Chapter 1 #2
Marin balled her hand into a fist within her skirt. “I will see to it.” She drew a deep breath to still her frantic pulse. “I wish to speak with you alone later, as well.”
The reiver's gaze dipped to her body. “Aye?”
Her cheeks flared with heat. “To discuss your intentions.”
He made an agreeable humming sound and strode forward, toward the keep. A black cat trotted from the stables and wound his way around the man’s feet. Fitting. Bixby always did have an affinity for rats.
Marin did not wish the little feline to be kicked by a man so brutal, and quickly stepped forward to shoo Bixby away. Before she could reach him, the reiver lifted the animal into his arms and scratched at the place Bixby liked best, right between his ears.
Very well. She would leave the rat-lover to the rat.
Marin put an arm around her sister’s shoulders to gently indicate they should follow. A splash of red on the skirt of Cat's pink cotehardie caught Marin's eye.
“Is that blood?” Marin pulled at Cat’s gown, fanning it out to reveal the spot. “Are you hurt?”
The reiver stopped and looked back at them.
“It's Eversham's blood.” Cat's lower lip trembled, but she bit it and held back the tears swimming in her large blue eyes. “He came out with me to ensure I stayed safe.” She stared down at the blood on her skirt. “He's…he's…” She sucked in a hard breath and her body began to shake.
Marin brushed Cat's hair from her pretty face. As often as she’d wished Cat's incessant chatter would cease, she realized now that was far preferable to seeing her younger sister rendered mute by fear and sorrow.
“Marin, it was my fault,” Cat whimpered.
“Aye, it was,” the reiver said.
Marin shot him a dark look. “Don’t listen to him.”
“Nay, it was my fault.” Cat shook her head miserably. “It was so lovely outside and I wanted to see if there were more of those yellow flowers Ella loves on the other side of the hill.” Cat turned her luminous gaze on Marin. “You said it was fine so long as I brought a soldier.”
“Then it was yer fault.” The reiver looked to Marin. “Marin.” He said her name as though he were testing it out, and Marin didn't like it anymore than she liked the implication of wrong-doing on her part.
“Lady Marin.” In truth, she did not remember allowing Catriona to go outside. She recalled dealing with the ledger of the accounts she’d gone over with the steward; then there had been the inventory of the larder.
Ah, yes. There it was in her memory–Catriona spinning about the room with a little song and asking if she might pick flowers for Ella. Marin had half-heard the silly request and flippantly agreed so long as she took a soldier to attend her.
In truth, she merely wanted Cat out of the room so she might finish the growing pile of work in peace, before one of their other three sisters came to ask for something.
And now Eversham was dead and their impenetrable home breached.
The reiver continued toward the castle, nonplussed, with Bixby contentedly curled in his arms.
Marin gently rubbed Catriona's slender back. “There now, you needn't blame yourself. It is not your fault.”
And it wasn't at all her fault. Nay, the danger hovering over them all, threatening violence and fear and death–it was entirely Marin’s fault.
Bran Davidson strode into the keep like he owned it. And he did, at least for now. He lowered the black cat to the ground where it continued to follow him, trotting at his feet.
“Drake, see to the men,” he said to his most trusted reiver at his right.
The young man had joined Bran three years back when he was barely a lad and had been invaluable ever since.
He never questioned his tasks and was always willing to do anything to earn his keep, as he had a mother and several sisters back home that he supported.
For the first time since Bran had known Drake, the young man paused.
He regarded the figures of the sisters behind them, the older one with her arm around the younger, and a muscle clenched in his jaw.
Drake didn’t like this any more than Bran did.
But he knew what he’d agreed to. The same as Bran. And he too knew what was at stake.
Finally, Drake gave an obliging nod and disappeared to follow orders.
Bran gave his own final glance back at the ladies.
Catriona who had bowed into her sister’s embrace, and the bonny Marin.
And damn, but she was so bonny. Only a blind man would not have noticed her angelic beauty with her pale blonde hair and wide blue eyes.
Even with the barely suppressed rage she afforded him, she was lovely.
Guilt stabbed at him for having used the younger girl to gain entrance into the castle. But with the walls so damn high and well built, it had been his only option. He’d taken considerable care to ensure the girl wasn’t hurt.
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.