Chapter 23
Marin let the remainder of the day slip by without giving any indication of what she knew. Though she'd tried to avoid Bran, she had encountered him several times. She'd suffered through it with congenial smiles and let him kiss her with his lying lips.
Initially she'd assumed he'd wanted Werrick Castle for himself, and that the worst of the ordeal had passed. But apparently it was only the beginning. Didn't Bran realize what he'd done? Didn't he care?
Kerr was a rapacious Warden, one determined to claim what he could for himself above all obligations of upholding the law. Marin had heard his name mentioned often by her father in association with lying. With murder.
Once Kerr had the castle, all her people would be slaughtered, her family ripped apart, her sisters no doubt sold into marriages with the enemy–if they were lucky. And when her father returned from Berwick, he would without a doubt be the first one to die.
Her heart pounded in her chest as though it meant to burst and her hand trembled where she clutched the hilt of the knife.
She would do it this time. She would kill Bran before he could destroy her and everything she loved.
An angry scream welled in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She couldn't get emotional. She couldn't do anything to jeopardize her revenge.
The door to their shared chamber opened soundlessly and his attending servant slipped out with a solemn expression. It was time.
Marin swept past the servant and into the massive chamber before locking herself in just as noiselessly as the servant had departed.
Sandalwood filled the warm air made humid by the wooden tub placed in front of the glowing hearth. The back of Bran's head faced her, an intentional placement by the servant. Marin's head spun with a dizzying anxiety.
This way would be quiet, easy. Even the mess would be contained. She crept closer, until she discerned the swell of his powerful shoulders rising above the water.
Only the night before, she’d clutched those shoulders in passion. The memory left her stomach churning with disgust.
Bran shifted in the water and the glassy surface rippled, leaving his reflection distorted and shattered.
“Have ye ever met someone who made ye question who ye are?” he asked suddenly.
Marin stopped, but her heart raced on and on. She couldn't answer for the servant, not when it was impossible to mask her voice to sound like that of a man. Instead she remained wordless, frozen in place, hoping he would leave off the question.
“Ach, ’tis an odd question.” Bran sighed. “I'm contemplative of late and I've got that wife of mine to blame for it.”
Marin's eyes narrowed with her ire. What did he possibly mean by such a statement?
“Water on my head, if you please.” He settled deeper into the tub. “I'd like my hair to be scrubbed.”
Marin closed the distance with a final step and put the knife to his throat. She had been prepared to dig it deep, to cut through the hardy fibers of the neck to ensure his life ended.
Except his strong hand captured hers and held her in place.
“Do ye think I wouldna detect my wife's own scent?” Bran didn't twist to look at her though his hand continued to restrain her. “Do ye think I dinna notice how ye averted yer gaze from mine throughout the day, or how my tub had been positioned?”
Marin yanked her captive hand with all her strength in an attempt to draw the blade back and into the vulnerable skin of his neck.
He growled and tightened his grip on her, thwarting her efforts.
In one fluid movement, he rose and turned toward her with water sluicing from his powerful body.
He twisted her wrist as he stood, and a sharp pain lanced up Marin's arm.
The knife dropped from her hand and splashed into the water, lost.
The agony in her wrist immediately abated. Water shone over Bran's unabashed nudity and dripped into the tub. The firelight was at his back and cast his face in an unreadable shadow.
“Ye said ye wouldna try to kill me again.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Marin, I trusted ye.”
“I trusted you too,” she spat out. She yanked the missive from her pocket and threw it at his chest.
He snatched it from the air as it fluttered downward. His body remained still. She strained her eyes into the shadows over his face but couldn't make out his expression. She hated that. The uncertainty of how he might answer the accusation.
Would he try to defend himself?
She stared into the wavering reflection of the fire atop the water. The knife was in there still, somewhere lying at the bottom. She couldn't read his face, but perhaps the missive was enough of a distraction to afford her the necessary time she needed.
Without hesitation, she plunged her hands into the water and skimmed the flat bottom with her fingertips in a frantic, blind search to reclaim the dagger.
Bran said her name, but she ignored him. The water was too dark, and her heart was pounding too hard.
She had to find it. She had to kill him.
All of this had to stop.
Strong hands closed around her arms, restraining her. The man who had lied to her, the man who would see them all condemned, the man she had found herself beginning to love.
The pain of his betrayal slashed through her. She jerked her hands free with incredible strength. He reached for her once more and she lashed out with her fist.
He avoided her blow. “Listen to me, woman.”
Her chest and arms were nearly submerged in her desperation. Water splashed on her face and the sandalwood scent she once found so pleasing sputtered from her lips and clung in her throat.
Where was the blade?
Bran caught her arm once more, his grip gentle despite the firmness. “Damn it, woman. Listen to me.”
“You would have us all killed.”
“Ye dinna see the first page.”
Marin stopped floundering against his grasp.
His shoulders relaxed, but his hold on her remained strong. “There was a first page to the missive. The only one ye saw was the second page, the one I assumed was missing.”
“You're lying,” Marin said flatly.
She could make out his face at such close proximity and the flex of his jaw.
“I'll show it to ye, but I'm sure ye dinna trust me.”
Marin kept her face expressionless, masking the hurt and betrayal. For if he was lying, she would not let him live to witness the pain he'd caused her. He would not be worth such emotions. She shook her head slowly.
“It's in my gambeson on the chair.” His grip loosened. “I'd get it, but I'm sure ye'd think I'd spring out of here bare-arsed and attempt to ride to warn Kerr of yer knowledge.”
He released her, but she did not move. Was this a trap? It could be an opportunity to get the advantage and attack her.
“How could you do this to us, Bran?” Marin asked, her voice clogging with the emotion she had been trying to stifle.
He gestured to a nearby chair by the fire. “I’ll no’ say words ye willna believe. Go to my gambeson and get the missive.”
She backed away from him, leaving a dripping trail in her wake. With her gaze fixed on him, she carefully searched through his pockets until she found one with a bit of parchment lodged within. Her heart slammed as hard in her chest now as it had when she had been only moments from killing him.
With trembling fingers, she unfolded the blood-spattered note, following the same creases as its twin, the sheet she'd intercepted earlier that day.
There, in the same scrolling handwriting, was a plea from Bran to Kerr to see the Werrick household, the earl and his daughters all safe.
But that was not all, it was a demand for the safe release of Ena.
Marin lifted her head and stared at Bran. “They have Ena?”
Bran’s jaw flexed and he looked away, the way hardened men did when in pain.
“Kerr tried to enlist my aid for the last several months, but I dinna work with rich men. They dinna care about people other than themselves.” Bitterness laced his tone.
“And so, when Ena married an Englishman from the English Middle March side, he arrested her for breaking the law.”
Marin sucked in a breath. “It’s punishable by death.”
Bran nodded.
“But no one enforces such a law,” Marin protested. “English and Scottish marry all the time.”
“True, except for the Wardens of the Marches who find a way to get what they want.” Bran shifted and the water in the tub spiraled out around him. “I deliver him Werrick Castle and he releases Ena.”
Marin’s thoughts whirled with this new development. Ena was all Bran had left of his family. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because ye’re protecting yer own sisters, Marin.
” He shook his head. “Would ye willingly sacrifice them to save mine? Would I be willing to sacrifice mine to save yers?” He ran a hand through his hair, the power of his arm flexing with the simple movement.
“It all would have been done if the battle at Berwick wouldna have happened. Now there’s no’ anything to do but wait. ”
Marin looked at the missive once more. “Ena.” The name slipped from her lips before she realized she was saying it. “Is she safe still?”
A hard look passed over Bran’s features. “She had better be.”
Marin set the missive onto the chair and tried to breathe around the heaviness in her chest. All this time, Bran had been trying to protect Ena.
He had even tried to use his holding of Werrick Castle to offer protection to Marin and her family, even if it meant possibly angering the man who held Ena.
Bran had been trying to save his sister, trying to save everyone at the castle, and Marin had been ready to kill him.
Bran remained in the tub and let the understanding sink into Marin. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
“I almost killed you,” she whispered.
“I would have stopped ye.”
“Bran–I…” She slowly approached him. “You risked angering Kerr by asking him to keep us safe.”
“Aye, because I wanted to ensure yer safety and those ye care about,” he answered honestly. “I never want ye to know the loss I have suffered.”
She gave a small whimper. “I tried to kill you. I don't deserve—”