Chapter 13
Marin ran through the halls of the castle to where Leila shared chambers with the other three sisters. Bran's men did not stop her. In fact, many of his men had left the castle after seeing him in such an injured state.
Bran was alive from what she’d heard, but his head wound had left him confused and disoriented. Marin had ordered him sent to the healer and would check on him later. But first she had to see to Leila, to know she was safe.
Marin entered the room and found Anice standing over where Leila's small form lay in bed with Piquette on the floor by the foot of the bed. Anice looked up, tears bright in her eyes.
“How is she?” Marin asked, even as she made her own assessment of their youngest sister's pale face.
“Fortunate.” Anice spun the delicate ruby ring on her finger. Their mother had given it to her for her namesake day before the castle had been taken. It served to remind those who could remember of better times.
“The arrow stuck fast into a rib, and the other in her arm, and will cause some discomfort.” Anice’s voice choked off. She swallowed and continued. “Isla says Leila will need several days of rest but will otherwise be fine.”
Marin's throat went tight with the threat of tears. She settled her hand on Leila's small cheek. The littlest of her sisters did not register the caress, but the warmth of her skin against Marin's palm was sufficient reassurance.
“Isla gave her a tea to help her sleep,” Anice said.
Marin nodded, unable to break her gaze from Leila's precious face. Their healer had extraordinary skills, and never was Marin more grateful for those skills than now.
Leila’s long dark lashes fanned down over pale cheeks. She had the pert nose of their mother and her deep blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. Marin's mind flinched away from any further thoughts of Leila's appearance, the way all the sisters did in avoidance of such thoughts.
“She saw my death.” Anice's whisper was threaded with anguish. “She said she knew if she did not block those arrows, I would have died.” Piquette issued forth a whine and shifted on the floor, as if understanding his mistress’ words.
Marin glanced up at Anice in time to see the tears run down her cheeks.
“She thought to sacrifice herself to save me.” Anice's voice broke on a sob. Piquette leapt to his feet and was immediately at her side, his great muzzle bumping into her palm.
Marin opened her arms and Anice ran to her with the large dog in tow, the way she had done so often after their mother died. Anice tucked her face into Marin's shoulder and her back jerked with the force of her sobs.
Marin offered soothing shushes and rubbed small circles over her sister’s back until the worst of her weeping had ceased. All the while, Piquette wriggled his tail nervously and pressed his massive body against the two of them, almost knocking them over in his clumsy attempt to comfort.
In truth, it was hardest to console in times such as these, when Marin's own heart was breaking.
Little Leila's near-sacrifice had been so altruistic, one of incredible generosity and love.
And yet they had almost lost her. For a child of only ten, she was selfless when it came to those she loved—mayhap to a fault.
“Leila will be fine,” Marin said resolutely, as much for herself as for Anice. “And you are alive, my beautiful sister.”
Anice pulled away from Marin and wiped at her red-rimmed eyes. Even after having cried, Anice was still lovely.
“Marin, I was so scared.” She shook her head. “If Bran and his reivers had not arrived, I do not think…” She sucked in a pained breath and did not finish the sentence they both knew the answer to. “Why did Bran come? Are his hostages worth so much? And where had you gone?”
Marin's heart sank low into her belly. “I'd gone to kill him. I intended to secure our castle into our possession without risking anyone else. When I found out the Grahams had Mabrick, I asked him for help.” She tried to keep her head lifted, to stand by her decision made in a moment of desperation. For soon she would be honoring her vow.
“And he did?” Anice ran her fingers through Piquette’s hair. “Why?”
“I promised to marry him.”
Anice’s eyes went wide. “You did what?” She spoke too sharply, and Leila stirred on the bed. “Marin, say it isn’t so,” she said in a whisper.
“He needs the cooperation of the castle to hold it. I promised to marry him, and to convince the people to allow him to stay in peace without trying to kill him. He feels he has always been at the mercy of rich men.” She hesitated. “I also had to vow to cease my attempts to kill him.”
“What of Papa?” Anice put her hand over her mouth. “Will he be barred from entering his own home?”
Marin's eyes prickled with wet heat and she knew tears would soon be upon her once more. It was true. After all her father had taught her, after everything he'd entrusted her with, she had completely, ultimately and horrendously failed.
“If Bran and his men hadn't come, you would all be dead.” Marin drew in a shaking breath. “I could not lose all of you.”
“Oh, Marin.” Anice gazed at her with such sadness, it cut into the quick of Marin’s heart. “You gave up everything.”
Though they hadn’t been meant to be cruel, Anice’s words hit Marin like a slap.
The angry emotion thickened into a knot in Marin's throat. At her helplessness, at her choice, at her perceived loss carved so evidently on Anice’s face. But Marin refused to allow her sister to know how much the statement hurt.
Marin had to appear strong, the way she always did, especially when they had already experienced so much sorrow and strife.
Piquette nudged his cold nose against Marin’s palm, a mute offering of comfort that nearly undid her control.
“I will be back to check on Leila later.” Marin made her way to the door to keep Anice from seeing any of her hurt.
“I will remain by her side.” Anice’s vow of loyalty plunged the dagger of agony deeper into Marin’s soul. After all, it was Marin’s fault Leila had been wounded. It ought to be Marin who remained in vigil.
She closed her eyes and a hot tear rolled down her cheek.
There was nothing she wanted to do more than stay in this room she had shared with her sisters in the years after their mother’s death, with its walls painted with red and gold whorls, and various dressing tables.
She wanted to curl against Leila on the bed as she'd done when they were children, to watch the rise and fall of her breathing, to be perpetually reassured Leila would live.
But as mistress and master of the castle, Marin had too many obligations to handle. She had soldiers to see to, lives lost to pray over, and a man to tend to–a man who would soon become her husband if he lived.
Nay, she could not linger. She had to endure the emotional torment of her decisions, even when she was so close to breaking.
Bran wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them more tightly to his stomach.
The men shouted and threw a chair across the room, where it clattered against the wall of their simple home.
The men were angry; even Bran could see that through the cracked door in the cabinet.
Their faces were red and snarling beneath the limp chainmail coifs drawn over their heads.
One of them stalked over to the table.
Bran's heart nearly beat out from his chest.
Ena was under that table.
She put her hands over her head and shrunk down, as if she might be able to make herself blend into the floor below. Bran scrunched lower in his own hiding place.
They couldn't find her. They couldn't—
The man threw the table on its side and Ena screamed. A long, high pitched note that pierced Bran's soul.
She ran, but the man caught her by the hair and jerked her back. Mum came out from where she was hiding behind a small trunk, her hair wild and her eyes wide with fear, with Gregor leaping in front of her.
Gregor, the brave elder brother with their father’s sword in his hand, though it was nearly as tall as he.
“No' my child,” Mum cried. “Take me but leave my child.”
The man gave a snarling grin in reply and drew back his blade.
The sharp, wet scent of brewing herbs pulled at Bran. Jars clinked together and the subtle pop and hiss of a fire sounded in the background. Beneath him was the downy thickness of a feather bed, and smooth fine linens. Despite the luxuries of heat and bedding, his body was in hell.
His head thundered with agony. He shifted slightly and the room dipped into a dizzying spin.
“That's enough out of ye.” An older woman's voice spoke over him. “Drink this. It'll ease the need to purge yerself again.”
Again? Had he been ill?
“How is he?” the voice was a new one, feminine and familiar. Marin.
“He isna doing well, my lady,” the healer replied.
“I'll give that to him.” Marin's voice was closer now.
He opened his eyes and the brilliance of the firelight seared into his skull. He winced back.
“You need to drink this,” Marin said. The bed shifted slightly on his right and he knew she settled herself beside him. The clean scent of lavender drifted toward him like a cooling balm. He breathed it in and some of the tension drained from his stiff muscles.
The whoosh of a breath exhaling sounded several times. He cracked an eye open and looked up to find Marin next to him, gently blowing onto a steaming mug of tea.
“Come now.” She eased a hand behind him and helped him sit forward.
His side pinched at the simple action and dizziness caught him in a swirling grip. He grunted, unable to even warn her he might retch.
Marin's hand was firm behind him. “Lean against me, Bran. I am stronger than I look.”
“I know,” he ground out.
“At least you haven’t fully lost your senses.” There was a smile in her voice, and it was as beautiful as she.
A cup pressed to his mouth.
“Drink,” she said. “It should not be too hot.”
Obediently, he opened his lips and the liquid poured into his mouth. As promised, the temperature was comfortable. Warm and appeasing on his dry throat. It quelled a ragged thirst he did not know he possessed, and he drank it until there was naught left.
Marin settled him back against the bed, and her fingers swept over his brow. A pleasant, heated glow followed the graze of her skin over his. He wanted to turn into her touch, to encourage more.
The bed shifted again, and the welcome presence of her body left his side. He wanted her back beside him. He craved her gentle voice as much as he did more of her delicate caresses.
The pull of sleep grew stronger. It wrapped around him in a cradled embrace and dragged him toward the temptation of oblivion. And yet the vestiges of his nightmare hovered at the edge of consciousness, ragged and raw. Ena.
Ena.
“Ena.” He spoke without meaning to.
Marin was at his side once more, her delicate hand set atop his. “She is well. The arrow missed her heart. She is resting now.”
“My lady, do ye speak of Leila?” The healer's voice sounded distant.
He'd begun to relax at Marin's words, but the healer jarred him in his confusion.
There was a pause, then Marin continued. “Ena is well, Bran. She is abed resting but will heal.” Something cool stroked over his face, and her perfume of lavender water washed over him as surely as did the need to sleep.
“Rest,” she breathed in a whisper.
The tension drained from his body as if by magic and he floated toward the deep darkness of sleep with the knowledge Ena was safe.
“Will he live?” Marin spoke low in a volume meant to not be heard by others.
Bran roused back to awareness once more, his ears straining around the thickness of his jumbled thoughts.
“Aye, he'll live.” The healer's voice was just as quiet. “He's got a few cuts. I wager he's had worse by the look of him. But it's the knock to the head that's got him addled. He'll be well upon the morrow when he's had a fine bit of sleep.”
There was a click of something glass set atop a hard surface, followed by silence.
He'd almost thought the conversation was done when the healer spoke again, so discreetly he wouldn't have heard her had he not been straining. “He doesna have to recover, my lady.” The simple words were heavy with a suffocating implication.
Marin did not respond. Her lack of a reply pressed upon him, crushing at his rapidly beating heart.
“I could poison him,” the healer whispered. “A mix of herbs and no one would be the wiser.”
“You mean to say,” Marin said slowly. “You would kill him?”
“Aye.”
Marin's answer did not come readily, and with that great hesitation, Bran was sure he knew her choice.