Page 48 of Marin’s Promise

It was not until the fourth day that Marin found Bran sitting up in his bed, his gaze fixed on the fire in the hearth. She stopped short when she entered and held her book close to her chest. She had intended to read it aloud, not necessarily for his benefit, but to fill the gaps of empty silence.

His stare shifted mutely from the hearth to her and her heart gave an unexpected little squeeze. Bran was awake. Which meant soon she would have to make good on her vow and marry him.

* * *

Bran’sgaze lingered over Marin. She clutched a blue bejeweled book in her arms, the encrusted volume nearly large enough to cover her whole chest. Her purple gown had been trimmed in black fur and called to attention the dark smudges under her eyes.

“You're awake.” The sweet sound of her voice pulled at his memories, of the ebb and flow of her speaking to him as he lay in recovery.

There had been pieces of stories and the whisper of parchment pages turning. Other times there had been mention of tales from her youth with her sisters and her father and even some of her mother, all fractured through moments of sleep. And yet all had been told in her beautiful, soothing tone.

“Aye, I woke this morning.” Bran’s voice came out craggy from disuse.

She nodded and swept into the room as though she hadn't stalled in the entryway at all. “And are you feeling well?” She set aside her book and handed him a glass of ale, which he drank gratefully.

The cool liquid glided down his throat and eased the rasping dryness. His body was in good enough repair, with the wounds not giving him much trouble. Apparently, the arrow he’d thought had glanced off him had actually grazed the skin, and a slash at his side had left a wee bit of a mark. Both were nothing more than pink scars now. Even his head had finally stopped aching, which had brought about the clarity of his mind, and the memory of his family’s fate on that fateful night.

For during those blurry days of his recovery, when he had been worried after his family, they had been alive. At least, to him. Now, awake, he knew they were merely distorted memories. Ena lived, but she was not safe, while Mum and Gregor…

The realization plunged into his heart as sure as any dagger. He had lost them. Again.

“I'm well enough,” he answered simply. “I was told ye'd be by today. That ye’ve been by me every day.”

She approached his bed and turned abruptly to examine a neat row of bottles set along the back of his bedside table. “I wanted to be certain you were well.” Her fingers plucked at various bottles, unstopping them and plugging them up once more after a brief sniff.

No longer without his wits, he was well aware of what her options had been with him ill. He knew also how much easier her life would be with him conveniently absent. There had even been a dream somewhere in the fog of his memory of her being asked if she would like him dead.

“Why would ye check on me?” he asked.

She gave a surreptitious glance around the room, then leaned forward over the bed. Her unbound hair fell around her shoulders like a gilded cape and draped over the bed sheets, a mere inch from his hand. He wanted to lift his forefinger and stroke the silkiness of the cool golden strands.

“It's part of the facade,” she said levelly. “To safeguard the acceptance of our marriage.”

The delicate scent of her enveloped him like an embrace, reminding him of her soothing touches and tenderly spoken words.

“Ye're standing by yer word then?” He eyed her, half-expecting her to change her mind.

“As you held by yours.” She inclined her head graciously.

A knock sounded at the door and Marin pulled away. Bran feared it might be the healer, come to take Marin's place to see to his bathing and the changing of his clothing and the sheets. He waited in bed, unable to see the visitor from around the door, helpless.

Agitation rippled through his restless limbs. He'd been abed too long, treated as an invalid. He was trapped, cared for, like some silly bird in a cage, and it rankled him.

Marin returned with a tray in her hands and the door shut behind her. “I've asked the kitchen to bring you some bread to go with your broth.” She said it as though she thought he might be glad for the bowl of clear liquid.

“I could do with a hunk of venison and some ale,” he offered irritably.

She ignored him and sat on the chair beside the bed. He'd noticed it earlier and had wondered if that was where she'd bided her time with him. She held the bowl in her palms and gently blew at the steaming broth. The steady rise of steam broke in quivers that resumed between her breaths.

“I dinna need ye to care for me like a child.” He held out his hand for the soup. “Ye'll do anything for yer sisters, it would appear. Even feed me.”

“You certainly were easier to care for when you were sleeping.” She set the bowl into his waiting hand.

Bran put his lips to the bowl and drank the broth. It splashed over his tongue like molten lava. He swallowed fast and got the sting of it at the back of his throat for his efforts. His entire mouth was prickly and thick with the effects of the burn.

“Who is Ena?” she asked. “And Gregor?”

His heart caught and he lowered the bowl from his mouth. The broth churned in his stomach and soured. “Gregor is dead.” He stared down at the murky brown broth.

“And your mother?”

“Dead.

“Ena?”

“Alive. For now.” He lifted the bowl and drained the rest in one burning swallow before handing it back to Marin.

Marin took it from him. “Loss is by far the most painful of all wounds.”

Words spoken by one who understood. His renewed grief cut him to the quick. As sharp and poignant as it had been twenty years ago.

She set the bowl on the tray with a clink. “What happened?” she asked. Her voice was kind, the way it'd been when he was ill, when she'd cared for him.

She leaned on her knees. So wonderfully near. She focused her full attention on him. “Tell me what happened.”

Mayhap it was the comfort of her voice, or his addled state, or even the pressing guilt for having taken the castle in the first place, but he found himself ready to tell his story for the first time in his life.