Page 82 of Marin’s Promise

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The following day, Bran paced the battlements, staring out past the cluster of Graham soldiers to where the brilliant green grass stretched on for miles.

The enclosure of the keep’s walls was taking its toll.

The reiver's horrible death the prior day had cast a somber shadow over the mood within the castle. The threat of the Grahams just over the walls rattled like a stone in everyone's mind, a constant irritating reminder of imminent danger.

The soldiers were less anxious, confident in their knowledge of the safety within the structure, but the reivers, who had grown used to open freedom, were agitated and edgy. Bran understood their restlessness. Reivers were nomads, belonging to no one, reliant on themselves for care and food and lodging, takers of their necessities.

He did not give in to the pressure, although it didn't mean he was free of its effects. He stared down at the mass of Grahams outside the castle walls and a tight itch prickled at the back of his neck.

Marin stood with the stillness of a statue at his side, her narrowed gaze focused on the cluster of several dozen men. “What will we do about them?”

Bran rubbed at the spot on his neck, though it did little to alleviate the discomfort. “There's no' anything we can do, save pick them off with our archers when they come too close.”

The wind tore at their clothing and left Marin's veil snapping. Her attention was fixated on the Graham reivers, her dissatisfaction evident in the clench of her jaw. She settled her hands on her hips and tapped her finger lightly on the hilt of the sword strapped to her belt. “If your reinforcements do come in, would they help us put the Grahams off?”

Bran glanced down at his wife. He hadn’t expected her to mention the possibility of Kerr sending troops, though he could tell from the stern expression on her face that it weighed on her thoughts heavily. “Aye,” he answered warily.

She nodded. “If he received the missive.” Her neck tensed. “I think he did not. Regardless, the strife at Berwick would detain him.”

Her worried expression did not lift. He hated that he couldn't offer her any reassurances. He hated even more that he was the cause.

A Graham warrior edged closer and an arrow shot out from the castle in his direction. He managed to scramble to a safe position before it sank harmlessly into the earth. A cheer rose up from the Grahams. One of them tugged his doublet up and pulled his hose aside to reveal a bared white arse pointed in their direction.

Bran almost chuckled at the antics, for even if the situation was not funny, these men were his kind. Marin, however, was not so amused. Her fists tightened and a flush crept up her neck.

“My father would never have allowed any of this to happen.” She muttered the words, but Bran heard them before they were snatched away by the wind. Her brow furrowed, and he knew she was piling the blame upon herself.

“Yer da isna here.” He reached out to her. “But we are.”

The Grahams hopped on their horses and rallied in a group. Bran strained his gaze. What the hell were they doing?

The lot of them rode off in the direction of a nearby hill. Marin turned and gave a sharp gasp. “There's someone coming.” She spun to the archers on the other side of the battlement. “Ready your bows. Summon Cat this instant.”

She leaned forward, peering into the distance and gave a sharp gasp. “They are flying our banner. The Werrick coat of arms.”

Bran stared at the lone rider and caught the familiar green crest with the yellow stripe running down its center. Marin darted toward the stairs.

Bran caught her arm. “What are ye doing?”

She shrugged him off and raced down the stairs before disappearing into the stables. Whatever she was planning was not an idea Bran liked. If Marin was in the stables, she was intending to acquire a horse–and she wouldn't need a horse if she wasn't planning on riding out.

She burst from the stables atop her horse and nearly ran him down.

“Marin,” he bellowed. “Ye canna—”

She twisted in her saddle to face her sister. “Cat, get to the archers.”

The slap of feet on the cobblestones behind him told him Cat ran to obey her orders.

He reached for Marin. “Dinna go out there.” His heart scrambled in his chest. She couldn't go out there, not when the Grahams were thirsty for her blood.

“That could be my father.” She cried out and her horse bolted forward. “The gates!”

Damn it.

“Dinna ye dare open those gates,” Bran called out.