Chapter 32
Bran was careful to lead his horse at a steady pace, quickly enough to get Marin to Werrick Castle where she would receive the best care, but slow enough that it wouldn't jar her any more than was necessary. He cradled her gingerly against him, minding her injured side.
His throat was tight with emotion and his chest ached as surely as if he'd been stabbed. In truth, getting a dagger in the heart would be more easily endured than the pain of witnessing Marin in such a state.
She had sucked in her breath when they'd gotten her on the horse and started on their journey, her lips pressed tight to suppress her tears. Some time back, her whimpers had ceased, and she lay silent and limp against him.
At first, he'd feared the worst, but after confirming she still breathed, he pressed onward. Now, at long last, the castle rose before them.
“Give her to me,” Drake said. “I will take her in.”
Bran ground his teeth. “Nay.” He swept his hand under her nose and gave a sigh of relief at the huff of air coming regularly from her nostrils. It was light, but it was breath. She was still alive.
His fear did not fully abate. Not when she was grievously injured, not when the reality of her survival was so perilous.
“Let me take her in,” Drake said again.
“Nay,” Bran snarled. He would sooner die than release his hold on Marin. It would be impossible to relinquish her to someone else and be ignorant to her fate. He had to be with her. He had to know.
“They'll kill ye, Bran.” Drake's tone was somber.
Bran gazed down at his wife and everything inside of him twisted in agony for her. “I know,” he said finally. “But I canna…” His words caught on the knot in his throat, croaking out before stopping short.
The odor of death came before the castle rose into view. Soldiers stood outside, gathering the bodies of the fallen and loading them onto carts. Bernard, visible in a green robe, moved his hand in the air in the sign of the cross.
They all stopped to watch Bran and Drake approach.
“Tell them,” Bran ground out.
Drake nodded sharply and rode on ahead. He returned moments later. “Ye are instructed to give her to me,” he said somberly.
Bran said nothing and continued to ride forward. An arrow soared toward him and sank harmlessly in the soil beside his horse. A warning shot.
Damn their warnings.
There was not another shot fired. This time, the portcullis opened to reveal Marin's sisters and her father. The earl's face went gray. “Marin.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “What have you done to my daughter?”
“I dinna know it was her.” The words choked out of Bran. “I saw a lass being attacked and went to aid her and it was…it was…” He couldn't say her name, it was too agonizingly awful to relive that moment he'd realized it was her.
His Marin. His beautiful wife with all her fierceness, her passion and vitality.
The earl's eyes filled with tears. “My daughter. Is she…” He clenched his fist and did not finish the question.
“She needs Isla,” Bran replied. Drake leapt from his horse and held Marin as Bran got down from his own horse.
Just in time too, for young Leila slipped to the ground like a puppet who'd lost its strings. Drake rushed forward, narrowly catching her in his arms before she could hit the cobblestones.
The earl stepped forward. “We will take my daughter. You may leave.” He glared at Bran. “You've done enough.”
“Like hell I will.” Bran cradled Marin in his arms. “Kill me if ye like, but I refuse to leave her side. I left once before, knowing she would be safe, and then I find her like this. I refuse to leave her side again.”
“Cease yer bickering.” Isla approached somewhere between a run and a walk, certainly at a faster pace than she'd surely moved in some time. “Bring her inside so I can have a look at her. I'll no' have the lass die while ye stand there arguing like merchants at market day.”
She leaned forward and peered at Marin. The lines on her crinkled face deepened. “Bring her.” She bade Bran follow with a crook of her gnarled finger, and he obeyed with haste.
All around them, the keep had gone still, every person riveted on the battered body of their beloved mistress.
Several made the sign of the cross as Bran passed by with her in his arms, pressed near his heart.
Many of the women wept openly, their eyes bright with tears.
Even several men averted their glossy gazes.
Isla led them to a small bedchamber with a single bed. “Set her there.” She nodded toward the thin mattress.
Bran did as he was told, taking care to move Marin as little as possible. He gingerly swept the hair from her face and draped the ruined dress over her bare leg.
“Dinna bother with that.” Isla appeared beside him with a pair of shears.
Bran shifted in front of Marin, ready to protect her.
“Easy, lad.” Isla wriggled the shears. “Ye're covering her, but I need to see her, aye?”
A hearty knock shattered the stillness of the room. “Let me in,” the earl's voice boomed.
“No' during this part, m'lord.” Isla's reply came calmly, and she swept her hand to the side, indicating Bran need move.
He did not. “I'm no' leaving.”
“Ye're here, are ye no'?” She lifted her brows and waved him away again.
This time he sidestepped out of her way. The older woman peered at him. “Dinna hover over me, or ye'll be joining her da outside.”
He edged back even further, lest he give in to the temptation to do exactly as she asked him not to.
Isla took the tattered edge of the once-fine gown in her withered fingers, put the shears to it and sliced into the fabric.
Watching Marin be bared in such a way held him riveted with fear, worry and the overwhelming need to hide her naked body from observation.
The healer pulled the fabric away from Marin's ribs and gave a low curse in Gaelic. Bran could stand the distance no more. He stepped forward and choked on a cry.
The entire left side of her ribs was a mass of violent, angry purples and wicked reds against her fair skin.
Isla ran her fingers along the swollen, bruised flesh and sighed.
“She has a few broken ribs for certes, and she's had quite a blow to the face.
I'll know more when I've looked her over more thoroughly.
I must move fast to ensure she does not wake.
‘Tis a blessing for the pain to have taken her to slumber.”
And move quickly she did. Her fingers shifted in a nimble exploration, skimming over Marin's naked skin, combing lightly over her scalp, assessing every intimate part of his wife. Bran's cheeks burned by the time Isla had finished and his hands ached from clenching them.
“She's got a knock at the back of her head as well.” She slid a glance in his direction. “She was not used.”
“I would love her even if she had been,” he stated.
“Aye, but at least now ye know any bairns ye may have are yers.” She shrugged. “It matters to most men. Be glad for her sake then. 'Tis a harrowing thing for a woman to live through.”
Bran nodded with as much understanding as he could. A woman's body was precious, sacred. He could only imagine the horror of such desecration to their intimate parts. His gut twisted, and he found he could not think further on it. Not now with such pain already on display.
“Can ye heal her?” he asked.
“I can heal anyone but the dead.” She considered Marin for a long moment. “She will need to be kept still lest her broken ribs pierce her lungs.”
“If that happens?” Bran pressed.
Isla frowned. “She dies.”
“She willna move,” Bran vowed.
The aging healer patted his back. “This is why ye were allowed in.” She glanced to the door. “Her da will no' be so easy to tell.”
“I would do anything to save her,” Bran swore. “Even lay down my life if need be.”
Isla smiled sadly up at him. “Ye may have already done exactly that.”
“I never saw it. I never saw it. I never saw it.”
The fragile feminine voice chanted the words, each phrase ticking through Marin's conscious like drips of water from a leaking roof. “I never saw. Forgive me, Marin. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”
A harsh sob came from beside Marin.
Pain effused her body. Pain everywhere. It was agony to even breathe.
She opened her eyes. That didn't hurt. Good. She slid her gaze toward the ragged weeping. A glossy dark head lay against the mattress of the bed.
“Forgive me,” Leila said in a choked voice. “I never saw the attack, or I wouldn't…I couldn't…”
Marin drew a breath to speak. Fire lashed through her lungs and the air she meant to draw broke off in a cough. Her chest wheezed at the intensity of the pain and she tried desperately to inhale as minimally as was possible.
“Marin.” Leila stared at her in bewilderment. The tip of her nose was red and shiny, and her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. A tear trailed down her cheek. “I never saw the attack.” She shook her head. “I never saw it. If I had, I never would have freed you.”
Her hand grasped Marin's, ice cold and clammy. “I almost killed you by doing so. Please, please forgive me.”
Marin shook her head, confused. “What attack?”
Her blood chilled as a memory came to surface. The men. Too many of them. They overwhelmed her after the strike to her head. Then Bran was there, his voice soothing and his touch gentle. Her heart ached with more intensity than even her lungs. “Bran. Where is he?”
“Ye're da will bring him to ye. Leila, get the earl.” Isla approached the bed. “We've been keeping ye resting so ye'll heal.”
“I must see Bran.” Marin tried to sit up and a lightning bolt of pain streaked through her, freezing her in place.
“Ye're no’ well enough to move around, lass.” Isla put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It hurts like fire to breathe, aye?”
Marin nodded, grateful that the healer understood her discomfort. Understanding meant there might be relief.