Page 45 of Marin’s Promise

The angry emotion thickened into a knot in Marin's throat. At her helplessness, at her choice, at her perceived loss carved so evidently on Anice’s face. But Marin refused to allow her sister to know how much the statement hurt.

Marin had to appear strong, the way she always did, especially when they had already experienced so much sorrow and strife.

Piquette nudged his cold nose against Marin’s palm, a mute offering of comfort that nearly undid her control.

“I will be back to check on Leila later.” Marin made her way to the door to keep Anice from seeing any of her hurt.

“I will remain by her side.” Anice’s vow of loyalty plunged the dagger of agony deeper into Marin’s soul. After all, it was Marin’s fault Leila had been wounded. It ought to be Marin who remained in vigil.

She closed her eyes and a hot tear rolled down her cheek. There was nothing she wanted to do more than stay in this room she had shared with her sisters in the years after their mother’s death, with its walls painted with red and gold whorls, and various dressing tables. She wanted to curl against Leila on the bed as she'd done when they were children, to watch the rise and fall of her breathing, to be perpetually reassured Leila would live.

But as mistress and master of the castle, Marin had too many obligations to handle. She had soldiers to see to, lives lost to pray over, and a man to tend to–a man who would soon become her husband if he lived.

Nay, she could not linger. She had to endure the emotional torment of her decisions, even when she was so close to breaking.

* * *

Bran wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them more tightly to his stomach. The men shouted and threw a chair across the room, where it clattered against the wall of their simple home. The men were angry; even Bran could see that through the cracked door in the cabinet. Their faces were red and snarling beneath the limp chainmail coifs drawn over their heads.

One of them stalked over to the table.

Bran's heart nearly beat out from his chest.

Ena was under that table.

She put her hands over her head and shrunk down, as if she might be able to make herself blend into the floor below. Bran scrunched lower in his own hiding place.

They couldn't find her. They couldn't—

The man threw the table on its side and Ena screamed. A long, high pitched note that pierced Bran's soul.

She ran, but the man caught her by the hair and jerked her back. Mum came out from where she was hiding behind a small trunk, her hair wild and her eyes wide with fear, with Gregor leaping in front of her.

Gregor, the brave elder brother with their father’s sword in his hand, though it was nearly as tall as he.

“No' my child,” Mum cried. “Take me but leave my child.”

The man gave a snarling grin in reply and drew back his blade.

The sharp, wet scent of brewing herbs pulled at Bran. Jars clinked together and the subtle pop and hiss of a fire sounded in the background. Beneath him was the downy thickness of a feather bed, and smooth fine linens. Despite the luxuries of heat and bedding, his body was in hell.

His head thundered with agony. He shifted slightly and the room dipped into a dizzying spin.

“That's enough out of ye.” An older woman's voice spoke over him. “Drink this. It'll ease the need to purge yerself again.”

Again? Had he been ill?

“How is he?” the voice was a new one, feminine and familiar. Marin.

“He isna doing well, my lady,” the healer replied.

“I'll give that to him.” Marin's voice was closer now.

He opened his eyes and the brilliance of the firelight seared into his skull. He winced back.

“You need to drink this,” Marin said. The bed shifted slightly on his right and he knew she settled herself beside him. The clean scent of lavender drifted toward him like a cooling balm. He breathed it in and some of the tension drained from his stiff muscles.

The whoosh of a breath exhaling sounded several times. He cracked an eye open and looked up to find Marin next to him, gently blowing onto a steaming mug of tea.