Chapter 16 #2
Drake gave a half-shrug, sufficing as all the answer Bran needed.
Never once did Drake have a bad thing to say about his mother or sisters.
His father had been an English knight who fell in love with Drake’s Scottish mother.
When Drake’s father died at an early age, the burden of his mother and sister fell on his shoulders, strapped to him by love and obligation, and yet he only spoke of the good in them.
In fact, when he did speak of them, his eyes would brighten, as though he appreciated bearing the weight.
“Should I even ask what the ladies are about this morn?” Bran lifted the doublet and found clean linen underclothes.
“They are…” Drake squinted into the distance, as if he might find the words he sought hovering there. “Preparing.”
“Preparing.” Bran dropped his towel and pulled the linen braies on, securing the belt about his waist. The fabric was of exceptional quality, like the bed sheets, and sat cool and luxurious against his still-damp skin.
Likewise, the shirt was of the same fine cloth, and caressed over his flesh as he put it on.
Perhaps he did not mind so much having the sisters of Werrick dress him.
“Do I wager to guess what their preparations entail?”
Drake's mouth twisted. “Flowers.”
Bran paused before sliding the wool hose over his braies. “Flowers.”
“Aye.” Drake lifted a shoulder in helpless question. “Bits of blue and white.” He nodded formally to the doublet on the bed. “To match, so I was told.”
Bran tied the hose to the belt. “I trust the ladies of the castle dinna go gather the flowers themselves.”
“I would never let them do so.” Drake's chest swelled and his expression grew grave with his earnestness.
Bran approached the reiver and eyed him suspiciously. “Have they got ye wrapped about those dainty fingers of theirs?”
Drake's gaze slid right. “Nay.”
“Mmm…” Bran turned from his most trusted soldier and picked up the doublet.
It was thick wool, yet unlined, as it was not necessary in the summer months.
Something at the base of the hem where the fabric would be folded against itself caught his eye.
He lifted it closer to examine it and found neat stitching noting M and B entwined together.
It was a simple gesture, but a kind one. While he hadn't anticipated himself being the marrying sort, and he’d never seen himself as a rich man, he found he was anticipating life as Marin’s husband. Certainly, he anticipated their wedding night. The thought heated his blood.
“There's something ye should know,” Drake said. “While I was gathering the flowers—”
“Ach, ye picked them then?” Bran shot a glance at Drake.
“Some of Graham's men were lingering nearby the castle.”
The playfulness fell from Bran's countenance. “How many?”
“We saw four. There were more of us than them, enough to send them back on their way.”
Bran slipped his arms into the doublet and fastened it at the waist with a leather belt. “For now.”
Drake nodded.
It wasn't good to have the Grahams sniffing about the castle. No doubt they were noting the defenses, planning ways around them, counting the men on guard. The same as Bran had done.
Damn. He knew interfering with the Grahams would make them a bitter enemy, especially when the bastards still spoke of their victory at Werrick Castle many years prior.
“How many of our men remain with us after the battle?” Bran asked.
“Sixty-four of ours and twenty-two of the original castle guards remain.”
Bran swallowed down his incredulity to keep Drake from seeing how disconcerting he found the dismal numbers.
Between death and desertion, their army was reduced to less than half of their forces.
A great number had apparently left upon seeing Bran so gravely wounded, assuming him dead and their plunder lost. A reiver's loyalty only ran as deep as the pockets paying them.
Mayhap Bran ought to send another missive to Kerr. He had not yet gotten a reply from his first one about the capture of Werrick Castle. Surely the Scottish Warden would understand the importance of a quick exchange.
“Is that all?” Bran asked.
Drake shook his head. There was a grim set to his mouth.
Dread wound an uncomfortable knot in Bran’s stomach. “What is it?”
“It would appear the war brewing between England and Scotland may finally be coming to a head. They will fight at Berwick.”
Bran cursed. “Kerr willna be coming any time soon.” He scrubbed a hand over his wet hair, reminding him he still needed to comb it. At least now he would be able to keep the castle despite Kerr’s delay. Marin’s offer to marry him was more convenient than she realized.
“Send scouts to Mabrick Castle to see what the Grahams may be planning,” Bran said after a long moment. “In the meantime, we shall hope the men assemble quickly for Berwick and the battle is quickly won.”
Drake glanced at him, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He said nothing as he fixed his gaze forward once more.
“What is it?” Bran dragged the comb through his wet hair.
“What will ye do when the earl comes back?” Drake asked. “And if Kerr comes first, will ye give him Werrick?”
“I’m a rich man with bargaining power after today.” Bran gave Drake a confident grin. But in truth, he wasn’t confident at all.
He had set down this path to simply take the castle and save Ena. It was a situation that he would need to work through as events came up. There was no better plan, and Bran had always been good at split-second decisions.
“Are ye ready to be my second?” He turned and lifted his brows.
Drake bowed. “It's an honor.”
Bran adjusted his doublet. “Then let's get me married.”