Chapter 4 #2
She hissed an exasperated sigh and hefted a great pot onto the metal hook over the fire. “You won’t get an answer from me.” She turned and wiped her hands on the white apron she wore over her brown kirtle.
“Ye may verra well be the only one in the castle no' afraid of me.” Bran narrowed his eyes, intentionally offering her one of his fiercest looks, one known to make men cower in battle.
The cook, however, gave a hoot of laughter.
“Aren’t you a cocky one?” She scoffed. “No man would bother taking this body by force and if you kill me, you'll save me from a life of my back hurting like the very devil every day.” She waved her hands to get him to leave.
“You want information, bring Lady Marin with you.”
A black cat leapt onto the table beside him and stroked itself against his hand. The same one he’d seen the prior day. It appeared the little beast remembered him.
The cook smirked. “’Tis fitting Bixby likes you so.”
“Why is that?” Bran stroked a hand over the cat’s head.
“He always knows where to find the rats.” With that, she turned and lifted a second kettle to the fire with a hearty grunt.
Bran strode from the kitchens with a muttered curse.
Bixby trotted behind him, following as he made his rounds to the various servants.
The Master of the Horse who had been compliant enough the prior day would give Bran no information on the horses, their supply of food, or even the names of the stable lads.
The chatelaine would not speak with him regarding any of the household upkeep.
And the steward offered a stuttered refusal over reviewing any of the earl’s accounts with Bran.
They all declined to offer their assistance without Lady Marin present.
Frustrated and greatly begrudging his decision to keep the castle peaceful until reinforcement arrived, Bran made his way to the solar.
Sunlight flowed in through the wide display of clear glass and filled the room with a comfortable golden heat.
It was soundless within, away from the noise and bustle of the greater part of the castle.
Motes of dust floated lazily in the still air.
It was unlike anywhere he’d ever been; it was peaceful.
So, this was how the rich lived. With their painted walls and the safety behind their fortified stone, with good food served to them every day and bits of heaven shining down upon them.
He wanted to turn away in disgust from the gross display of wealth, evident in the shelves of books and fine furnishings.
And yet the draw was too much, even for him.
Indulging, he sank into the chair behind the desk and savored the stillness.
Bixby hopped soundlessly onto the desk and blinked wide green eyes at him. The cat nudged closer. Bran stretched a hand out and stroked the glossy black fur until Bixby's eyes began to slowly drift closed and Bran’s fingertips vibrated with a rhythmic purring.
Exhaustion pulled at Bran as well. A quick bit of slumber promised him more rest than the previous night had allotted.
The earl's bed had been a luxury. The feather-stuffed mattress, thick and downy, had cradled his body like a cloud, and the sheets had been of the best linen, cool and welcoming. None of it had mattered. Regardless of where he slept or how fine the bed, he would always be followed by his ghosts.
He scrubbed a hand over his beard and stretched back to rouse himself to wakefulness.
Combing over the accounts would take extensive concentration without the aid of the bloody steward but was necessary to uncover anything that might be of import before Bran vacated the castle upon the reinforcements’ arrival.
That, and letting the castle fall apart would not bode well for the inhabitants.
The last thing he needed was Werrick’s people rallying against him.
He pulled open a drawer and encountered several lengths of parchment. Bixby's ears flicked with irritation. Bran moved the contents about carefully so as not to make too much noise. He shook his head at his own efforts, all for the sake of a cat.
Ridiculous.
From what Bran could gather, the parchment was little more than a reply to a friend with nothing of note.
He drew a book from beneath and flipped through the fragile pages.
Numbers filled either side with words that made no sense.
He set it on the desk splayed open, and pushed the drawer closed.
This might be a fruitless task. Bran hesitated before opening the second drawer.
There was great unease in going through another man's belongings.
It seemed strange that in taking the earl's castle, eating his food, drinking his wine, kissing his daughter and sleeping in his bed had not struck Bran with any level of invasion until the moment he opened personal correspondence to read.
“I do not believe Marin would like you being in here.” Ella entered the solar without asking permission. A length of green silk had been sewn to the bottom of her pink cotehardie, an alternative to purchasing a new gown when the old had become too short or its hem too worn.
Bran could only imagine the expense of clothing five daughters. How was it the earl hadn't married any of them off?
“In fact, I know she would not like it.” Ella approached the desk and rubbed a hand over Bixby's back. “I've never seen him take to a man. He usually favors rats.”
“So I've been told,” Bran muttered.
Ella glanced to where his hand hovered over the knob of the drawer.
“I think you're a good man despite what you've done.” Catriona appeared from behind her sister and watched him carefully with her large blue eyes, as if expecting him to contradict her.
“You didn't hurt me,” she went on. “I think you only killed Eversham because he would never…” She swallowed hard. “He would have never allowed you to take me. It didn't appear you hurt Marin either. Mayhap…” she pursed her lips. “Mayhap you might let her go?”
“Can I get either of ye to help me with the cook, or the steward? Hell, even the chatelaine?” Bran asked, ignoring the request. “No one will speak with me.”
“Marin would be the only one they will speak with.” Catriona offered a tentative smile. “If you let her free—”
“Catriona! Ella!” A voice hissed from the hallways, and Anice swept into the room. Piquette was at her side, of course, and both cast Bran a cold look.
“This man is not worth our time.” Anice stared at him with the impact of all the scorn a beautiful woman could muster. “Especially considering how he has handled Marin.”
Ella turned contemptuously to him. “He is indeed a vile cur.”
Bran lifted a brow. Vile cur seemed a bit strong. “The lass did try to kill me.” His bland defense fell on deaf ears, however, for at that exact moment, Lady Ella gave a gasp of outrage and snatched up the book from the desk.
“You do not leave them open like this.” She fondly caressed the leather spine where a deep crease showed. “Do you not know how to handle books?”
Apparently, he did not. “I dinna realize there was a certain way.”
She stroked her book while Anice approached, her gaze going from him to the top of the desk where the cat snoozed in front of Bran. “How fitting Bixby should find you.”
“Aye, because he likes rats.” Bran rubbed a hand over the aching muscles of his neck and prayed for patience. God knew he was failing with these daughters of Werrick. “I'd ask ye if ye knew how I might get the servants to speak with me but assume ye'll tell me to speak with Marin.”
“Mayhap you ought to free Marin from imprisonment.” Anice put an arm around each sister and led them to the doorway. “Come, Piquette.”
The dog followed, but Ella glanced over her shoulder before being guided out. “Marin is the heart of Werrick Castle, in more ways than one.”
The heart of Werrick Castle. Bran bit back the bitter laugh. The situation was quickly becoming absurd. Not a damn thing could be done in the castle without Marin's blessing.
He pushed back from his seat. Bixby startled at the sound. If he needed to see Marin for the castle to function, then he would see Marin, but he'd be damned if he released her simply at the nagging of meddlesome women and obdurate servants.
He stalked through the castle, left with no choice but to talk with Marin.