Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 7

  She leaned into his strength with a sigh shared between their kisses, her hands moving over his powerful back. The desire humming through her drew her hips toward him in a slow, eager rhythm he all too easily matched. She ought to push him away, she knew, to be firm in her defiance. But these kisses were heaven, and they awakened in her something she had thought never to experience: desire.

  His palm swept up to brush the side of her breast and gently cup it. Marin arched her chest toward him before she knew what she was doing, her entire being transformed by the power of need. He sucked at her bottom lip while his thumb played over the swollen bud of her nipple. She cried out with pleasure, but he muted the sound with a hungry sweep of his tongue.

  He kissed her mouth, her chin, her neck, his mouth suckling, his teeth ever so gently nipping. Tingles of bliss danced up and down her spine. Her breath came in panting gasps.

  Bran cupped her bottom with his free hand and drew her hips flush with his, where the hardness that had been there the night before now strained between them again.

  Marin was not so ignorant of the ways between a man and a woman that she did not know what the column was. A trill of power shot through her. She had caused that. His want of her. His yearning.

  His leg nudged against hers and she found herself parting her knees for him. His thigh pressed into the wild thrum of lust at her cleft. He straightened to kiss her once more, gliding his hand up her lower back to catch the back of her head in his large palm. Somewhere in the distance came the ring of thin metal hitting the ground. She paid it little mind, her mouth impatiently tasting his with greedy abandon.

  “I want ye,” he moaned into her mouth.

  It would be so easy to give in to this lust, to let it ignite her body and soul. The voice in the back of her mind ticked off reasons she ought to cease, with one glaring reason that was louder than curiosity and excitement combined–responsibility.

  She could not do this with the man who had taken her father's castle and taken them all hostage. She could not do this at all with a man to whom she was not wed. If her father ever needed her for an advantageous match, she could not tell him she had given away her maidenhead. She could not let him down.

  “Stop,” she murmured.

  Bran’s mouth lifted from her and his hands fell away.

  “Marin.” He stared down at her; his voice ragged. “I dinna want to fight with ye.”

  She stepped back on wobbly legs and tried to regain her composure. “You cannot take such liberties with me.”

  His hair had become tousled at some point and his mouth was red beneath his beard. Desire blazed in his eyes and set a new tempo to the pulse pounding through her. “I want ye.”

  “I'm not for the wanting,” she whispered. “Or the having.” She bent and lifted her veil from where it had floated to the ground.

  “Ye want me.” He met her gaze.

  She did not deny it. Indeed, heat seared through her anew. But she could not give in, not when she was without the freedom to give into her pleasures. She had been trained as a man in battle, aye, but she knew the many restrictions she still held as a woman. And there was the consideration that he meant to intentionally seduce her to secure her compliance.

  He picked up her delicate circlet between large, gentle fingers, the delicate clink she'd heard.

  “What is between us doesna need to be difficult.” He handed her the circlet. “It could be so verra good.”

  Marin nodded her thanks and put the veil atop her hair before affixing the circlet back in place. Her cheeks went hot thinking of what they'd done, at what this marauder had somehow awoken within her. “Everything you want goes against everything I protect.” She shook her head. “I can't give you my body any more than I can give you my obedience.”

  He closed his eyes and rested his brow against hers. It would be so easy to tip her chin upward and catch his lips with hers.

  “I want there to be harmony between us,” he said.

  She turned her head from his. “You seek to destroy everything I hold dear.”

  “Ye willna give me yer support then,” he surmised.

  Marin pulled away. “Nay.”

  “Please, Marin.”

  “Nay.” She said it more firmly this time and met his gaze so he might see her resolve. “I am an earl’s daughter.”

  Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “And too good for the likes of me.”

  The words jabbed into her. She pressed her lips together to keep from apologizing. He had forced his way into Werrick. She would not show him sympathy.

  He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. A tuft jutted up at his right temple. It gave him a pleasant boyishness she hated, for it was far too endearing.

  “I said I willna harm ye, and I mean it,” he said. “But I canna have yer disobedience either.”

  Marin said nothing, watching him and awaiting his next move. It was a complicated chess game, and both wanted to be the victor.

  He braced his hands on the desk as though he had the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders. “If ye dinna help me, eventually yer people will attempt to revolt.”

  Marin laid her hand on the cool surface of the table and leaned toward him. “They might succeed.”

  “And if they do not, they will all be killed.”

  “What do you want us for?” She clenched her hands at her sides. “Why are you doing this?”

  He did not answer. Instead he stared at her for a long space of time, as though possibly considering telling her. “I willna get yer support.”

  The statement was without question.

  “I will need to send you back to the dungeon to reconsider.” A corner of his mouth tucked downward in what appeared to be disappointment. “Mayhap tomorrow we can meet with the steward and the Master of the Horse.”

  She lifted her head even as her insides shuddered at the thought of being locked in the dark once more.

  “Will ye be compliant?” he asked.

  Marin said nothing. Not when tears burned in her eyes and she feared her voice would tremble if she spoke.

  “As I thought.” Bran lowered his head and motioned for her to follow.

  She did, lest she be paraded through her own home like a prize again and begrudged her passivity. It made her feel as though she were a willing participant, which she vehemently was not.

  Except she had been when they had kissed. How she regretted those kisses with this awful man and hated the passion he awoke within her. He was not her lover. He was her enemy.

  The shadowed hallway of the dungeon came into view and a damp coldness pressed at her skirts upon their approach. Panic welled up within her chest, spreading into icy fear the closer they drew. She did not want this. And yet, she did not fear it enough to offer her compliance to Bran.

  He led her to the cell door as though he were leading her to a dance, his touch gentle on her lower back. “I dinna want to do this.” The flex of his jaw and the pull at his brows indicated the truth behind his words.

  “You can't keep us locked down here forever.” Marin put her hand to the cold iron and curled her fingers around the bar.

  “Until I get what I need, aye, I can leave ye here as long as it takes.” With that, he twisted the key in the lock.

  Hopelessness washed over her in desolate waves, tightening her muscles and weighing at her heart. She could not fail her family in this manner, to leave her sisters unattended upstairs, to leave her father's wealth potentially exposed.

  “I will escape from here,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I will kill you.”

  He held up something that glinted in the low light. “I have the only key.”

  She watched him leave with an angry fire flaring to life in her chest. Aye, he did have the only key, but there had to be some way to break out, something she could do to free herself and get her sisters to safety. And part of that safety would be seeing Bran dead.

  7

  True to his word, Bran summoned Ma
rin from the dungeon again the following day. He had a bath and a hot meal waiting in her room in the hopes he might draw more compliance from her with kindly actions.

  He waited outside her chamber while Anice tended to her. Thus far the other girls had been compliant, simply watching him and his soldiers with wide eyes. They did not cause problems and, based on the reports he’d received from Drake, they spent a majority of their time reading or working needlepoint. Women’s tasks.

  The door opened and he straightened to attention. Marin wore another veil, this time with a silver circlet which made the gilded stitching on her deep blue kirtle sparkle like stars.

  “Lady Marin.” He inclined his head respectfully.

  She said nothing, but her gaze discreetly settled on him. Though her regard was cool, he knew her to be more interested in him than she bothered to show. No woman without interest kissed with such heat, such passion. It made him want to pull her back into his arms.

  “Shall we see the steward today?” he inquired.

  Her head lifted in a look that was almost arrogant. “Aye, but first I should like to see to my sisters and meet with Nan to confirm the meals are properly planned.”

  The haughty attitude did not become her, though her request was unsurprising. He had expected her to want to ensure the safety of her sisters.

  “Ye will find them all in good health.” Bran indicated she precede him.

  True to his word, on their way to see to her sisters, her vassals appeared to be relaxed in their safety and at ease. All the sisters but Anice were in the solar, with Ella reading, Cat plaiting several flowers into Ella’s hair, and Leila sitting beside the glow of the fire. The three looked up at the sound of the door opening and ran to Marin.

  He waited patiently as Marin addressed each girl affectionately, asking after their care and getting the reassurance she’d requested. Leila clung to Marin’s waist and refused to let go for a time before Cat lured her away with the promise of teaching her to loop the flowers together into a necklace.

  As Marin cast one final glance back at her sisters, her heart clearly heavy, Bran leaned close to her ear. “If ye can promise me the support I need, I can see to ye being free of the dungeon for good.”

  In response, Marin merely frowned.

  In the kitchen, Marin made certain the meal for the day was sufficiently planned and Bran once more attracted the attention of Bixby. Fie on what they’d all said about the little beast. The cat was good company.

  He lifted the furred weight of the creature into his arms and caught a slight twitch to Marin’s lips.

  “I know what ye’re thinking.” He rubbed at Bixby’s ears and the cat pushed into the caress, the air practically vibrating with his ready purr. “Mayhap I think this wee creature has good taste.”

  Nan scoffed at this, but Marin did not bother to comment as she left the kitchen. Bran settled Bixby on the ground and went after Marin.

  “Bixby certainly is drawn to you.” Marin said when Bran caught up. “Though I confess I find his affections questionable.”

  No one else was in the hall with them. He leaned closer to her. “Do ye?” He spoke into her ear with a low voice.

  Marin pulled in a deep breath. “Aye, I do.” Small bumps of gooseflesh showed on her skin and a flush spread over her cheeks. She stared up at him, her attention fixed on his mouth as she gently bit her bottom lip.

  Oh, aye–she was interested.

  He chuckled at her obvious pleasure in his closeness and shifted closer still. Marin lifted her hand and rapped at the door they stood before.

  She quirked a brow at him, as though in silent rebuke. A voice on the other side bid them enter. Bran opened the door for Marin and found a middle-aged man with sandy hair and a blunt nose waiting for them amid several open ledgers. He rose from his place behind the desk as they entered. Resplendent tapestries depicting biblical scenes adorned the whitewashed walls. Aside from those splashes of color, the room was otherwise bland and orderly to the point of being sparse.

  “Lady Marin.” The steward smiled broadly, revealing a wide gap between his two front teeth. His gaze fixed on Bran and the ready greeting wilted.

  “This is Bran Davidson,” Marin said. “It would appear he has needs to see the accounts to ensure all is in order. Bran, this is William, my father’s steward.”

  Introductions made, she folded herself gracefully into one of the two seats before the desk.

  William hesitated to sit and remained poised above his own chair. “Are you sure, my lady?”

  “I do not believe we have a choice,” Marin said bitterly.

  William indicated the other chair to Bran and sat himself. “What exactly is it you wish to know?”

  “I’d like to ensure the castle will continue to be maintained properly.” In truth, Bran was unsure what he ought to ask. He was no landowner, no warden, no rich man with more wealth than any one person ought to possess. Regardless, he was certain it was important to stay privy to all activities within the castle.

  Marin gave an irritated huff. “William is perfectly capable of handling Werrick without your guidance.”

  The steward dipped his head graciously toward his mistress. “I can assure you that the entire household will be maintained accordingly.”

  Bran fought the urge to clear his throat at the discomfort congealing in the room. Apparently, his words had been offensive. “I’d like to be informed of everything pertaining to the castle’s care.”

  William’s gaze slid to Marin, as though to confirm Bran’s request. Marin’s fingers on the arms of her chair tensed. Her knuckles went white, but she gave a stiff nod.

  Though Bran had taken the castle, Marin was still very much in charge. This would need to change.

  “Of course,” William said with congenial kindness. “Will that be all?”

  “Nay.” Bran gazed about the room where ledgers were stacked neatly on the shelves amid the colorful tapestries. The room was tidy and plain with a roaring fire crackling in the hearth.

  It was all too easy to recall the humble cottage Bran had acquired for himself and Ena. The meager fire in the center of the home was never sufficient to heat the space completely, the task to keep it going nearly endless. This man had no idea what it was like to cut his own wood, haul it through snow and ice and wait for it to dry to finally be warm.

  Marin didn’t either. None of them did, the spoiled lot of them.

  “I want to see the coffers,” Bran said.

  “Nay.” The confident sneer Marin curled in his direction told him everything he needed to know. She thought herself untouchable, infallible, in control.

  So like the bloody rich.

  Attempting to quell the residents’ fears with the assurance he would not bring anyone harm had been a poor decision. Bran had made himself appear weak and malleable–a misconception that would end now.

  He surged to his feet. “Ye will give me what I’ve asked for and ye will stop fighting me every step of the way.”

  She met his threat with bored disinterest.

  Aye, he’d made a foolish mistake in his attempt to placate. He reached across the desk and grabbed William’s tunic before the man could sense danger. “Get me the coffers posthaste.”

  “Leave, m-m-my l-l-l-lady,” William stuttered and squeezed his eyes into a hard blink. “I c-c-can handle h-h-him.”

  Marin leapt out of her chair, outrage apparent on her face. “You said you would not hurt my people.”

  “Ye said ye would cooperate.” Bran pulled his knife from his belt. “It would appear we’ve both lied.”

  A flush crept up Marin’s slender neck and stained her cheeks. “I do not lie.”

  “It would appear otherwise.” He turned his head toward the door and bellowed Drake’s name.

  “Let him go,” Marin said in a low, calm voice. “William, get the coffer.”

  Bran released his hold on William.

  The steward looked between Marin and Bran. “Only i-i-if you p-p
-promise n-n-not t-t-to h-h-h-h-h-h-h-” He stopped and drew in a long breath before letting it exhale. “Only if you p-promise not to hurt Lady Marin,” he said with careful concentration.

  Bran nodded. But though he put forth an uncaring demeanor, his gut twisted with self-revulsion. He’d known a lad in his youth who had been plagued by a stammer, an affliction other children had teased and tormented him about with pointed cruelty. Though it had earned Bran their scorn as well, he had shielded the boy and found in him a trustworthy and loyal companion. Duncan had been his name. He’d died in the attack that had killed Bran’s mother and older brother, but Bran had never forgotten him.

  Attacking Werrick’s steward now made Bran as low as the boys who had teased poor Duncan, and it cut deeply into his soul.

  The steward bent toward the floor with his eyes still locked on Bran to ensure he kept his promise. A jangle of keys sounded, followed by the click of an unlatching lock. William hefted a box of obvious weight onto the table. The dark, polished wood trunk was the size of a man’s head and had a heavy iron lock at its front. William turned a key in that one as well and Bran drew the cover back.

  Blue velvet lined the inside and cradled a wealth of more coins than Bran had seen collectively in the entirety of his life. Coin enough to feed him and his troops for a considerable amount of time, or to see to Drake’s sisters and widowed mother for years to come, or enough that his own mother might not have had to work so hard to give them a life that was barely above starvation.

  If he’d had coin like this in his youth, his world would have been so, so drastically different. And no doubt, so too would he. To have had food enough, safety enough. His mother and brother would still be alive, and Ena would never have been used in a manner that would have caused him to turn against his own morals.

  This wealth represented everything he never had, and how he had suffered for it.