Page 5 of Marin’s Promise

“A moment,” she murmured.

He waited. She turned the page and sighed to herself, a whimsical little hum of a sound. She slid a ribbon to the center of the book before closing it and lifted her brows with mild impatience. “Aye?”

She was young, but not as young as the girl he'd held hostage only moments ago. Another sister, then.

“I'm in charge of this castle now.” He stood with his feet planted wide.

She tilted her head pensively. “I heard no battle.”

“There was no battle.”

“Then you must be quite clever or quite bold.” Her eyes narrowed slightly in obvious assessment. “I think bold.”

The saucy chit. He opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted before he had the chance.

“You should come to supper.”

Bran turned toward the feminine voice and found yet another golden-haired sister. She was older than the one he currently spoke to, a woman more his age, and stunningly beautiful. Her hair was lighter and hung in glossy waves, her eyes larger, her lips fuller, her curves more apparent.

She waved him toward her, the movement graceful and beguiling. There was not the steely exterior about her that Marin had possessed. This one might be a good lass for bed sport, if she was willing. It’d been longer than he liked since he’d had a woman in his bedroll.

He drew off his helm and grinned at her. He knew his smile to be one of his finer attributes, not just for enlisting new reivers to his side, but also winning over ladies. His teeth were white and strong, and he still had them all.

The new sister did not return his gesture. “You threatened to kill Catriona.” A hardness touched her almond-shaped eyes and she appeared more likely to run him through with a sword than allow him in her bed. A massive dog came from behind her, a beast so tall, its haunches came higher than her waist. It regarded him with glittering black eyes from a face of drooping brown fur.

“He did what?” The other sister exclaimed from behind him.

“I dinna hurt her.” He held up his hands. If he wanted her in his bed that night and didn’t want to end up that beast of a dog’s supper, he'd need to approach the topic with diplomacy.

In truth, if Lady Marin hadn’t opened the portcullis when she did, the situation would have been a difficult one to navigate. He didn't hurt women or children. Ever.

His men had all been warned off ever hurting them as well, upon punishment of death. And it was one he would readily mete out. He didn't care if he took the life of a man, especially one who preyed upon the weak.

“You could have hurt her,” the younger sister said. She moved to his side. The curious interest in her eyes had frosted over with icy disdain.

“Come now if you want food, or don’t and starve.” The older one departed with her dog, leaving only her swirling hem trailing behind her.

Bran strode quickly to follow and found the younger sister at his side. “What are you called?” he asked.

“A scholar.” She lifted her chin. “And you?”

“A reiver.” If she wouldn't answer him with naught but a quip, he could do likewise.

Ahead of him, the older sister and her giant beast led at a ridiculous pace, her leather shoes far quieter than the wooden patens of his. She did not slow, not until they reached the great hall where his men had settled in. Conversations buzzed around him, heavy with the baritone of his reivers. The inhabitants of the castle were easily detected by their soundlessness. As if those who had dared to attend supper might remain safe by remaining quiet.

The ceiling of the great hall had similar paintings across the great wooden beams stretching out overhead. Unicorns and lions and flowers and graceful arcing whorls throughout. Had the sisters done them, or had they come at an exorbitant price as with everything in the castle?

Servants laid out trenchers filled with steaming food on the tables. So much food. Root vegetables roasted and steaming, thick slabs of meat drenched in gravy, and loaves of crusty bread as big as his forearm.

Never had he seen so much food in one place.

The younger sister disappeared from his side and the dog trotted off toward a servant who waved the beast over. The one who had led him there swept past him, intending to leave as well. He caught her hand. It was soft, her fingers slender and dainty.

She stopped and her lashes lowered as she regarded their joined hands. Her palm was warm, and she had a delicate floral scent about her. It was pleasant and he liked the thought of smelling her on his skin the next morning.

“What is yer name?” He brushed her wrist with his thumb, a suggestive caress to imply so, so much more, and released his hold on her.

Her eyes narrowed in a way that said Bran wouldn’t get her name, let alone her favors.