Page 75 of Marin’s Promise

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Marin let the remainder of the day slip by without giving any indication of what she knew. Though she'd tried to avoid Bran, she had encountered him several times. She'd suffered through it with congenial smiles and let him kiss her with his lying lips.

Initially she'd assumed he'd wanted Werrick Castle for himself, and that the worst of the ordeal had passed. But apparently it was only the beginning. Didn't Bran realize what he'd done? Didn't he care?

Kerr was a rapacious Warden, one determined to claim what he could for himself above all obligations of upholding the law. Marin had heard his name mentioned often by her father in association with lying. With murder.

Once Kerr had the castle, all her people would be slaughtered, her family ripped apart, her sisters no doubt sold into marriages with the enemy–if they were lucky. And when her father returned from Berwick, he would without a doubt be the first one to die.

Her heart pounded in her chest as though it meant to burst and her hand trembled where she clutched the hilt of the knife.

She would do it this time. She would kill Bran before he could destroy her and everything she loved.

An angry scream welled in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She couldn't get emotional. She couldn't do anything to jeopardize her revenge.

The door to their shared chamber opened soundlessly and his attending servant slipped out with a solemn expression. It was time.

Marin swept past the servant and into the massive chamber before locking herself in just as noiselessly as the servant had departed.

Sandalwood filled the warm air made humid by the wooden tub placed in front of the glowing hearth. The back of Bran's head faced her, an intentional placement by the servant. Marin's head spun with a dizzying anxiety.

This way would be quiet, easy. Even the mess would be contained. She crept closer, until she discerned the swell of his powerful shoulders rising above the water.

Only the night before, she’d clutched those shoulders in passion. The memory left her stomach churning with disgust.

Bran shifted in the water and the glassy surface rippled, leaving his reflection distorted and shattered.

“Have ye ever met someone who made ye question who ye are?” he asked suddenly.

Marin stopped, but her heart raced on and on. She couldn't answer for the servant, not when it was impossible to mask her voice to sound like that of a man. Instead she remained wordless, frozen in place, hoping he would leave off the question.

“Ach, ’tis an odd question.” Bran sighed. “I'm contemplative of late and I've got that wife of mine to blame for it.”

Marin's eyes narrowed with her ire. What did he possibly mean by such a statement?

“Water on my head, if you please.” He settled deeper into the tub. “I'd like my hair to be scrubbed.”

Marin closed the distance with a final step and put the knife to his throat. She had been prepared to dig it deep, to cut through the hardy fibers of the neck to ensure his life ended.

Except his strong hand captured hers and held her in place.

“Do ye think I wouldna detect my wife's own scent?” Bran didn't twist to look at her though his hand continued to restrain her. “Do ye think I dinna notice how ye averted yer gaze from mine throughout the day, or how my tub had been positioned?”

Marin yanked her captive hand with all her strength in an attempt to draw the blade back and into the vulnerable skin of his neck. He growled and tightened his grip on her, thwarting her efforts. In one fluid movement, he rose and turned toward her with water sluicing from his powerful body. He twisted her wrist as he stood, and a sharp pain lanced up Marin's arm. The knife dropped from her hand and splashed into the water, lost.

The agony in her wrist immediately abated. Water shone over Bran's unabashed nudity and dripped into the tub. The firelight was at his back and cast his face in an unreadable shadow.

“Ye said ye wouldna try to kill me again.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Marin, I trusted ye.”

“I trusted you too,” she spat out. She yanked the missive from her pocket and threw it at his chest.

He snatched it from the air as it fluttered downward. His body remained still. She strained her eyes into the shadows over his face but couldn't make out his expression. She hated that. The uncertainty of how he might answer the accusation.

Would he try to defend himself?

She stared into the wavering reflection of the fire atop the water. The knife was in there still, somewhere lying at the bottom. She couldn't read his face, but perhaps the missive was enough of a distraction to afford her the necessary time she needed.

Without hesitation, she plunged her hands into the water and skimmed the flat bottom with her fingertips in a frantic, blind search to reclaim the dagger.