Page 30 of Marin’s Promise

8

Bran had made several mistakes when he’d decided to take Werrick Castle. The first of which, obviously, had been assuring everyone they would not be hurt. The second had been underestimating Werrick’s five daughters, especially Marin.

In truth, he did not like leaving her in the dungeon, especially when he would much rather have her in his bed. But the dungeon served as a lesson for her attempts to murder him, and for being so obstinate.

It was a pity, though. He hadn't had a woman raise that kind of passion in him in some time. Perhaps ever. She was wild, unpredictable and exhilarating, like trying to contain lightning in his hand.

The lass was stubborn though, and strong, and sensual and powerful. And so damn beautiful. His cock echoed his words with a steady pulse of approval. Aye, he wanted her in a fierce way, to claim as his.

If only she were not so fixated on seeing him dead.

The rest of the day passed in relative calm with his men contented enough to maintain peace with the inhabitants of Werrick. He knew keeping the reivers from getting bored would be a difficult task, especially with the thrill of the capture complete. Their security had been established, food was plentiful, and every man had a clean, dry place to sleep. Their needs were met, and the excitement had passed.

The reivers were not bound to him by blood and were mercurial by nature, with little loyalty. How long could he maintain peace at Werrick?

The sun had set long before he finally made his way to his room. Attempting to see to affairs of the castle was an arduous task, one made doubly difficult without Marin’s assistance. The door to his room stood unguarded, the two reivers stationed there having abandoned their post.

Bran groaned. Their comfort had already begun to steer them from duty, and toward drink and revelry. He couldn't blame them. His own body raged for release in a way his fist couldn't allay. Not after having kissed Marin, not after feeling her body and tasting her passion.

The door to his room stood ajar, but he was unconcerned. With the bulk of the coin currently in the chest locked within the floor beneath William’s great desk, even if someone had entered his room, they'd find naught but the earl’s belongings.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open, strode in and froze. There in the semi-dark stood exactly the woman he'd been thinking of only moments before.

Marin.

He didn’t think of how she had gotten there, or why she was there, or even if this might be some nefarious ploy. Nay, his mind went blank and his prick went hard. Need. He needed her.

Marin was in his room and by God, he would have her.

Firelight shone behind her, putting her face in shadows, a face he knew so damn well. She’d removed her kirtle and wore only a chemise, which had gone translucent against the backdrop of the flames and left her curvy body outlined in tantalizing detail. Only a scant layer of fine linen would lay between his hands and her warm, naked skin.

“Bran.” Her voice came out as a coquettish purr, in a way she'd never spoken to him before.

His feet continued forward, bringing him to her. Her fingers played lightly over the hollow of her collarbone. She peered up at him and he stopped short.

This woman was not Marin.

“You took a long time to come upstairs.” Anice gave a pretty pout. She drew a graceful hand down the length of her hair.

“I've been lonely.” Anice bit her lip and thrust her breasts forward. Her nipples were hard beneath the thin white fabric.

The memory of Marin’s pert little nubs straining the glossy silk of her dress rose in his mind.

Anice stepped toward him and boldly placed her hands on his hips. “Marin didn't satisfy you, did she?” Her hands slipped over his chest and then ran down his back as she pressed her body to him. “I could.”

She was ready and willing. The kind of woman Bran enjoyed. And yet, Marin had implied Anice was a maiden, as readily as she had indicated she herself was not. Bran had no mind for maidens.

And damn him, he could not clear Marin from his thoughts. The way she fought him left his blood boiling in a mix of frustration and rage and sexual need so that they all blended together in an indecipherable mix of searing passion.

“Get to bed,” Bran said.

Anice slipped her hands away from his body and turned toward his bed.

“Yer own,” he amended.

She regarded him with incredulity. “You don't want me?”

“I've had it with the lot of ye meddlesome daughters of the warden.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Ye rich lasses think ye own the world and every man in it.”