Page 102 of Marin’s Promise

This time a balding man came forward, his face screwed up in a scowl, his eyes cold and soulless. A shiver wound down Marin's spine. He pulled his foot back and kicked with incredible speed, before she had a chance to lash out.

Pain shot from her side and radiated through her body, sending stars flashing and blooming in her vision. She cried out and curled toward the injury. She blindly stabbed at the air with her dagger to prevent from being grabbed in her moment of weakness.

The blade caught and someone grunted in pain. A second kick landed in the exact same place as the first. The breath choked from Marin and did not easily return. She gasped and sputtered, made weak by her injuries.

She dragged in a hard inhale and her insides lit up as though on fire. Her arm was wrenched painfully, and the dagger fell from her grip. Strong hands shoved her wrists to the ground, grinding them painfully into the packed soil. A primitive part of Marin's mind shoved past the discomfort and her body writhed in helpless desperation to get free. One kick landed at the redhead's temple and sent him reeling back.

“Damn, but this lass is a fighter.” He drew back and his fist flew toward her face.

She jerked her head to the side, but not quickly enough. His fist connected with her jaw and fresh waves of agony rocketed through her awareness. Her world was starting to dim, and a salty warmth filled her mouth. Blood?

There were too many men, their tactics too brutal. Despite her father's efforts in teaching her to be stronger, she had not been strong enough to fight off these men. Not when she started on her back, already injured. Not with simply a dagger.

She would end up just like her mother.

The bald man grimaced down at her, a large angry cut showed on his cheek and dripped blood down his chin. “Too much a fighter for her own damn good.”

Marin braced herself for another hit, but it did not come. Instead, her clothing was tugged, and the rending of fabric filled her ears. She shook her head and tried to speak. A low, pitiful moan erupted from her chest. Hot tears leaked from her eyes. She wanted the darkness to take her away, to keep her from living through this hell that had destroyed her mother and would surely kill her too.

* * *

Sleep had evaded Bran.After everything he'd lost, how could he possibly calm his mind?

He left the makeshift camp, letting Drake sleep as only young men could. They’d stopped as soon as they’d gone into the Scottish border to rest before deciding where to travel next. What to do next.

Movement to the right of the patch of forest called his attention. A group of men leaning over something.

No doubt a fresh kill of some sort.

Bran was just beginning to turn his attention away when he noticed one of the men get on his knees while his hands moved over the ties of his hose. A warning bell clanged in Bran’s mind.

They didn't find a beast—they found a woman and were clearly going to rape her.

“Drake, get yer arse out here now,” he growled. He didn't wait for the lad to rouse. Years of working together gave Bran the reassurance of knowing the young man would be moments behind him. Especially when a lass was in danger. Drake always had a special sense of awareness when it came to ladies in need.

Bran hefted his battle axe and ran toward the men. His blood fired with a rage that could not be quelled, a rage that had a purpose now to be sated.

The kneeling man didn't see him coming any more than he expected the war axe slicing through his neck. He pitched to the side with his head knocked from his body. A woman lay beneath a ruined gown, one leg naked and exposed from a massive tear in the silk. Her blonde hair spread over her face, bright and wet with fresh blood.

A bald man flew at Bran and managed to land his elbow into Bran's jaw. It was a hard hit, but not enough to break Bran's savage concentration, or deter him from his path. He roared his rage at the man and swung with his axe. Fear showed in his opponent’s dark eyes.

Bran was relentless in pursuit of punishment, arcing his axe like a pendulum of death, sweeping closer with each step. The man turned and tried to run. The way that the lass on the ground no doubt had done. Bran launched his axe through the air, letting the handle leave his palm at exactly the right moment. It flew forward and sank into the back of the man's skull. He dropped like a sack of rotten grain.

Behind Bran came the ringing of swords and he knew Drake had joined him. Bran ran to reclaim his axe and turned, ready to help Drake fight the last three men. Two already lay dead and the third remained locked in combat. The red-haired man's attacks against Drake lacked confidence and finesse. The fight would be over quickly.

The woman on the ground shifted and let out a long, deep groan of agony. Bran's heart wrenched at the sound. What the bloody hell was this woman doing out alone and without a damn guard?

He knelt beside her and gently covered her leg with the tatters of her dress. She flinched, and he immediately regretted the action. Of course, she would not want him touching any part of her or her clothing after what she'd just been through, especially when she couldn't see with all her hair in her eyes.

Damn, but he was daft.

He pulled his hands back from her. “The men who hurt ye are dead. My man and I have made sure of that.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Drake run the final brigand through with his blade.

“We're here to help ye,” he said as gently as he could.

She whimpered.

“I want to move yer hair out of yer face, aye?” he said. “I willna hurt ye. I need to see yer injuries. To help ye, aye?”

Her right arm curled protectively against her side and the breath shuddered in and out of her as if each inhale and exhale caused fresh waves of agony.

She spoke, but it was an indistinguishable mumble.

“I'll take that as an aye from ye.” He reached down to pull the hair from her face. “I'll no' hurt ye, I promise.”

She whimpered again, and this time he understood the single word she spoke.

“Bran.”

His heart stopped and his blood ran cold. Though he could not recognize the voice, considering how garbled it was through her agony, the connection immediately shot through him. The long blonde hair, the fine dress. Dear God.

One of Werrick’s daughters. Bran drew the tresses back from her face with trembling hands and his heart crashed into his stomach in horror. The face he'd once stroked so affectionately was already bruising an angry purple at her jaw, and her teeth and mouth were red with blood.

A cry wrenched out of him, from the very core of his soul. This wasn't just any one of Werrick’s daughters, she was Bran’s wife.

She was his Marin.