Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1) Page 9

  “Did you hear everything?” Marin asked into the darkness.

  “Aye,” Sir Richard answered.

  “We ought to go to Mabrick Castle and seek the aid of Baron Carlyle there. We will need a good portion of the soldiers and can formulate a plan there.”

  “A good plan, my lady,” Sir Richard said. “They've always been loyal supporters of the English crown and are strong allies.”

  Marin nodded to herself. A surge of confidence roared through her for the first time since Bran entered Werrick Castle. “Then it's time to begin, for we'll be freed soon.”

  The servants would need to remain behind for the time being, though she was loath to do so. But to move them all would be too obvious. Marin, however, would not be going to Mabrick.

  She would slip away before her sisters would notice. They would be safe, but she still wanted to protect the remaining people. She wanted her castle back, and the safety it had afforded them all once before. The only way to obtain that would be to follow her original plan and kill Bran.

  9

  Marin was at the head of the procession, leading her men. After all, this was her folly to repair.

  The task of getting the soldiers from their cells had been quick and easy, and the guards who had been in hiding replaced the reivers without incident. As Marin had anticipated, the reivers were not familiar enough with one another to question the men who replaced them.

  Now the group of liberated soldiers moved as silently through the castle as was possible. Many of the men were without their chainmail, as only a few were able to procure a full suit for their escape. The minimal armor helped make them somewhat quieter. Weapons had been snuck out of the armory earlier by brave servants, so at least nearly all were armed.

  Bran’s men had imbibed heavily on the Highland whisky they’d found in the castle’s stores. The men had been all too eager to partake and now most lay splayed on the ground in a spirit-induced slumber.

  Marin’s wooden patens had been left off, so her leather clad feet padded soundlessly over the stone.

  A shadow caught her attention at the end of the hall. A guard? Aye, it was, one lone man who did not appear to have drunk as much as the others.

  Her heart slid to her stomach. She hadn't wanted to kill these men. Yet she'd been given no choice. Her people’s freedom for a life. She readied her dagger and reminded herself this man and the other reivers had stolen her home, eaten her food. They posed a dangerous threat.

  The guard lifted a cup to his mouth, drank and casually strolled in the opposite direction. His pace was slow, his relaxed shoulders indicating he had not seen them.

  Marin waited with her breath locked in her chest for several moments after he was out of sight.

  Sir Richard nodded to her and waved them all across, taking the lead with Anice, Ella, Catriona and Leila in the middle of the small band of Werrick’s remaining troops. Fortunately, there were no more reivers on their way to the larder where the trap door lay beneath heavy casks of fine wine.

  “You took a fine bit of time getting here, my lady,” Nan admonished. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on the cook’s brow.

  Marin leveled her own gaze at the old cook. “We didn't want to start a battle on our way out.”

  Nan nodded. “’Tis a smart thing to do.”

  “You’re so brave to help us, Nan.” Cat wrapped her skinny arms around the cook. “Will you not come with us?”

  An affectionate smile spread over Nan’s face and she wrapped an arm around Cat. “Nay, lass. I’ll see your tracks covered.”

  “Will you be safe?” Ella asked as Sir Richard and several of the men tugged the casks of wine off the trap door.

  “Men love their food.” Nan chuckled and pulled Leila toward her in an embrace similar to the one she held Cat in. “Old Nan will be fine. I want to ensure my girls are safe.”

  “You could always poison them,” Ella offered.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Nan winked.

  Once the casks were cleared and the rushes brushed aside, Sir Richard tugged at the door’s latch. It opened with a creaking groan as the musty odor of disuse and wet earth emerged from the gaping black pit.

  “I'll go first,” Sir Richard offered. He took a torch from the wall and held it over the pit. The darkness within seemed to swallow the light so only blackness showed beyond the feeble flames.

  Regardless, brave Sir Richard leapt without fear into the entrance to the tunnel. He landed with a solid thud of feet on dirt. The light cast around him showing walls of tightly packed soil around him.

  Marin’s heart pounded with what she knew she'd have to do. For though she would make a show of going with her sisters, she would not be escaping with them. Not yet. She had her own battle to wage.

  The rest of the Werrick soldiers made their way into the awaiting tunnel.

  “We shall be back soon, dear Nan.” Marin embraced the plump cook and whispered into her ear. “Leave the wine casks off the door once it’s closed.”

  Nan asked no questions, but simply nodded slowly to the request.

  Marin lowered herself into the pit among Werrick’s soldiers. The walls pressed a chill into her bones. All around her was the scent of wet earth and stale air. Their footsteps ground against the gritty floor, the sound absorbed into the thickness of the walls.

  Once Marin’s sisters had either leapt or been lowered into the entrance, along with Anice’s dog, Piquette, the lot of them set off through the maze of tunnels. Marin’s heart thundered in her chest, the sound filling her ears. She had to do it now, while she still had the fortitude to do so. For if she did not, the castle and its people would be lost to her forever.

  Aye, Baron Carlyle would undoubtedly help them, but she knew how impenetrable the keep’s walls were. Bran had demonstrated he was not without a streak of violence with his threat against poor William. What would he do to the servants if he was under attack?

  She had to turn back now. To cut the head off the snake so that the rest of the body might also die.

  She took the key to the gate from the small locket at her belt and passed it to Anice. Her sister looked at the key in her hand and frowned.

  “Is something wrong?” Leila looked up between them, her eyes luminous beneath the glint of her small helm.

  “Nay, lamb,” Anice said. “’Tis nothing to concern yourself over.”

  Ella took Leila’s hand and drew her away, but not before casting a suspicious glance at her elder sisters first.

  “I must do this,” Marin whispered. “Otherwise we will lose Werrick Castle.”

  Anice nodded slowly, and Marin knew her sister understood. Piquette gave a whimper and nudged Marin’s palm with his large wet nose.

  “Go with God, Sister.” Anice clasped Marin’s shoulder with her free one.

  Marin lowered her head in reverence and remained thus as the soldiers marched past her. Sir Richard, who led at the front, did not notice her absence, and for that she was grateful. He would never condone the risk she was about to take.

  The light of the torches bled away as Marin let the last of the soldiers pass by with their curious glances. But they did not question their lady. They moved on at the sweep of her hand until she was alone in the dark with only the sound of her breathing echoing around her. So deep was the darkness, she could not see her hand passing before her face.

  She waited for the jumble of footsteps to shuffle out of range before she fished out the stub of a candle from her pocket and struck at her flint to light it. Now able to see, she turned and quickly made her way down the tunnel, retracing her steps to the trap door. This would be her one opportunity to truly save them all.

  Bran's fitful sleep came abruptly to an end with an insistent pounding on the door. He bolted awake, sitting up and nearly sinking in the downy mattress beneath him. “What is it?”

  “Bran.” Drake’s voice on the other side of the door came with urgency.

  Bran climbed out of the ridiculously large bed.
“Aye, come in.”

  The door opened and Drake entered, his mouth set in a thin line. “The prisoners are no’ in their cells.”

  A chill of apprehension trickled down Bran's back. “Where are they?”

  “I dinna know, but all the cells are empty.” Drake paced the room. “We searched the castle before I came to ye. No’ much to be found save for the servants left behind and our reivers.”

  “How did they not know an entire dungeon full of prisoners escaped?” Bran demanded.

  Drake folded his arms over his chest. “I believe they were too far into the whisky.”

  He was most likely correct. When Bran went to bed, most were too drunk to know their head from their arse.

  A panicked thought pounded through Bran’s skull. “What of the warden’s daughters?”

  Drake shook his head. “Gone as well.”

  Bran ran to the windows and pushed open the shutters. A harsh wind blew in and spattered him with rain water. He ignored the discomfort and stared into the downpour, half expecting to see a trail of soldiers trekking over the moonlit land before him. No such luck.

  He pulled the shutters closed. “Round up the men sober enough to be of use. I want those lasses found. Having the warden’s daughters on hand is part of the deal.”

  “I willna let ye down.” Drake gave a stiff nod and quickly departed.

  Without Marin or any of the other sisters present, the servants were more likely to revolt. Aye, they were only servants, but the mass of them could still take on the reivers if they were sufficiently enraged. He’d seen it happen enough times to not underestimate their force.

  A crack of thunder sounded from outside and the patter of rain against the shutters intensified.

  Bran snatched up his trews and pulled them on. He caught sight of the gambeson he’d flopped over the back of a wooden chair after Anice had left. He lifted it and checked the pocket where he'd tucked the key to the dungeon. His fingertips grazed over fabric without catching the coolness of metal. Irritation and rage seared into the muscles along the back of his neck. Anice had not been there to seduce him. The chit had stolen the key.

  Damn the daughters of Werrick.

  The shutters banged open and made him jump. Evidently, he had not latched them properly. They rattled and smacked the stone walls with the frenzy of the storm. Bran cursed and stalked across the room. He slammed the shutters closed and snapped down the narrow clasp to lock them.

  The hair along the back of his neck prickled in warning. All at once, the scent of lavender teased at his senses and his body immediately hardened.

  “I told you I would kill you.” The voice purred in his ear and an arm curled around his torso.

  Marin.

  She tensed behind him and he could imagine her in his mind's eye, pulling back her dagger to deliver the death blow. But he would not go down so easily. Not when he'd come so far.

  He ducked down low and jerked backward. Her concentration had been centered on the blow she’d intended to deliver, and not on her hold on him, which made it easy to evade her. This time.

  She had her hair braided back, exposing more of her beautiful face, and she wore men's hose along with a surcoat. She lunged forward with a grunt and arced her blade at him.

  He deflected her strike and backed up once more. “Where did ye send yer sisters and all the soldiers?”

  She dove at him, hitting him with her full body weight. They both slammed to the floor. She kicked at him, landing a solid blow on his shin. He flinched from the injury and just managed to catch her intent to drive her elbow toward his face. He spun to the side as her arm came down on the hard-stone floor.

  She cried out and cradled her elbow. Bran scrambled to his feet, grabbed his sword and held it to her throat.

  “Why did ye stay?” he asked. “To kill me?”

  She edged away from the blade and slowly lowered her hand from her injured elbow. “Your men are unorganized. Your leadership of them is tenuously established at best. If you were dead, they would disperse, and my sisters could safely return home. And your men are well-behaved for now, but for how long? I will not stand by while my servants are raped and killed.”

  He gritted his teeth. He hated that his precarious leadership was so apparent. Damn the reivers for making so pathetic an army and damn the Middle March Warden for sending him on this fool’s errand in the first place. “Where are yer sisters? Where are the soldiers?”

  “It doesn't matter what you do to me. They'll stay safe.” She gave him a smug grin. “They're gathering reinforcements, allies strong enough to withstand your forces no matter how underhanded your schemes.”

  “Reinforcements?” he asked. If they went for reinforcements, then surely, they would seek a castle nearby.

  “They left well over an hour ago.” She stood slowly, keeping her blue gaze fixed on the blade pointed at her. “I went with them but snuck back here for you.” Her hand slowly moved at her sleeve.

  “Toss the dagger to the ground or I'll see it lodged in your throat.” He threw her an exasperated look.

  She jerked the blade from her sleeve, but she did not toss it to the ground. Instead, she let it fly toward him, determined in her decision to see him dead.

  10

  Marin would not fail again. Bran had ducked to avoid the hurtling dagger. She took advantage of his new position and launched a solid kick into his chest, pushing him backward. His sword clattered to the ground, too far for him to quickly grab. He coughed out an exhale and widened his stance in preparation for a fight.

  A swift glance at the floor did not reveal the dagger or sword within her reach. Damn.

  She threw a fist at him, but he batted it aside with his forearm. The strike of his solid arm jarred her. She swung again, and again he deflected. Each blocked hit resulted in a jab of pain shooting through Marin's hand.

  Her gauntlets were in her chambers with the rest of her armor. Though she regretted their absence now, slipping quietly into Bran’s room had been more important than protection. At least it had been before she realized she’d be engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a man twice her size.

  Bran grabbed her wrists in his large hands and restrained her with impossible strength. She wrestled against him, twisting and turning, her legs kicking at him seemingly without effect. No matter what she did, he did not lighten his grip. She arched back in preparation to smash his forehead with her own.

  “Nay, lass. No' this time.” He knocked her feet out from under her.

  She fell back, unable to stop herself, and landed atop something downy. The bed.

  Bran's weight fell on top of her and set her heart beating wildly.

  “Stop attacking me.” His gaze searched hers. “Stop trying to kill me. I dinna want it to be this way.”

  “What way did you want it to be?” She didn’t bother to stifle her incredulity. “Did you expect us to allow you to come into the castle and welcome you?”

  His brow furrowed. “Mabrick Castle,” he muttered.

  Marin stiffened. The soldiers and her sisters were on their way there now. Why would he mention it?

  “What of it?” she demanded.

  Had he known? Damn her for taunting him. And still, even if he left now, he would not be able to catch up with her sisters. Nay, they would be within the walls of the stronghold by then, safe.

  “Ye dinna send them to Mabrick Castle, did ye?” There was a hesitation to his tone that made her skin prickle with a wave of apprehension.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “The castle was taken by the Grahams two days past.”

  Her veins ran cold with horror. The Grahams. The fiercest and most brutal of all the reivers to strike the borders. They attacked without discretion, killed without mercy—men, women, children. And what they did to the women…

  It had been a Graham who had attacked her mother a decade before. He’d raped her in the attack and left her for dead, leaving before he could be struck down. Aye, the Grahams
were the cruelest, and Marin had sent her sisters and the remaining brave soldiers directly in their path.

  Marin shook her head. “Nay.” Tears blurred her vision. “Nay, you lie.”

  The earnestness on his face, the gravity in those dark eyes spoke for him. He was not lying.

  “My sisters…” her throat choked off the remaining words, unable to even form the thought.

  “May already be dead,” he finished for her.

  “Nay.” Marin thrashed against him. “Let me be. Let me go to them. Let me—”

  “Marin.” He spoke gently in her ear, his voice soothing.

  She jerked and stared up at him. “You. You can help. You and your men. You must save them, Bran.” Her words came fast and frantic, for she was mad with hope.

  He smirked. “I have what I came for, as well as the eldest daughter of the Earl of Werrick. The Grahams have no qualms with me as yet, nor I with them.”

  She shook her head. All she could see in her mind was her sisters marching out with the meager army of soldiers, the brave group moving steadily over the rugged terrain of the borderlands toward what they thought was safety. Only it wouldn’t be safety—it would be a slaughter.

  Desperation rose with her panicked heartbeat. She blinked away her tears and gazed imploringly at him. “Please, Bran. Please.”

  His jaw tightened. “They made their choice. It’s all a rich man’s game. No doubt that’s why the Grahams attacked Mabrick. Men like me, we’re simply pawns.”

  “I’ll do anything.” Marin lay back in supplication and pushed up her breasts toward him. “Take me, do what you will with me, just please, please save my sisters.”

  She couldn’t stop the hot tears from leaking from the corners of her eyes. The force of agony radiating from her chest was more than she could bear. How could she be so helpless? How could there be nothing she could do?

  She could not lose her sisters. They could not die.