Page 17 of Marin’s Promise

“Are ye the cook?” He asked the massive, flour-dusted bottom.

A woman spun around, her face flushed rosy from heat and hard work, her hair wiry with strands of brassy gray jutting out in all directions from under her simple cap.

She propped a meaty fist on her hip and regarded him with an assessing gaze. “Are you the marauder who threatened to kill our wee Catriona?” Before she could answer, she clicked her tongue and turned away from him. “For shame.”

“I want an inventory of yer food stores,” he said.

“You're not the mistress of the keep.”

“Nay, but I am its head currently.”

She hissed an exasperated sigh and hefted a great pot onto the metal hook over the fire. “You won’t get an answer from me.” She turned and wiped her hands on the white apron she wore over her brown kirtle.

“Ye may verra well be the only one in the castle no' afraid of me.” Bran narrowed his eyes, intentionally offering her one of his fiercest looks, one known to make men cower in battle.

The cook, however, gave a hoot of laughter. “Aren’t you a cocky one?” She scoffed. “No man would bother taking this body by force and if you kill me, you'll save me from a life of my back hurting like the very devil every day.” She waved her hands to get him to leave. “You want information, bring Lady Marin with you.”

A black cat leapt onto the table beside him and stroked itself against his hand. The same one he’d seen the prior day. It appeared the little beast remembered him.

The cook smirked. “’Tis fitting Bixby likes you so.”

“Why is that?” Bran stroked a hand over the cat’s head.

“He always knows where to find the rats.” With that, she turned and lifted a second kettle to the fire with a hearty grunt.

Bran strode from the kitchens with a muttered curse. Bixby trotted behind him, following as he made his rounds to the various servants. The Master of the Horse who had been compliant enough the prior day would give Bran no information on the horses, their supply of food, or even the names of the stable lads. The chatelaine would not speak with him regarding any of the household upkeep. And the steward offered a stuttered refusal over reviewing any of the earl’s accounts with Bran.

They all declined to offer their assistance without Lady Marin present.

Frustrated and greatly begrudging his decision to keep the castle peaceful until reinforcement arrived, Bran made his way to the solar. Sunlight flowed in through the wide display of clear glass and filled the room with a comfortable golden heat. It was soundless within, away from the noise and bustle of the greater part of the castle. Motes of dust floated lazily in the still air. It was unlike anywhere he’d ever been; it was peaceful.

So, this was how the rich lived. With their painted walls and the safety behind their fortified stone, with good food served to them every day and bits of heaven shining down upon them. He wanted to turn away in disgust from the gross display of wealth, evident in the shelves of books and fine furnishing.

And yet the draw was too much, even for him.

Indulging, he sank into the chair behind the desk and savored the stillness.

Bixby hopped soundlessly onto the desk and blinked wide green eyes at him. The cat nudged closer. Bran stretched a hand out and stroked the glossy black fur until Bixby's eyes began to slowly drift closed and Bran’s fingertips vibrated with a rhythmic purring.

Exhaustion pulled at Bran as well. A quick bit of slumber promised him more rest than the previous night had allotted.

The earl's bed had been a luxury. The feather-stuffed mattress, thick and downy, had cradled his body like a cloud, and the sheets had been of the best linen, cool and welcoming. None of it had mattered. Regardless of where he slept or how fine the bed, he would always be followed by his ghosts.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard and stretched back to rouse himself to wakefulness. Combing over the accounts would take extensive concentration without the aid of the bloody steward but was necessary to uncover anything that might be of import before Bran vacated the castle upon the reinforcements’ arrival. That, and letting the castle fall apart would not bode well for the inhabitants. The last thing he needed was Werrick’s people rallying against him.

He pulled open a drawer and encountered several lengths of parchment. Bixby's ears flicked with irritation. Bran moved the contents about carefully so as not to make too much noise. He shook his head at his own efforts, all for the sake of a cat.

Ridiculous.

From what Bran could gather, the parchment was little more than a reply to a friend with nothing of note. He drew a book from beneath and flipped through the fragile pages. Numbers filled either side with words that made no sense. He set it on the desk splayed open, and pushed the drawer closed. This might be a fruitless task. Bran hesitated before opening the second drawer.

There was great unease in going through another man's belongings. It seemed strange that in taking the earl's castle, eating his food, drinking his wine, kissing his daughter and sleeping in his bed had not struck Bran with any level of invasion until the moment he opened personal correspondence to read.

“I do not believe Marin would like you being in here.” Ella entered the solar without asking permission. A length of green silk had been sewn to the bottom of her pink cotehardie, an alternative to purchasing a new gown when the old had become too short or its hem too worn.

Bran could only imagine the expense of clothing five daughters. How was it the earl hadn't married any of them off?

“In fact, I know she would not like it.” Ella approached the desk and rubbed a hand over Bixby's back. “I've never seen him take to a man. He usually favors rats.”