Page 95 of Marin’s Promise

Sir Richard did not so much as have the decency to wince at her words. “You needed to see the letter; you needed to know what he was about. He forced his way into our lives. He brought war when there was none. He endangered the lives of every person in this castle and lost just as many. His men ate up our food stores and left us to the dire situation we're in now.”

“One page,” Marin growled under her breath. “You only gave me one page of it.”

“The one you needed to see.” Sir Richard lifted his chin.

“I don't know what bloody page you are discussing,” Father said in an exasperated tone. “But I'm tired and hungry and in urgent need of a good bathing.” He stepped around Marin and addressed the soldiers holding Bran. “Kill him.”

“Nay.” Marin threw herself in front of Bran, blocking his body with her own, and looked frantically to the soldiers. “I order you to stop.”

“You no longer give the orders.” Her father spoke sternly, as though she were a chastised child.

Bran's chest was warm against her back. His breath blew delicately against the nape of her neck. She shook her head with the force of her insistence. “You will not kill him.”

“I will do as I damn well please with this usurper.” Father nodded to the soldiers. “Marin, cease this behavior at once. Guards, kill him.”

The men cast glances at one another, apparently unsure what to do.

“Lock him in one of the chambers, please, but don’t kill him.” Marin cast a look at the countless eyes watching in fascination while their family battle publicly ensued. “We can discuss this privately.”

Father's eyes narrowed into a shrewd squint and his eyes glittered with something she could not make out but knew she did not like. “Put him in the dungeon.”

“Father,” she admonished.

He glared at her. “You forget yourself in this madness, Daughter.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him to the dungeon.”

“Nay,” Marin gasped. She spun around to face Bran and clung to him. His arms were restrained, and he could not wrap them around her. The loss of his embrace was palpable, painful.

“Nay,” Marin whispered against him. “I won't let them take you to the dungeon.”

Bran pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Aye, ye will, lass.”

Surprised, she looked up.

He stared at her with a solemnity which cut into her heart. “’Tis better than death.”

“I don't want you down there,” she protested.

“Separate them,” Father's voice said from behind her.

She tightened her grip. By God, she would never allow them to drag her free.

“Let go,” Bran said. “I'll no' have ye getting hurt.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth, greedy and desperate. “Save Ena. Please.”

Strong hands grasped Marin's arms and Bran was wrenched from her grasp. Sir Richard and another soldier dragged him to the mouth of the castle.

“Nay,” she cried. “Please.” She tried to run after him, but the hands on her arms held her back. She was entirely helpless to do anything save watch her husband be forcefully taken to the dungeon.

* * *

Bran pacedthe narrow floor of his cell. All around him was darkness, so heavy it seemed to be a living thing more than nothing at all. It squeezed at him and made his eyes ache with the strain to see. Ten paces and he stopped short to avoid running into the grates. Turn. Ten paces and he stopped short to avoid running into the grates. Turn.

He had been down there a while, without even the courtesy of a torch. Though it was obvious they were not attempting to be conciliatory. His stomach had begun to growl two thousand, four hundred and twenty paces ago, and his throat burned with thirst. He'd given up trying to swallow, for it only made his throat stick together and caused him to cough. And that made his throat drier still.

He still wore the chainmail from battle, the blood of his enemies long since dried and stinking on his armor. All of his discomforts were minor though, at least in comparison to the torment of worrying after Ena. Would Anice be able to help her? Marin?

Marin.

Her name was a dagger in his heart.