Chapter 14
Poisoning Bran would be such an easy solution.
A lightness filled Marin at how many problems his death would alleviate.
Her father would not need to fight for his home upon returning from battle, peace would be restored through the castle and Marin could remain unwed and free.
She gazed at the man lying abed, his face peaceful with sleep.
Her mind still echoed with the pained way he’d called out for Ena. Whoever the girl was, or had been, it was obvious she meant a great deal to him. Somehow, she imagined that affection was part of the reason he’d agreed to help her rescue her sisters.
He had risked his own life and the lives and loyalty of his men. Even after she had betrayed him, even after she had returned with the intent to kill him. He had protected her in battle, and he'd saved Leila from certain death.
She could not bring herself to give the order to have him poisoned, not when he had spared her from so much loss.
“Nay,” Marin answered Isla finally. She pulled in a breath for fortitude. If she were to keep him alive, she needed to uphold their agreement–not only marry him, but to put forth a credible performance that their union was one she wanted.
“He will live,” Marin said. “And once he has fully recovered, we will marry.”
“Marry?” Isla chuckled with incredulity, flashing her impossibly white teeth. It was whispered that they had been taken from the mouths of the dead. A distasteful rumor, but then there were many surrounding the aged healer.
“Aye.” Marin glanced once more to Bran’s sleeping form. He lay on his back with his hands folded peacefully over his flat stomach.
She needed to convince her people that their union was what she truly wanted. Otherwise the effort would be for naught.
The healer squinted with skepticism and she gave a little grunt. “Him?”
“Of course.” Marin was not doing well with this. “He is a much better man than he seems.” She almost winced at how bad her attempt sounded. “That is to say, he is…”
This was far more difficult than she had anticipated, but she must be more genuine. If she couldn't fool one old woman, how could she convince an entire castle?
She pulled her lower lip into her mouth and remembered his kiss, how his mouth had set her aflame.
What other good attributes had he that she could elaborate on?
“He is brave,” she said sincerely. “He saved my sisters and our soldiers. None of them would have returned had he not agreed to help. And he is a fierce warrior. I…care for him.” She stumbled over the last part, unable to say she loved him. Surely caring was sufficient.
Isla regarded Bran with consideration. “He's a fine-looking man, I'll give ye that. Wrought with hard muscle and easy on the eyes. Other bits of him are nay so bad either.” She winked. “Ye could do far worse than the likes of him for certes.”
Marin’s cheeks heated and she breathed a discreet sigh of relief.
The older woman patted Marin gently on the face. Her withered fingers were dry and held the clean scents of sage and meadowsweet. “Dinna ye fash, lass. I'll have yer man well enough to give ye a worthy wedding night, aye?” She issued forth a cackling laugh and shooed Marin from the room.
Marin said nothing as she was pushed out the door, grateful to be free of the awkward conversation.
Isla had been fooled, but Marin would need to improve on her earnest declarations of affection if she was going to sway the castle into believing she truly wished to marry Bran.
Part of that lie would involve visiting him daily while he recovered, sitting by him with care and affected fondness.
And so it was that Marin found herself going often between Leila’s bedside and Bran’s. Leila had healed quickly with the resiliency of youth and was sitting up within days of receiving her injuries, smiling and nodding as Cat chattered on about all Leila had missed.
And so it was that Marin remained at Bran’s sleeping form for hours on end in an effort to play the part of the doting betrothed.
The days were mind-numbingly dull. She found herself speaking to him as she stitched silk embroidery over a fine new gown she was making for Leila, or reading to him from one of the ornately decorated books from the solar.
She even took to going over accounts and replying to correspondence while in the confines of his room.
None of the missives received had been from her father as yet, though it was common for him to be unable to reply on his missions with the king.
Never had she been more grateful for his lack of communication.
Oftentimes, Bixby kept them both company from where he curled up along Bran's sleeping body and watched Marin as she read.
Her time was not all spent attending Bran as he slept, though it was the larger part of it.
She also helped feed him the drinking broth Nan sent up from the kitchens when he was awake, fortified with cattle bones and goose fat.
She saw to his medicine to ensure he took what was needed without fail, and she swept a cool cloth over his face before and after his meager meals.
Isla was there to do most of the other things he needed, things she insisted Marin not have to deal with, like bathing his body and seeing his clothing changed. Though in truth, Marin harbored a suspicion the older woman found much enjoyment in those tasks.
Regardless, it was in those respites where Marin found herself seeing to the wounded soldiers, all of whom were recovering well.
They had lost twenty-eight men in the attack.
More than half of their remaining force.
In truth, having Bran as Marin's husband would be beneficial in affording her more troops to stand guard.
As long as the reivers could remain loyal.
His man, Drake, came to visit Bran daily, despite his newfound wealth. A man without loyalty would have taken the treasure and never returned. Yet the man came every day with concern bright in his dark eyes.
Marin took care to visit with Bran’s men as well, to make certain they received proper treatment for their wounds and were fed well enough. She even went so far as to speak with Drake regularly to confirm the men had all they needed.
It was not until the fourth day that Marin found Bran sitting up in his bed, his gaze fixed on the fire in the hearth. She stopped short when she entered and held her book close to her chest. She had intended to read it aloud, not necessarily for his benefit, but to fill the gaps of empty silence.
His stare shifted mutely from the hearth to her and her heart gave an unexpected little squeeze. Bran was awake. Which meant soon she would have to make good on her vow and marry him.
Bran’s gaze lingered over Marin. She clutched a blue bejeweled book in her arms, the encrusted volume nearly large enough to cover her whole chest. Her purple gown had been trimmed in black fur and called to attention the dark smudges under her eyes.
“You're awake.” The sweet sound of her voice pulled at his memories, of the ebb and flow of her speaking to him as he lay in recovery.
There had been pieces of stories and the whisper of parchment pages turning. Other times there had been mention of tales from her youth with her sisters and her father and even some of her mother, all fractured through moments of sleep. And yet all had been told in her beautiful, soothing tone.
“Aye, I woke this morning.” Bran’s voice came out craggy from disuse.
She nodded and swept into the room as though she hadn't stalled in the entryway at all. “And are you feeling well?” She set aside her book and handed him a glass of ale, which he drank gratefully.
The cool liquid glided down his throat and eased the rasping dryness.
His body was in good enough repair, with the wounds not giving him much trouble.
Apparently, the arrow he’d thought had glanced off him had actually grazed the skin, and a slash at his side had left a wee bit of a mark.
Both were nothing more than pink scars now.
Even his head had finally stopped aching, which had brought about the clarity of his mind, and the memory of his family’s fate on that fateful night.
For during those blurry days of his recovery, when he had been worried after his family, they had been alive. At least, to him. Now, awake, he knew they were merely distorted memories. Ena lived, but she was not safe, while Mum and Gregor…
The realization plunged into his heart as sure as any dagger. He had lost them. Again.
“I'm well enough,” he answered simply. “I was told ye'd be by today. That ye’ve been by me every day.”
She approached his bed and turned abruptly to examine a neat row of bottles set along the back of his bedside table. “I wanted to be certain you were well.” Her fingers plucked at various bottles, unstopping them and plugging them up once more after a brief sniff.
No longer without his wits, he was well aware of what her options had been with him ill. He knew also how much easier her life would be with him conveniently absent. There had even been a dream somewhere in the fog of his memory of her being asked if she would like him dead.
“Why would ye check on me?” he asked.
She gave a surreptitious glance around the room, then leaned forward over the bed. Her unbound hair fell around her shoulders like a gilded cape and draped over the bed sheets, a mere inch from his hand. He wanted to lift his forefinger and stroke the silkiness of the cool golden strands.
“It's part of the facade,” she said levelly. “To safeguard the acceptance of our marriage.”
The delicate scent of her enveloped him like an embrace, reminding him of her soothing touches and tenderly spoken words.
“Ye're standing by yer word then?” He eyed her, half-expecting her to change her mind.
“As you held by yours.” She inclined her head graciously.
A knock sounded at the door and Marin pulled away. Bran feared it might be the healer, come to take Marin's place to see to his bathing and the changing of his clothing and the sheets. He waited in bed, unable to see the visitor from around the door, helpless.
Agitation rippled through his restless limbs. He'd been abed too long, treated as an invalid. He was trapped, cared for, like some silly bird in a cage, and it rankled him.
Marin returned with a tray in her hands and the door shut behind her. “I've asked the kitchen to bring you some bread to go with your broth.” She said it as though she thought he might be glad for the bowl of clear liquid.
“I could do with a hunk of venison and some ale,” he offered irritably.
She ignored him and sat on the chair beside the bed. He'd noticed it earlier and had wondered if that was where she'd bided her time with him. She held the bowl in her palms and gently blew at the steaming broth. The steady rise of steam broke in quivers that resumed between her breaths.
“I dinna need ye to care for me like a child.” He held out his hand for the soup. “Ye'll do anything for yer sisters, it would appear. Even feed me.”
“You certainly were easier to care for when you were sleeping.” She set the bowl into his waiting hand.
Bran put his lips to the bowl and drank the broth. It splashed over his tongue like molten lava. He swallowed fast and got the sting of it at the back of his throat for his efforts. His entire mouth was prickly and thick with the effects of the burn.
“Who is Ena?” she asked. “And Gregor?”
His heart caught and he lowered the bowl from his mouth. The broth churned in his stomach and soured. “Gregor is dead.” He stared down at the murky brown broth.
“And your mother?”
“Dead.
“Ena?”
“Alive. For now.” He lifted the bowl and drained the rest in one burning swallow before handing it back to Marin.
Marin took it from him. “Loss is by far the most painful of all wounds.”
Words spoken by one who understood. His renewed grief cut him to the quick. As sharp and poignant as it had been twenty years ago.
She set the bowl on the tray with a clink. “What happened?” she asked. Her voice was kind, the way it'd been when he was ill, when she'd cared for him.
She leaned on her knees. So wonderfully near. She focused her full attention on him. “Tell me what happened.”
Mayhap it was the comfort of her voice, or his addled state, or even the pressing guilt for having taken the castle in the first place, but he found himself ready to tell his story for the first time in his life.