Page 53 of Marin’s Promise

16

First, Marin informed Nan of the impending wedding. While the older woman agreed to her mistress' orders, it was obvious the cook remained skeptical. As were the servants and the guards who had survived their attempt to flee to Mabrick, and everyone else she encountered and told. Putting on a convincing show of her affection for Bran was a difficult task when her own spirit flinched from being forced into marriage.

And yet she could not banish from her mind the image of Bran as a boy, curled into a frightened ball within the cabinet while his family was slaughtered, and then forced to care for his elder sister as they lay for days among their lifeless bodies. The idea of a child enduring such trauma opened a chasm in Marin's chest.

Yet to look at Bran, it was impossible to see him as that boy when the man who intended to marry her was as battle-hardened externally as he was within.

And this man was to be her husband.

The resignation lodged in a stubborn lump in her throat and left her thoughts racing for any possibilities that might bring her freedom. But what could be done before the following day? No matter how many times she cycled through that question, she came up with no viable solutions.

After all, she had given her word.

She stopped in front of her sisters’ door after she'd dealt with the staff, knowing if she'd told the girls first, they would try to convince her to recant her vow. And such an idea was far too tempting.

Anice came around the corner urgently with Piquette trailing behind her, his tail nervously tucked low. Her eyes were wide and glossy, as though she was on the verge of tears.

Marin's knees went weak with fear. “Is it Leila?”

Anice shook her head. “She's fine. It's Papa.”

Their father had gone to King Edward knowing he might have to go to war. She hadn’t told her sisters in the hopes it would not come to him having to fight. Her stomach twisted. “What is it, Anice?”

“He is at Berwick now with the king, and the Scots are threatening to march to Bamburgh to capture the queen.” Anice's voice trembled and she pushed a crumpled missive into Marin’s hand. “He and Timothy are to fight. Even Geordie if needed.”

Marin unfolded the parchment with trembling hands. Her father’s squire, Geordie, was only slightly older than Catriona. Certainly not of an age to fight. “We cannot tell our sisters,” Marin said. “Especially not Cat.”

Anice nodded in agreement and absently reached for Piquette.

Cat had been beside herself at Geordie’s departure. Though she kept up her usual cheerfulness, it was easy to see his absence had left its mark on her. The boy acted with the brave determination of a man. Such conviction might be the death of one so young in battle.

The thought ripped into Marin.

She pushed the rumpled parchment to her chest, though it did nothing to still the wild beating of her heart. Her father had seen enough war in his time. But he was the West March Warden for England, and he was an earl. So, it was his duty, even though there were younger men who could have gone in his place.

She could not help but recall Anice’s betrothed. Dear Timothy, who was always chivalrous to a fault. His heart was good, and she hoped it would keep him safe rather than put him to harm.

“Marin, they can’t go to war.” Anice’s lower lip trembled, and suddenly she was not the confident, beautiful sister Marin knew, but the frightened young girl she had once been after their mother’s death.

“Father has gone to war before.” Marin pulled her sister into her arms. “He will come home to us as he always does. And Timothy is young and strong. He will come out of this a hero, no doubt. In the meantime, we will keep this between us.”

Piquette’s heavy body pushed against Marin’s legs as he tried to join their embrace. Anice allowed herself to be held for a long moment before pushing back. “And when they return home? Will they be able to save us?”

Marin shook her head, uncertain. “I do not know Bran’s intentions for the castle, nor do I know if he will allow father and his men in.”

Anice took Marin’s arm and led her to an alcove. “Will you still marry him?”

Marin glanced to where Piquette sat obediently several feet away. “Aye.”

“We need to fight harder to stay together in such terrible times.” Anice took her hand. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“I need to make the most of this situation.” Marin drew from a well of strength within her, one on the verge of running dry. “Help me convince our people to accept Bran.”

“It isn't fair you must marry him. You never wanted to marry-”

“None of this is fair.” Marin tried to maintain her own composure. For Anice was correct, it was not fair. Thinking on the awfulness of it all would only serve to crumble Marin's strength, and God knew she needed all she could muster.

Anice nodded with a patience Marin knew to be forced. “When do you wed him?”