Page 83 of Marin’s Promise

The castle soldiers did not bother to give him a second glance before following their mistress's orders. The portcullis groaned open.

God's teeth.

Bran spun angrily toward the stable. “My horse, Peter,” he growled at the Master of the Horse. Peter leapt to obey his order and within moments, Bran was at Marin’s heels.

But it truly wasn't anger spurring him onward–it was fear. They could capture her. If so, they would certainly torture her, as they'd done with his messenger. An image flashed in his mind of her in front of the castle, dumped as the last body had been, bloody and twisted.

He urged his horse faster as he went through the gates. She was in front of him, her back straight in the saddle, the thunder of her horse's hooves lost beneath the sound of his own. The Grahams divided suddenly. Half of them going toward the man riding to the castle, half of them turning toward Marin.

Bran's heart lodged in his throat.

An arrow zipped from the battlements and caught one man in the throat. He fell from his horse, his cry inaudible. Another arrow came, and another, and another, every one finding its mark. Marin reached the lone rider and Bran was finally able to catch up to her. Finally, able to help her.

He drew his blade from its sheath and together he and Marin fought the dozens of Grahams while they turned and darted back to the castle together. The rain of arrows had dwindled to a trickle. One lone archer still taking carefully aimed shots while the others ceased to fire.

Cat, no doubt.

It seemed like a lifetime had stretched on before they finally reached the gate. Several archers had been relocated to the entryway, their bows readied with nocked arrows. Drake stood at the lead, shouting orders.

Marin and Bran guided the man in, and the arrows began firing until the portcullis closed once more and the gates securely drawn.

Once they were inside, Bran and Marin dropped from their horses while the visitor was aided from his.

Bran caught Marin's hand. “Ye scared me.”

She looked unrepentant. “I had to go.”

He edged closer to her. “They could have taken ye, tortured ye.”

She lowered her head and looked at their joined hands. “I thought he might be my father.” Her gaze found his. “What would you have done if you’d thought it was Ena?”

With that, she slipped her hand from his and went to the rider. A man who, based on the civil greeting and invitation to join them inside, was not the Earl of Werrick.

* * *

The man followedMarin into the castle with a distinct limp. He was one of her father's soldiers, she knew this for certain, having recognized him from weapons practice. His skill had always been exceptional.

He did not look like that powerful warrior now. Dirt and blood caked his once-glittering chainmail and lines of defeat creased his bruised face.

Marin strode alongside the man, her feet nearly tripping over themselves in her haste, while she attempted to read his face. His expression was grim and hard, his stare vacant, and it caught her heart in a vice of fear.

“My father,” she whispered. “Is he safe?” As soon as the words had fled her lips, she regretted them. She ought to wait until they were alone, when they had privacy.

His gaze slid toward her and everything in the vast nothingness within turned her soul to ice. Her step faltered.

Hands clasped her arms, and held her upright despite the pull of the floor below her. The comforting scent of sandalwood filled her nostrils.

Bran.

He was there for her. As he said he would be.

She drew from his strength and waited to hear the words every daughter dreaded. Bran guided them not to the great hall, but up to the solar, where they could be alone. It was uncustomary, but it was perhaps the most private place for Marin to receive her father’s soldier, and the news that had made him appear so mournful.

“My father?” Marin asked.

The man swayed on his feet a moment. He ducked his head and clasped his hands in front of his body. “Forgive me, my lady.”

The breath choked from her chest. The man did not go on. Did he mean to torment her thusly?