Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 5

  The reivers watching elbowed each other and shared a chuckle over the display of emotion.

  “Enough,” a reiver said. The dark-haired serious one who had first walked in with Bran. He cast a hard glare at the men who immediately went silent.

  “Please, Leila.” Marin nodded to her sister, willing her to wait with the other girls. “Stay with your sisters and remain safe.”

  Anice approached their youngest sister and whispered something in her ear. Leila’s face turned solemn and she nodded, finally moving from Bran's path and shuffling back to her sisters. The dog did not move.

  “Piquette,” Anice called gently. Finally, he ambled from their path, but not without a long look of regret first.

  Marin's blood roared with rage, with a need to exact vengeance on the man holding her. He had exploited her love to seize the castle and would soon see the effects of her wrath. Or she would die trying.

  Bran did not plan to keep Marin locked in the cell forever. In fact, he had made it a point to instruct his men to see that the imprisoned soldiers were properly fed and cared for.

  After a poor night of sleep in a rich man’s bed, he found his mind returning to the spitfire, and how her potent energy had been beautiful when it had been used not for anger, but for passion.

  In the great hall, crusty rolls were waiting for him, so fresh that steam curled from them when broken open. There was a pot of honey waiting to be drizzled, a pat of butter for smearing, the salt bowl filled once more, and even oats thickened with fresh milk and perfectly hot.

  He'd enjoyed breaking his fast so much that the kitchen was his first stop that morning in his assessment of the castle. The stables appeared to be in good order; he'd seen that when he left his horse there the day before. The Master of the Horse seemed competent, albeit evidently displeased with the castle’s loss.

  Bran had already written the letter to Kerr informing him of having taken Werrick Castle. He’d secured a runner for its delivery and the lad was already on his way. Once the Scottish Warden sent reinforcements, he could put this whole mess behind him and Ena would be free.

  Ena. The name charged a feeling of powerful protection through him. She had been so foolish, and yet his being here proved he would do anything for her. He only hoped Kerr kept his side of the bargain.

  Bran entered the kitchen and found a large round rump thrust up in front of a fire pit.

  “Are ye the cook?” He asked the massive, flour-dusted bottom.

  A woman spun around, her face flushed rosy from heat and hard work, her hair wiry with strands of brassy gray jutting out in all directions from under her simple cap.

  She propped a meaty fist on her hip and regarded him with an assessing gaze. “Are you the marauder who threatened to kill our wee Catriona?” Before she could answer, she clicked her tongue and turned away from him. “For shame.”

  “I want an inventory of yer food stores,” he said.

  “You're not the mistress of the keep.”

  “Nay, but I am its head currently.”

  She hissed an exasperated sigh and hefted a great pot onto the metal hook over the fire. “You won’t get an answer from me.” She turned and wiped her hands on the white apron she wore over her brown kirtle.

  “Ye may verra well be the only one in the castle no' afraid of me.” Bran narrowed his eyes, intentionally offering her one of his fiercest looks, one known to make men cower in battle.

  The cook, however, gave a hoot of laughter. “Aren’t you a cocky one?” She scoffed. “No man would bother taking this body by force and if you kill me, you'll save me from a life of my back hurting like the very devil every day.” She waved her hands to get him to leave. “You want information, bring Lady Marin with you.”

  A black cat leapt onto the table beside him and stroked itself against his hand. The same one he’d seen the prior day. It appeared the little beast remembered him.

  The cook smirked. “’Tis fitting Bixby likes you so.”

  “Why is that?” Bran stroked a hand over the cat’s head.

  “He always knows where to find the rats.” With that, she turned and lifted a second kettle to the fire with a hearty grunt.

  Bran strode from the kitchens with a muttered curse. Bixby trotted behind him, following as he made his rounds to the various servants. The Master of the Horse who had been compliant enough the prior day would give Bran no information on the horses, their supply of food, or even the names of the stable lads. The chatelaine would not speak with him regarding any of the household upkeep. And the steward offered a stuttered refusal over reviewing any of the earl’s accounts with Bran.

  They all declined to offer their assistance without Lady Marin present.

  Frustrated and greatly begrudging his decision to keep the castle peaceful until reinforcement arrived, Bran made his way to the solar. Sunlight flowed in through the wide display of clear glass and filled the room with a comfortable golden heat. It was soundless within, away from the noise and bustle of the greater part of the castle. Motes of dust floated lazily in the still air. It was unlike anywhere he’d ever been; it was peaceful.

  So, this was how the rich lived. With their painted walls and the safety behind their fortified stone, with good food served to them every day and bits of heaven shining down upon them. He wanted to turn away in disgust from the gross display of wealth, evident in the shelves of books and fine furnishing.

  And yet the draw was too much, even for him.

  Indulging, he sank into the chair behind the desk and savored the stillness.

  Bixby hopped soundlessly onto the desk and blinked wide green eyes at him. The cat nudged closer. Bran stretched a hand out and stroked the glossy black fur until Bixby's eyes began to slowly drift closed and Bran’s fingertips vibrated with a rhythmic purring.

  Exhaustion pulled at Bran as well. A quick bit of slumber promised him more rest than the previous night had allotted.

  The earl's bed had been a luxury. The feather-stuffed mattress, thick and downy, had cradled his body like a cloud, and the sheets had been of the best linen, cool and welcoming. None of it had mattered. Regardless of where he slept or how fine the bed, he would always be followed by his ghosts.

  He scrubbed a hand over his beard and stretched back to rouse himself to wakefulness. Combing over the accounts would take extensive concentration without the aid of the bloody steward but was necessary to uncover anything that might be of import before Bran vacated the castle upon the reinforcements’ arrival. That, and letting the castle fall apart would not bode well for the inhabitants. The last thing he needed was Werrick’s people rallying against him.

  He pulled open a drawer and encountered several lengths of parchment. Bixby's ears flicked with irritation. Bran moved the contents about carefully so as not to make too much noise. He shook his head at his own efforts, all for the sake of a cat.

  Ridiculous.

  From what Bran could gather, the parchment was little more than a reply to a friend with nothing of note. He drew a book from beneath and flipped through the fragile pages. Numbers filled either side with words that made no sense. He set it on the desk splayed open, and pushed the drawer closed. This might be a fruitless task. Bran hesitated before opening the second drawer.

  There was great unease in going through another man's belongings. It seemed strange that in taking the earl's castle, eating his food, drinking his wine, kissing his daughter and sleeping in his bed had not struck Bran with any level of invasion until the moment he opened personal correspondence to read.

  “I do not believe Marin would like you being in here.” Ella entered the solar without asking permission. A length of green silk had been sewn to the bottom of her pink cotehardie, an alternative to purchasing a new gown when the old had become too short or its hem too worn.

  Bran could only imagine the expense of clothing five daughters. How was it the earl hadn't married any of them off?

  “In fact, I know she would not like it.” Ella approached
the desk and rubbed a hand over Bixby's back. “I've never seen him take to a man. He usually favors rats.”

  “So I've been told,” Bran muttered.

  Ella glanced to where his hand hovered over the knob of the drawer.

  “I think you're a good man despite what you've done.” Catriona appeared from behind her sister and watched him carefully with her large blue eyes, as if expecting him to contradict her.

  “You didn't hurt me,” she went on. “I think you only killed Eversham because he would never…” She swallowed hard. “He would have never allowed you to take me. It didn't appear you hurt Marin either. Mayhap…” she pursed her lips. “Mayhap you might let her go?”

  “Can I get either of ye to help me with the cook, or the steward? Hell, even the chatelaine?” Bran asked, ignoring the request. “No one will speak with me.”

  “Marin would be the only one they will speak with.” Catriona offered a tentative smile. “If you let her free—”

  “Catriona! Ella!” A voice hissed from the hallways, and Anice swept into the room. Piquette was at her side, of course, and both cast Bran a cold look.

  “This man is not worth our time.” Anice stared at him with the impact of all the scorn a beautiful woman could muster. “Especially considering how he has handled Marin.”

  Ella turned contemptuously to him. “He is indeed a vile cur.”

  Bran lifted a brow. Vile cur seemed a bit strong. “The lass did try to kill me.” His bland defense fell on deaf ears, however, for at that exact moment, Lady Ella gave a gasp of outrage and snatched up the book from the desk.

  “You do not leave them open like this.” She fondly caressed the leather spine where a deep crease showed. “Do you not know how to handle books?”

  Apparently, he did not. “I dinna realize there was a certain way.”

  She stroked her book while Anice approached, her gaze going from him to the top of the desk where the cat snoozed in front of Bran. “How fitting Bixby should find you.”

  “Aye, because he likes rats.” Bran rubbed a hand over the aching muscles of his neck and prayed for patience. God knew he was failing with these daughters of Werrick. “I'd ask ye if ye knew how I might get the servants to speak with me but assume ye'll tell me to speak with Marin.”

  “Mayhap you ought to free Marin from imprisonment.” Anice put an arm around each sister and led them to the doorway. “Come, Piquette.”

  The dog followed, but Ella glanced over her shoulder before being guided out. “Marin is the heart of Werrick Castle, in more ways than one.”

  The heart of Werrick Castle. Bran bit back the bitter laugh. The situation was quickly becoming absurd. Not a damn thing could be done in the castle without Marin's blessing.

  He pushed back from his seat. Bixby startled at the sound. If he needed to see Marin for the castle to function, then he would see Marin, but he'd be damned if he released her simply at the nagging of meddlesome women and obdurate servants.

  He stalked through the castle, left with no choice but to talk with Marin.

  5

  The soft lilt of singing greeted Bran as he descended the stairs. Singing? In a dungeon? He quickened his pace, hastened by the need to chastise his men for not putting a stop to such foolishness.

  His men didn't notice his arrival for they stared into the dungeon, their faces serene with concentration. Closer now, Bran could better hear the woman's voice, and the beauty behind it.

  The song was in a language he didn't know, but the sweet melody seemed to imply a story both calm and light, a song one might sing to a child. It was no wonder his men did not order the musician to cease when they so obviously found her talent enjoyable.

  Bran pushed aside his men to enter the dank dungeon. A candle glowed on the floor next to Marin's cell beside a bundle of furs and a glossy dark head resting against the iron bars.

  Marin's arms extended from her prison where she lay flush with the barrier of her cell to cradle her youngest sister. Her delicate hands stroked the girl's shiny black hair. It was Marin who sung so beautifully.

  Every man stood enthralled. Not only Bran's men, but her father’s soldiers held prisoner not far from her. Her singing filled the ugly darkness and made it somehow light—a transition so remarkable, it might be considered magic.

  Her voice quelled and the singing drew to an end. Marin opened her eyes and looked at Leila with love shining in her eyes. For her part, Leila appeared to be asleep, her fingers curled loosely around one of the thick iron bars of Marin’s captivity.

  Marin is the heart of Werrick Castle, in more ways than one.

  Bran was beginning to understand as much now. The room remained silent enough that the delicate flicker of the decorated candle's flame could be heard. Small flowers had been pressed into the white wax and whorls of paint showed along its sides.

  One of Bran's men sighed and turned away from the sisters.

  Bran approached the cell, foolishly trying to still the sound of his wooden soled shoes clattering over the hard ground. Marin's head snapped up and she put her finger to her lips.

  He glanced down at Leila. Her hair fell over her cheek and her face was tranquil with the relaxation of slumber. Initially he'd thought her to be ten. Now he questioned whether she was even that old.

  “Why is she here?” He whispered.

  Marin carefully pulled her arms from her sister and secured the furs more snugly about her shoulders before standing to face Bran.

  “She's scared.” Marin paused and regarded him for a long considering moment. “Mayhap you can bring another candle if you wish for us to see.”

  He glanced at the one at his feet where the fine wax candle still shone with brilliance. “What's wrong with this one?”

  Marin gently swept her fingers along the top of the glossy dark head of little Leila. “It's her Candlemas candle. She's been saving it all year. I'd like her to still keep it in case she needs her own prayers for reassurance later.”

  Irritation tightened along the back of Bran's shoulders. “I said I wouldna harm ye.”

  “Yet you've imprisoned the guards and you've imprisoned me.” Shadows stained the fair skin under Marin’s eyes. She'd clearly had little sleep as well. “Leila is a sensitive child. She feels things differently than most.” Marin glanced down at her sleeping sister, a look akin to maternal worry and affection crossing her features. “Locking me in the dungeon only heightened her concern.”

  “Ye did try to kill me.” He turned to his men behind him. “Ye, bring me another candle. And ye,” he nodded at a burly man with a large barrel chest, the strongest among those guarding the dungeon. “Go to the kitchens to aid the cook with lifting heavy items. If her back goes, we'll no' be eating well.”

  Both men nodded and went about their orders.

  “You saw Nan?” Marin lifted her neat brows in amusement. “And I see Bixby found you.” A smile teased at her full lips.

  Bran cast a frown down at the cat. Bixby licked at his paw with supreme disinterest. “I know about Bixby, before ye attempt the jest.”

  The ghost of a smile pulled higher on her mouth and she gave a simple hum of acknowledgement.

  “If ye mean the cook, then aye, I went to see Nan. I also saw yer Master of the Horse, steward and even the chatelaine.” Bran shifted. “It appears no one will provide me any information. Nothing in the castle can happen without ye.”

  The lighthearted expression on Marin’s face tightened. “What did you do to them?”

  “No’ a damn thing, which I now regret.” Bran shot her a dark look. “I dinna come here to harm ye or yer people.”

  One of the reivers came forward and handed him a candle which he passed to Marin. She nodded her thanks, then knelt to light it with the Candlemas candle before blowing Leila’s out to preserve the girl’s blessings.

  Marin rose amid a thread of smoke. “I assumed the role of mistress of the keep when my mother died years ago, and I assume something of a Castellan when my father is summ
oned to the king’s side. I handle every account of the castle and am responsible for every person here.”

  “In that case, I need yer help. I dinna want the order of things to fall apart. Nor do ye, I am certain.” In truth, he needed her support with more than simply the accounts. He needed her to stop bloody fighting him, lest the people eventually rose up against him. Then he would need to flex his force, as fleeing was not an option. Not with so much at stake.

  Marin tilted her head toward him. “It's difficult to perform such a task from my current location.”

  Bran grunted.

  Marin crossed her arms.

  “I'll let ye out today to help me,” Bran offered. “But if ye cross me, there will be consequences.”

  “And I want a bath drawn for me in my room.”

  Her airy disregard for his threat rankled. In fact, everything about this woman left him in a state of agitation. And yet, he found himself tempted to offer the bath only if he could join her. “Ye have to promise to try not to kill me,” he said instead.

  “Try not to, or don’t actually, kill you?” She gave him a feral grin. “If I try again, I will be successful.”

  His cock twitched. Damn but this woman stoked desire deep within him. “Dinna kill me, or even attempt to, and I'll let ye have yer bath.”

  “In my own room. Alone.”

  The thought of her naked in a tub of water filled his mind. The mirrored surface reflecting her image back to her, the curve of her creamy shoulders, her breasts round and high on her chest. Her skin slick and glossy in the firelight.

  “Verra well. Ye'll have an hour.” He pulled the dungeon’s only key from his pocket and unlocked her cell door. She carefully eased it open, came around to the other side of her prison and bent to lift her sister.

  Bran opened his arms to accept the girl’s weight, but Marin shook her head, choosing to carry her sister instead. It was familiar, the undying loyalty holding them together. The same as what he shared with Ena.

  A twinge pulled at his heart and he jerked away from the two sisters. He was tempted to tell Marin of Ena’s plight, and yet feared her knowing his sister’s name. With the Earl of Werrick being a warden, he could bring down punishment upon Ena, and Bran would be right back where he started. Another pawn in the rich man’s quest for power.