Chapter 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 neat braid 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.”
“I'll no' take my chances.” He nodded to Anice. “Eat.”
She glowered at him. Marin gave a little laugh, as though this was all some silly thing and pulled the trencher toward her. She sliced off a piece with a knife from her belt, plucked it free with her fingers and slid it between her lips.
Bran swallowed. He was so bloody hungry that he would probably eat the food even if it was poisoned. Hell, he wanted to lick her fingers clean.
Marin chewed the small bite, then slid the trencher before him. She lifted his goblet and put it to her sensual mouth. He did not once take his eyes from her, watching as her slender throat squeezed in a swallow. His own throat burned, desperate for the flow of rich wine.
“Not poison.” She set the goblet in front of him. Her fingers slowly released the cup, the movement almost a caress. His blood went hot. A fine meal and a finer lass. All his baser needs would be sated tonight.
He let his gaze slide down her in appreciation, making the effort to keep from looking as desperately hungry as he truly was. And dear God, he was ravenous. “Thank ye.”
Her mouth lifted at the corner, coy and welcoming. His stomach gave a savage growl. He only hoped the din of the room was such that she hadn’t heard. Leila, however, grinned impishly up at him.
He raised his brows at her and waggled them. The grin widened.
Bran sliced a hunk of venison with his blade. Thick gravy dripped from the meat and his hand began to quiver with near desperation when he pulled it off his eating dagger.
These women had doubtless never gone a day without eating. Despite the bitter thought, he forced his movements to slow as he ate the first bite.
The morsel was tender, and his teeth sank through it without having to even chew. The herbs hit his tongue with more flavor than he'd ever tasted in his life, something pleasantly savory with a hint of earthiness. Exquisite.
He took a second bite and third, then noticed the sisters pointedly watching him. He popped a fourth into his mouth and regarded them as he chewed. Ire rankled him. He’d tried to follow all the rules of the table for the ladies and still his eating had somehow caused offense.