Page 28 of Marin’s Promise

“I’d like to ensure the castle will continue to be maintained properly.” In truth, Bran was unsure what he ought to ask. He was no landowner, no warden, no rich man with more wealth than any one person ought to possess. Regardless, he was certain it was important to stay privy to all activities within the castle.

Marin gave an irritated huff. “William is perfectly capable of handling Werrick without your guidance.”

The steward dipped his head graciously toward his mistress. “I can assure you that the entire household will be maintained accordingly.”

Bran fought the urge to clear his throat at the discomfort congealing in the room. Apparently, his words had been offensive. “I’d like to be informed of everything pertaining to the castle’s care.”

William’s gaze slid to Marin, as though to confirm Bran’s request. Marin’s fingers on the arms of her chair tensed. Her knuckles went white, but she gave a stiff nod.

Though Bran had taken the castle, Marin was still very much in charge. This would need to change.

“Of course,” William said with congenial kindness. “Will that be all?”

“Nay.” Bran gazed about the room where ledgers were stacked neatly on the shelves amid the colorful tapestries. The room was tidy and plain with a roaring fire crackling in the hearth.

It was all too easy to recall the humble cottage Bran had acquired for himself and Ena. The meager fire in the center of the home was never sufficient to heat the space completely, the task to keep it going nearly endless. This man had no idea what it was like to cut his own wood, haul it through snow and ice and wait for it to dry to finally be warm.

Marin didn’t either. None of them did, the spoiled lot of them.

“I want to see the coffers,” Bran said.

“Nay.” The confident sneer Marin curled in his direction told him everything he needed to know. She thought herself untouchable, infallible, in control.

So like the bloody rich.

Attempting to quell the residents’ fears with the assurance he would not bring anyone harm had been a poor decision. Bran had made himself appear weak and malleable–a misconception that would end now.

He surged to his feet. “Ye will give me what I’ve asked for and ye will stop fighting me every step of the way.”

She met his threat with bored disinterest.

Aye, he’d made a foolish mistake in his attempt to placate. He reached across the desk and grabbed William’s tunic before the man could sense danger. “Get me the coffers posthaste.”

“Leave, m-m-my l-l-l-lady,” William stuttered and squeezed his eyes into a hard blink. “I c-c-can handle h-h-him.”

Marin leapt out of her chair, outrage apparent on her face. “You said you would not hurt my people.”

“Ye said ye would cooperate.” Bran pulled his knife from his belt. “It would appear we’ve both lied.”

A flush crept up Marin’s slender neck and stained her cheeks. “I do not lie.”

“It would appear otherwise.” He turned his head toward the door and bellowed Drake’s name.

“Let him go,” Marin said in a low, calm voice. “William, get the coffer.”

Bran released his hold on William.

The steward looked between Marin and Bran. “Only i-i-if you p-p-promise n-n-not t-t-to h-h-h-h-h-h-h-” He stopped and drew in a long breath before letting it exhale. “Only if you p-promise not to hurt Lady Marin,” he said with careful concentration.

Bran nodded. But though he put forth an uncaring demeanor, his gut twisted with self-revulsion. He’d known a lad in his youth who had been plagued by a stammer, an affliction other children had teased and tormented him about with pointed cruelty. Though it had earned Bran their scorn as well, he had shielded the boy and found in him a trustworthy and loyal companion. Duncan had been his name. He’d died in the attack that had killed Bran’s mother and older brother, but Bran had never forgotten him.

Attacking Werrick’s steward now made Bran as low as the boys who had teased poor Duncan, and it cut deeply into his soul.

The steward bent toward the floor with his eyes still locked on Bran to ensure he kept his promise. A jangle of keys sounded, followed by the click of an unlatching lock. William hefted a box of obvious weight onto the table. The dark, polished wood trunk was the size of a man’s head and had a heavy iron lock at its front. William turned a key in that one as well and Bran drew the cover back.

Blue velvet lined the inside and cradled a wealth of more coins than Bran had seen collectively in the entirety of his life. Coin enough to feed him and his troops for a considerable amount of time, or to see to Drake’s sisters and widowed mother for years to come, or enough that his own mother might not have had to work so hard to give them a life that was barely above starvation.

If he’d had coin like this in his youth, his world would have been so, so drastically different. And no doubt, so too would he. To have had food enough, safety enough. His mother and brother would still be alive, and Ena would never have been used in a manner that would have caused him to turn against his own morals.