Page 42 of Marin’s Promise

Bran stared at the woman, this stranger who sought to take his sister. His body turned to protectively block Ena from the woman, to ensure his sister could not be taken from his arms. “I'll kill ye if ye touch her.”

She looked behind her, where the Graham soldiers had run. How long had passed since they had been there? Damn it, he could not keep his thoughts in one place.

“We may not have enough time.” Worry creased her brow, but she was still beautiful. Familiar?

Damn but he couldn't think.

“We must go now, and you can hardly stand.” She gestured to him and her eyes flashed.

Of course, he could stand. He hugged Ena more tightly to him. The blonde woman cursed and grabbed the padding of his gambeson and dragged him forward. His legs were weighted and awkward. He stumbled and caught himself, only to stumble once more.

“Anice, take Leila. Bran, come with me.” She spoke with authority, a leader.

Another woman who looked much like the one who gave the order snatched Ena out of his arms with a warning look in her eye. The air vibrated with danger and the stench of congealing blood hovered around him. It clogged his throat and nose and left his head spinning. The authoritative woman pushed at him to walk.

“If we don't get to the horses, we're dead.” She pulled at him, but his steps were clumsy and too slow to move.

His feet met the uneven surface of the dead, their stares vacant, their faces like cold marble chiseled into masks of horror. The odor of blood was so thick, it seemed to coat the back of his tongue with its coppery tang. His mouth filled with water and his stomach wrenched into his throat. The woman didn't stop tugging at him.

Marin.

The name slid into the swirling mess of his thoughts. “Marin.”

“Aye,” the woman confirmed. “And you're Bran, and that is Leila, not Ena.”

His gaze moved to the three blonde young women running ahead, one with a black-haired girl in her arms.

Ena.

His heart lurched and he quickened his pace. He had to get to her. He had to save her.

“Bran.” Marin's voice was gentle with something he didn't recognize, something he didn't like. Pity? “Bran, what ails you?”

“Where is Ena?” His words slurred together, his tongue too thick and uncooperative in his mouth.

Marin merely looked at him but did not answer.

His heart pounded faster. Where was Ena? Was she dead?

“Where is she?” He pulled his hand from Marin's.

By God, he could not lose Ena. She was all he had left.

Marin glanced behind him and the muscles at her neck tensed. “She's just ahead. Don’t you see her?”

Bran followed her gaze to where the dark-haired girl was being handed to a woman on horseback. Ena’s name choked in the back of his throat.

He ran forward then, as fast as his stubborn legs could take him, running with the urgency he'd suppressed before. His awareness waned and threatened to wink out, but still he ran. He continued on until his body had nothing left to give, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

Ena.

* * *

Marin stareddown at Bran's unmoving form. The Graham reinforcements who charged from the castle were gaining on them. If she did not get everyone out soon, they would all be massacred.

She could leave him, of course. He might already be dead after the knock he’d taken to his skull. And yet every one of her sisters and a handful of her men had survived because of him. He'd fought like a beast, tearing through scores of Graham reivers, hovering over Leila protectively and keeping her from the worst of the melee that might have otherwise killed her in her weakened state.

Marin fixed her stare on Sir Richard, who limped several paces behind her. “Have our two strongest, uninjured men get him to a horse, and quickly.”