash of black ink over the gory parchment–Bran.

  Marin gasped and tightened her fist on the parchment to keep it from slipping from her fingers. So, this was why Bran had wanted the castle. For Scotland. No doubt Kerr would see them all killed, including her father. Her sisters.

  She shuddered at the thought. Never once had Bran indicated his intent for the castle was so dangerous, could cost so many lives.

  She had been betrayed.

  23

  Marin let the remainder of the day slip by without giving any indication of what she knew. Though she'd tried to avoid Bran, she had encountered him several times. She'd suffered through it with congenial smiles and let him kiss her with his lying lips.

  Initially she'd assumed he'd wanted Werrick Castle for himself, and that the worst of the ordeal had passed. But apparently it was only the beginning. Didn't Bran realize what he'd done? Didn't he care?

  Kerr was a rapacious Warden, one determined to claim what he could for himself above all obligations of upholding the law. Marin had heard his name mentioned often by her father in association with lying. With murder.

  Once Kerr had the castle, all her people would be slaughtered, her family ripped apart, her sisters no doubt sold into marriages with the enemy–if they were lucky. And when her father returned from Berwick, he would without a doubt be the first one to die.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as though it meant to burst and her hand trembled where she clutched the hilt of the knife.

  She would do it this time. She would kill Bran before he could destroy her and everything she loved.

  An angry scream welled in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She couldn't get emotional. She couldn't do anything to jeopardize her revenge.

  The door to their shared chamber opened soundlessly and his attending servant slipped out with a solemn expression. It was time.

  Marin swept past the servant and into the massive chamber before locking herself in just as noiselessly as the servant had departed.

  Sandalwood filled the warm air made humid by the wooden tub placed in front of the glowing hearth. The back of Bran's head faced her, an intentional placement by the servant. Marin's head spun with a dizzying anxiety.

  This way would be quiet, easy. Even the mess would be contained. She crept closer, until she discerned the swell of his powerful shoulders rising above the water.

  Only the night before, she’d clutched those shoulders in passion. The memory left her stomach churning with disgust.

  Bran shifted in the water and the glassy surface rippled, leaving his reflection distorted and shattered.

  “Have ye ever met someone who made ye question who ye are?” he asked suddenly.

  Marin stopped, but her heart raced on and on. She couldn't answer for the servant, not when it was impossible to mask her voice to sound like that of a man. Instead she remained wordless, frozen in place, hoping he would leave off the question.

  “Ach, ’tis an odd question.” Bran sighed. “I'm contemplative of late and I've got that wife of mine to blame for it.”

  Marin's eyes narrowed with her ire. What did he possibly mean by such a statement?

  “Water on my head, if you please.” He settled deeper into the tub. “I'd like my hair to be scrubbed.”

  Marin closed the distance with a final step and put the knife to his throat. She had been prepared to dig it deep, to cut through the hardy fibers of the neck to ensure his life ended.

  Except his strong hand captured hers and held her in place.

  “Do ye think I wouldna detect my wife's own scent?” Bran didn't twist to look at her though his hand continued to restrain her. “Do ye think I dinna notice how ye averted yer gaze from mine throughout the day, or how my tub had been positioned?”

  Marin yanked her captive hand with all her strength in an attempt to draw the blade back and into the vulnerable skin of his neck. He growled and tightened his grip on her, thwarting her efforts. In one fluid movement, he rose and turned toward her with water sluicing from his powerful body. He twisted her wrist as he stood, and a sharp pain lanced up Marin's arm. The knife dropped from her hand and splashed into the water, lost.

  The agony in her wrist immediately abated. Water shone over Bran's unabashed nudity and dripped into the tub. The firelight was at his back and cast his face in an unreadable shadow.

  “Ye said ye wouldna try to kill me again.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Marin, I trusted ye.”

  “I trusted you too,” she spat out. She yanked the missive from her pocket and threw it at his chest.

  He snatched it from the air as it fluttered downward. His body remained still. She strained her eyes into the shadows over his face but couldn't make out his expression. She hated that. T
he uncertainty of how he might answer the accusation.

  Would he try to defend himself?

  She stared into the wavering reflection of the fire atop the water. The knife was in there still, somewhere lying at the bottom. She couldn't read his face, but perhaps the missive was enough of a distraction to afford her the necessary time she needed.

  Without hesitation, she plunged her hands into the water and skimmed the flat bottom with her fingertips in a frantic, blind search to reclaim the dagger.

  Bran said her name, but she ignored him. The water was too dark, and her heart was pounding too hard.

  She had to find it. She had to kill him.

  All of this had to stop.

  Strong hands closed around her arms, restraining her. The man who had lied to her, the man who would see them all condemned, the man she had found herself beginning to love.

  The pain of his betrayal slashed through her. She jerked her hands free with incredible strength. He reached for her once more and she lashed out with her fist.

  He avoided her blow. “Listen to me, woman.”

  Her chest and arms were nearly submerged in her desperation. Water splashed on her face and the sandalwood scent she once found so pleasing sputtered from her lips and clung in her throat.

  Where was the blade?

  Bran caught her arm once more, his grip gentle despite the firmness. “Damn it, woman. Listen to me.”

  “You would have us all killed.”

  “Ye dinna see the first page.”

  Marin stopped floundering against his grasp.

  His shoulders relaxed, but his hold on her remained strong. “There was a first page to the missive. The only one ye saw was the second page, the one I assumed was missing.”

  “You're lying,” Marin said flatly.

  She could make out his face at such close proximity and the flex of his jaw.

  “I'll show it to ye, but I'm sure ye dinna trust me.”

  Marin kept her face expressionless, masking the hurt and betrayal. For if he was lying, she would not let him live to witness the pain he'd caused her. He would not be worth such emotions. She shook her head slowly.