Chapter 4
Marin pulled free from Bran's grip, out of danger. He clutched his face with his hands where she'd injured him.
He loosed a string of curses, but she was not done with him yet. She swooped down to reclaim the dagger, then swept her leg toward his, knocking his feet out from underneath him. He crashed to the ground with an “Oof!”.
Marin would not hesitate this time. The man had to die. It was the only way to keep everyone else safe.
She fell on top of him, her legs spread over his hips to keep him pinned in place. His body was solid beneath her, and his panting breath made every sinewy muscle in his torso show against his skin.
His manhood still rose hard with lust between her legs where she straddled him.
Even in such a dire circumstance, lust teased the back of her mind, begging her to rub the length of her body against his.
She shoved aside all the innate yearnings.
She drew the dagger up and thrust it down with all the strength she possessed.
Bran brought his arm across his body and pushed her blow off course. A thin line of blood arched over his chest. Merely a scratch. Marin tried to jerk her arm up once more, but Bran had his fingers locked around her wrist in a powerful grip.
“Drop the blade, Marin.” He spoke in a low voice, not unlike the one he used when they were so intimate only minutes ago.
She didn't need a dagger to kill him. She did as she was asked and twisted her arm free from his grip. Using all of her body weight, she shoved her elbow toward his throat. Again, he shoved her assault aside, his movement far defter than a man of his size would usually possess.
He locked her elbow in his vise-like hold and rolled them both over.
His weight atop her was considerable, certainly enough to keep her in place.
He had his hands atop hers, so she couldn’t defend herself, his legs spread over hers in an effort to still her kicking.
She was completely pinned into place with his hips resting between her legs, the column of his arousal quite obvious.
This time the connection between them sent a jolt of fear through her. She had lost her power. Women in such situations could be easily raped.
Exactly like what had happened to her mother. Marin dragged in a harsh breath, but it did not quell the rise of panic.
“Don’t,” she gasped. “Please.”
Bran’s grip on her loosened immediately, though not enough for her to break away from his hold. “Marin.” He said her name gently and she realized he had been calling to her several times. “I willna hurt ye, lass, but I canna allow ye to try to kill me either.”
“What will you do with me?” She writhed under him, still desperate to be free. “What will you do to my people? My sisters?”
“I dinna intend anyone harm. I told ye that. But I will have to put ye in the dungeon.” He gritted his teeth. “Damn it, woman. Be still.”
“Afraid I will escape your hold and kill you?” she asked, trying to appear as though she’d recovered more than she had.
His expression relaxed with lust. “Ye're driving me to distraction as ye continue to grind yer heat against me.”
Mayhap it was his reassurance he would not hurt her, or the draw pulling her to him, but prickles of desire warmed through her center.
He was not like the man who had taken her mother, she knew that.
She was also old enough now to realize many men gave pleasure to their women, as this one obviously intended to do for her.
Still, she should not enjoy this so much. Rather than give in, she glared up at Bran. “If you put me in the dungeon, I will escape, and I will kill you. I do not know what you want with my home, but I cannot allow you to take it.”
He held her for a moment longer and Marin's skin tingled with incredible awareness. It wasn't the same as when she battled, but it was as primal. Lust.
A new sensation for certain, yet one she would not soon forget.
“If I let ye up, will ye fight me?” he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “Aye.”
He nodded. “As I thought.” He sighed and appeared regretful. “Ye're going to the dungeon whether I have to take ye, or my men have to drag ye, there. I'll give ye the option.”
“How kind.”
“Considering your intent to murder me, I think ye should appreciate my generosity.” He spoke slowly, as if he had limitless patience.
“You killed my soldier, held a child hostage, forced your way into my keep and declared it yours. You expect me to be gracious?”
“I expect yer love for them would extend to ye having a wee more care for yer person. Yer cooperation is better for the whole of yer household and ye know it.”
He was right, and it only served to make her seethe more. Bran slowly got to his feet. She remained where she lay, refraining from leaping to attack him. He extended his hand down to her, as cordial as any courtier. “My lady.”
She slapped her hand into his and curled her fingers around him with the force she’d use on a blade hilt. He drew her to her feet, ignoring her powerful grip.
Once he had her standing, he locked her arms behind her back. “I dinna want to do this.”
The room spun. “And yet you are.” She twisted and pain laced up her arm. She tried to keep from crying out, the sound squelched into something of a grunt.
“This will only hurt if ye move,” he cautioned. “If ye thrash, ye could break yer arm.”
His hold on her was strong and the heat of lust she'd experienced only moments before chilled into something cold and ugly. “You have no soul.”
“If I had no soul, ye’d be dead, as would yer sister the moment the portcullis opened.” Bran nudged Marin forward, forcing her to walk.
Frantic fear scrabbled through her. “Will you hurt them now?”
“I told ye I wouldna.” He detained her with only one hand, his grip still strong, and unlatched the door and pulled it open.
“And I’m to trust you? A reiver.” She glared at him over her shoulder.
He returned his second hand to restraining her and steered her forward. “It would appear ye dinna have a choice.”
Tears of helplessness blurred in her eyes. Some of Bran's men appeared in the halls as she was led through, their gazes bright with malicious curiosity. She hated the low-cut kirtle she wore now, and the way it left her vulnerable to the molestation of their leering stares.
She blinked rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. And then she saw them, the solemn faces of her sisters, bearing witness to her great failure. She had put them all at risk.
Of all her stricken sisters, it was little Leila who strode forward and stood in Bran's path. “Where are you taking her?” Piquette left Anice’s side to accompany Leila, his front paws squared so the bulk of his chest stood out menacingly.
“To the dungeon.” Bran steered Marin around her sister and Piquette. “And if ye try to stop me, little lass, ye'll join her.”
“Leila, no,” Marin cried. “Please. Leave it be.”
Leila's large eyes went luminous with unshed tears. “But I love you.”
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.”