Page 85 of Marin’s Promise

Leila sat in the chair by the fire, her legs tucked up on the seat, hugged against her chest. Her eyes were large in her small face as she regarded Anice’s heartbreak.

Sweet Leila, who they all cherished in their own precious way. In the depths of their minds, buried so deep none would ever admit it, they realized Leila had been the byproduct of their mother's brutal rape. The knowledge lodged like a stone within them all. Affection masked guilt, and their father had been the most affectionate of all to this final gift from the woman he had loved with all his heart.

Leila had been his favorite daughter.

Marin blinked against the unforgiving grip of grief around her heart and went to her youngest sister. “Leila.”

She shook her dark head and turned toward the fire.

“I must speak with you.” Marin knelt beside the chair and peered up at the girl, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face beyond the curtain of dark hair.

There is great sadness on the horizon.

“You already know though, don't you?” she asked.

Leila nodded and slowly lifted her head. Her hair parted to reveal her face as she did so. Her eyes, while large with emotion, were dry.

Marin reached out and stroked her youngest sister's cheek.

Leila looked away and pursed her small lips.

“What is it?” Marin asked.

Leila did not answer.

“Leila.”

The large blue eyes shifted back to Marin once more. “I…do not believe all is as it appears.”

Marin's heart lurched in her chest. “What do you mean? Is it Father? Is it Timothy? The reivers who attacked them?”

Leila's hands fisted and she kept her mouth closed, obviously not intending to say more.

Desperation raked over Marin's raw nerves. Was this hope? Was this another warning? A pent-up sob ached in her throat.

But then Leila was hurting too. They all were.

“I am here if you need to talk,” Marin offered patiently. She leaned over her sister and pressed a kiss to her brow. Leila slid from her seat and joined her sisters on the bed where they all held one another in their grief.

Marin ought to join them, to comfort them. Except that it was too similar to when their mother had died. The pain in Marin’s chest was exquisite. It choked her and made the room spin. In the end, she knew she could not stay. She pushed from the room and out into the hallway.

Bran was leaning against the wall but straightened as soon as he saw her.

Torrents of emotion whipped at her, lashing in deep, gouging bites. Part of her wanted to run into his strong arms and let him comfort her, to take advantage of his offer to be the man she could need to need. And yet another part of her was appalled at the life he had led, at the simple fact he had been a reiver. In her life, reivers had destroyed the safety of her home, raped her mother, killed her people, waged a siege against the castle and now they had murdered her father.

How could she love a man who had led a life which had brought her such sorrow?