Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 2

  In truth, he wouldn’t have killed her, but Marin need not know. God, how he hated this whole damn thing. Kerr had better uphold his end of the bargain after this was done. One never knew with that crooked warden.

  Bran entered the keep and stopped short. He’d heard rumors of Werrick’s wealth from the Grahams, but he hadn’t believed it. After all, who could really afford tapestries sewn in silk to cover the walls, and thick carpet lining the cold stone floors, as well as so much furniture? Even the hallways were furnished and decorated.

  Apparently Werrick could. No doubt money scraped from those who barely had enough to give, extorted from those who were too poor to be anything but vulnerable.

  The scent of savory meat and herbs hung in the air. Bran’s mouth watered with hunger. How long since he’d last eaten a solid meal? Aye, a bit of cheese and bread here and there as he could afford, but a real meal–hot and running with juices that hadn’t congealed or gone rancid?

  Too bloody long.

  Maybe this task wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. After all, he’d been able to take the keep with only having caused one death.

  Only a few days observation of the castle had revealed no additional troops were returning to guard the high walls. It was left as theirs for the taking. No doubt Kerr had suspected as much when he’d sent Bran.

  A peasant woman leapt in surprise at his presence, and ran, slamming a door behind her. Another stab of guilt thrust into him. The people within the keep would be scared for only a short while, until they knew Bran meant no harm. At least until Kerr and his men arrived.

  Bran made his way deeper into the castle, each hall and room seeming more opulent and ostentatious than the last. A waste, the lot of it. The coin used could have fed an army for a lifetime. With some to spare.

  For the whole of his life, he had survived. Not lived, survived. Every damn day brought a new struggle to find food or shelter or both. It ground away at him until he could scarcely take another day of hunger or danger. Suddenly taking the castle held a note of vindication.

  He climbed the stairs to the second floor and wandered into a room luxuriously decorated with tapestries of unicorns and lions. The rich furniture was polished to a high shine and shelves filled with books. Paintings of animals and flowers and whorls covered the great wooden beams along the ceiling in a colorful array of blue and red and green and yellow.

  Sunlight poured in from a leaded window, each pane of glass carefully constructed in a circle, like the bottom of a bottle, and cast in iron. The light cast pure warmth against his hand where it touched him. He’d seen glass in a chapel once, several years back, but he had never seen it up close. He hadn’t realized castles now had glass windows.

  He stepped closer and was startled to discover a woman sitting on the cushioned bench under the glass window. She’d been so still, and he’d been so awed by the room, he hadn’t noticed.

  Her legs were curled toward her with a book resting on her knees. She had her fingers daintily propped on either side of the leather-bound cover and her blonde head leaned over the pages.

  The mother? Another sister?

  He cleared his throat. She held up a finger and did not bother to raise her head.

  “A moment,” she murmured.

  He waited. She turned the page and sighed to herself, a whimsical little hum of a sound. She slid a ribbon to the center of the book before closing it and lifted her brows with mild impatience. “Aye?”

  She was young, but not as young as the girl he'd held hostage only moments ago. Another sister, then.

  “I'm in charge of this castle now.” He stood with his feet planted wide.

  She tilted her head pensively. “I heard no battle.”

  “There was no battle.”

  “Then you must be quite clever or quite bold.” Her eyes narrowed slightly in obvious assessment. “I think bold.”

  The saucy chit. He opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted before he had the chance.

  “You should come to supper.”

  Bran turned toward the feminine voice and found yet another golden-haired sister. She was older than the one he currently spoke to, a woman more his age, and stunningly beautiful. Her hair was lighter and hung in glossy waves, her eyes larger, her lips fuller, her curves more apparent.

  She waved him toward her, the movement graceful and beguiling. There was not the steely exterior about her that Marin had possessed. This one might be a good lass for bed sport, if she was willing. It’d been longer than he liked since he’d had a woman in his bedroll.

  He drew off his helm and grinned at her. He knew his smile to be one of his finer attributes, not just for enlisting new reivers to his side, but also winning over ladies. His teeth were white and strong, and he still had them all.

  The new sister did not return his gesture. “You threatened to kill Catriona.” A hardness touched her almond-shaped eyes and she appeared more likely to run him through with a sword than allow him in her bed. A massive dog came from behind her, a beast so tall, its haunches came higher than her waist. It regarded him with glittering black eyes from a face of drooping brown fur.

  “He did what?” The other sister exclaimed from behind him.

  “I dinna hurt her.” He held up his hands. If he wanted her in his bed that night and didn’t want to end up that beast of a dog’s supper, he'd need to approach the topic with diplomacy.

  In truth, if Lady Marin hadn’t opened the portcullis when she did, the situation would have been a difficult one to navigate. He didn't hurt women or children. Ever.

  His men had all been warned off ever hurting them as well, upon punishment of death. And it was one he would readily mete out. He didn't care if he took the life of a man, especially one who preyed upon the weak.

  “You could have hurt her,” the younger sister said. She moved to his side. The curious interest in her eyes had frosted over with icy disdain.

  “Come now if you want food, or don’t and starve.” The older one departed with her dog, leaving only her swirling hem trailing behind her.

  Bran strode quickly to follow and found the younger sister at his side. “What are you called?” he asked.

  “A scholar.” She lifted her chin. “And you?”

  “A reiver.” If she wouldn't answer him with naught but a quip, he could do likewise.

  Ahead of him, the older sister and her giant beast led at a ridiculous pace, her leather shoes far quieter than the wooden patens of his. She did not slow, not until they reached the great hall where his men had settled in. Conversations buzzed around him, heavy with the baritone of his reivers. The inhabitants of the castle were easily detected by their soundlessness. As if those who had dared to attend supper might remain safe by remaining quiet.

  The ceiling of the great hall had similar paintings across the great wooden beams stretching out overhead. Unicorns and lions and flowers and graceful arcing whorls throughout. Had the sisters done them, or had they come at an exorbitant price as with everything in the castle?

  Servants laid out trenchers filled with steaming food on the tables. So much food. Root vegetables roasted and steaming, thick slabs of meat drenched in gravy, and loaves of crusty bread as big as his forearm.

  Never had he seen so much food in one place.

  The younger sister disappeared from his side and the dog trotted off toward a servant who waved the beast over. The one who had led him there swept past him, intending to leave as well. He caught her hand. It was soft, her fingers slender and dainty.

  She stopped and her lashes lowered as she regarded their joined hands. Her palm was warm, and she had a delicate floral scent about her. It was pleasant and he liked the thought of smelling her on his skin the next morning.

  “What is yer name?” He brushed her wrist with his thumb, a suggestive caress to imply so, so much more, and released his hold on her.

  Her eyes narrowed in a way that said Bran wouldn’t get her name, let alone her favors.

  Rej
ection.

  He’d expected nothing less. The wealthy always thought themselves so above everyone else.

  “May I show you to your table?” Marin stepped from the doorway and wedged herself in front of her sister.

  By comparison between the women, Marin held an authoritative demeanor and unquestioned confidence. A challenge. He decided then and there liked her the best. Bran nodded for her to lead him to the table, and she did, skirting the edge of the great hall to the front. To the dais.

  He wouldn’t sit at the head of the great hall, like some overprivileged noble. “Nay. This is fine here.” He indicated the bench as she turned to face him.

  There was a strength about her, a fortitude which drew him. Everything about her indicated she would be supple and sweet, and yet her influence, her tone, all suggested she was nothing fragile.

  “Will ye join me?” he asked.

  Marin’s lips curled into a slow smile of obvious interest. “I was hoping we might dine together.”

  She stood nearly a head taller than any of her sisters, her stance proud. Candlelight sparkled off her glossy hair and something enticing glittered in her blue eyes.

  His gaze slipped to her full, kissable lips. No doubt they’d be supple beneath his mouth, sweet.

  “I know what men like you want.” Her own stare dipped in assessment of his body.

  He was sure of what she thought she knew. Mayhap of what she’d even seen living on the border. He frowned. “I dinna take women by force.”

  She stepped closer, bringing with her the clean scent of lavender. “What if she comes to you by choice?”

  Her face was flawless, lovely, most likely soaked each night in milk that could feed families instead. He should hate her for it, and yet he found all he wanted to do was stroke her to see if she would be as smooth as she looked, caressing such creamy skin, having her flush with passion…

  “Depends.” He cocked his head to the side. “Is that woman ye?”

  Marin's tongue darted between her pink lips, leaving them glistening. “Aye.”

  “I was hoping ye’d say that.” He winked and her cheeks went pink. Aye, he would have the bonny lass tonight, after a meal fit for a king, in a castle he’d taken with only one death.

  This was the best damn day of his life.

  2

  Bran gazed down at Marin in eager anticipation. His blood roared with the victory of seizing this impossible castle, and at the prospect of possessing this beauty.

  He craned his head closer, near enough to touch her and yet he did not, mindful of maintaining respect for the lady of the castle. His lips whispered over her hair as he spoke just over her ear. “Tonight, come to my chambers.” He let his gaze dip to the swell of her breasts. “I eagerly await our mutual pleasure.”

  His cock stirred at the thought of taking her, thrusting between milky white thighs, slick with her passion.

  He backed away and observed her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, clearly as keen on their pairing. He’d heard of castle ladies and their boring lives, desperate for a real man. And he truly was a real man. No doubt more so than anyone she’d had before.

  Perhaps her husband was away at war. Or dead. Widows made the best lovers, as they were experienced and starved for pleasure.

  He sat on the hard bench and gestured for her to join him. Her gaze flicked to where the other sisters were locked in conversation, their heads bent together.

  “Invite yer sisters to sup with us,” he said. After all, it would do well for harmony in the castle if he got to know the earl’s daughters. Who knew how long Kerr would take to arrive?

  He only hoped for Ena’s sake it was sooner than later.

  She hesitated, her expression suddenly guarded. Aye, the protective older sister.

  “I willna hurt any of them.” He gently brushed her slender hand with his own. Her skin was flawless and silky. The hands of a true lady.

  She flicked him a coy glance that coiled low in his belly. “Mayhap it would be better with only us.”

  “Nay, I should like to meet them. If we are all to live here peacefully, should we not get to know one another?” He waved the sisters over.

  Marin’s pleasant countenance slipped slightly. “I confess, I am curious as to why you are here, and what it is you want?”

  “What are yer names?” he asked as the two sisters approached. The air around them was heavy with wariness and distrust.

  The beast of a dog was back at the side of the prettiest sister. The cold one who had rejected him. “Lady Anice.” She carefully threaded a loose curl back behind her ear and pointedly looked at her nails before passing him a nod of acknowledgement. “And this is Piquette.”

  The dog glowered at him and gave a low rumble of disapproval.

  She was the kind of woman who could build a man up, or knowingly tear him down. He was glad for a woman more like Marin, one who wouldn’t play coquettish games.

  “And Lady Ella.” Marin nodded toward the scholar, whose far-off expression pulled back from where it had been and settled on Bran as if she didn't know what to make of him.

  Marin indicated a black-haired girl making her way across the crowded room toward them. “And here is Lady Leila.”

  The lass was a wee thing, most likely not even on her tenth year, and aside from the sea-blue eyes, appeared nothing at all like her sisters. Not just for the darkness of her hair, but in the rounder shape of her face and her small, set mouth. She watched him solemnly with eyes too large for her face.

  He expected another chastisement from this sister for his manner of getting into the castle using…Catriona, was it?

  “Are you the one they call the lion?” Leila’s voice was so fragile, almost unheard beneath the raucous din of hungry men.

  Her question was unusual. He'd been called many things in his life before, but never the lion. He shook his head. “Nay.”

  Her slender shoulders relaxed, and she took the seat to his left, the only one willing to do so of her own volition.

  “I think you can understand why our other sister will not be joining us,” Marin said in a gentle voice. “Lady Catriona has had a trying day.”

  “It hasn't been my best,” a female voice spoke up. “But do you really think I’d let that keep me from supper?”

  Bran found the final sister standing by the doorway nearest their table, her small chest puffed bravely out. She had changed from her blood-stained dress and wore an orange kirtle with her hair bound into a neatly braided coiled around her head.

  “I couldn’t possibly stay up in my room smelling such delicious fare, could I?” She approached the table.

  “Cat, you don't have to do this.” Marin said it lovingly, but the admonishment in her tone and the concern furrowing her brow suggested she was not happy with her sister’s decision.

  Catriona took a seat on Marin's right, with a smile plastered to her face. It did not reach the flatness of her blue eyes. “It is a pity the troubadour who comes sometimes is not about. He is quite witty and tells the most wonderful tales.” She chattered on, her words too quick, her laughs too breathy, as if doing so might force everything to rights.

  Looking at the lass compared to her older sisters, she was a wee bit of a thing. Only a little larger than Leila. Guilt stabbed at Bran’s chest, deeper than last time, its effects radiating farther.

  Ena would be disappointed in him if she knew. But then, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

  After all, Catriona being outside the castle walls had afforded him the opportunity to capture the castle without loss of life on either side, save the single soldier valiantly guarding the girl. His death could not have been avoided.

  “Besides, you did not change any part of your life after you were taken, Marin,” Catriona said brightly. “I will not either.”

  Marin looked sharply at the girl and Catriona stopped talking long enough to leave one wondering what had happened. Bran frowned. He knew well what happened to most women abducted in these
parts. “Taken by who?” he asked.

  Each of the sisters’ attention turned toward him.

  Anger sizzled through him at the knowledge of what men oftentimes did to women they took. A noble’s brat Marin might be, but it made him want to kill anyone who dared lay a harmful hand to her. Especially after witnessing how caring and protective she was of those around her. “Did they hurt ye?” he demanded.

  Anice scoffed. “You’re one to ask such a question.”

  “Anice,” Marin said in a firm tone. Anice lowered her gaze at the chastisement.

  Marin regarded him, her expression revealing nothing. “It was nothing. Truly.” Her gaze lingered on him, bright with interest.

  His fears quelled, the tension in his shoulders eased.

  “Besides, Father always says we should be proper ladies and welcome our guests.” Catriona spoke as though reciting the words from memory. “I cannot imagine they will stay long. After all, there are only so many beds to be had here, and so much food to eat. We cannot support so many in the castle for long. Therefore, they must be guests and treated thus.” She turned her face toward him, her brows lifted in hope. “Isn’t that correct, sir…lord…uh…”

  “Bran,” he replied.

  A servant set a platter of venison at the table's center. Steam rose from it and the herbaceous scent of roasted meat drew every bit of his attention. His mouth watered. It had been two days since he'd eaten a hot meal. And yet he would be foolish to blindly consume food placed in front of him in a castle he’d just usurped.

  He sliced off a generous hunk and set it on the trencher in front of Anice. The meat broke apart, more succulent than anything he’d ever eaten before. Rich man’s food. His stomach gave a vicious snarl of hunger.

  “Eat it.” He motioned to the meat.

  “You think it’s poisoned.” Ella smirked up at him. “Perhaps you’ve read more than I presumed. Or mayhap you’ve heard too many troubadour tales.”

  Anice pushed the plate away with disinterest. “I have no appetite.”

  Marin shot her sister a hard look before turning once more to Bran. “The food is not poisoned.”