Page 58 of Marin’s Promise

The reivers all shouted and banged their fists on the trestles with enough force to set the platters of food chattering atop the linen-covered wood. The men and women of the castle, however, looked to Marin with uncertain faces. She was, after all, their lady, and they still looked to her for answers and safety. Their trust twisted a chord in her chest and spurred her to action.

To show discontent now would not only violate the truce she'd enacted with Bran, but it would also cast an ominous shadow of doubt. To do so was far too dangerous.

She rose from her chair and held up her goblet. “We thank you for joining us to celebrate this most joyous occasion.” She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Bran's cheek.

The hair of his beard had been trimmed back and tamed with a spiced oil. The prickly whiskers were soft against her lips and left the pleasant scent clinging to her even as she pulled away.

Several cheers rose up and Werrick’s inhabitants offered genuine nods of approval as many toasted the union. The revelers drank deep from their cups in appreciation for the peace, as much as for the limitless quantities of good spirits. For their parts, Bran and Marin drank to their own toast.

The wine was rich and robust as it hit her tongue, fortifying her in a way she so desperately needed. Conversations rippled to life once more and people began reaching for the trays laden with food.

Marin sank to her seat and dipped her fingers in the rose water at her side. The cool, scented water was refreshing against her uncomfortably hot skin, and provided her some much-needed energy to get through the interminable feast. She wished she could pat a bit of it on her cheeks.

It was only just beginning. Though there had been scant time to prepare, her sisters had managed the impossible in what they'd assembled for entertainment. There was a troubadour brought in by Ella's recommendation and a new dance taught by Cat, along with bountiful food and drink and good cheer. And following everything would be the wedding night.

Nervous excitement swam low in her belly, mixing like honey and vinegar. For as much as she dreaded knowing the permanence of a consummated marriage, so too did she anticipate what her husband would bring to the marriage bed. The passion they'd only sampled before would now be feasted on together.

Heaven help her for her wanton thoughts, but she could not help the eagerness singing in her veins and the heat growing in her cheeks. As much as she did not want a husband, she found Bran immensely desirable.

* * *

Bran had spentthe better part of the feast not touching his wife. The people were used to an earl, to nobility and chivalry. Bran was the son of a widowed villager from a place so small its name had been forgotten after it was destroyed.

For certes, he was no earl.

While he did not understand the delicate rules of the titled and wealthy, he knew above all else he would do nothing to bring his Marin to shame, regardless of his station or hers. It had been difficult to sit beside her and not caress the length of her arm encased in sumptuous silk or touch her skin that looked like rose petals and cream. He couldn't draw the veil of hair from her face to better see her loveliness. Not when one touch would lead to more, and the rush of his driving need to have her would leave him overwhelmed.

He had contented himself to sit and watch Marin dance with her sisters, their hair fanning about them in gold and onyx, their matching blue eyes bright with joy.

The people of Werrick castle danced as well as the reivers, the two oftentimes coming together. Even Drake had appeared tempted when Lady Anice had tried to draw him into a dance. In the end, he’d resolutely shook his head and refrained.

The evening had been enjoyable, but it had been long, and Bran’s patience was drawing to a close. He could no longer be on display on the dais as he fumbled through dainty eating and frivolous customs. Ones that were apparently created to establish a distinct line between men of his station and the otherwise wealthy and overly educated. The time to claim his bride without restraint was nigh.

He got to his feet and the room hushed. “The hour grows late.”

“That isna all that's growing,” a voice jeered from the back. Laughter followed as well as several more ribald jests.

Bran turned to where Marin had just taken a seat once more after dancing with her sisters, her cheeks flushed from her exertions.

He held out his hand to her. “My lady, shall we retire?”

She smiled up at him with the reserved affection she'd afforded him since they'd spoken their vows. Another few bawdy calls rose above the din, and she placed her hand in his. It did not escape his notice how her fingers trembled.

“Ye dinna need to walk us to the bed chamber,” he called to the waiting crowd as he aided Marin to her feet. “I'm sure enough in my abilities to see the task done without the lot of ye.”

The people laughed at that and settled back to their drinking and dancing. Better to appeal to their tawdry humor than to subject Marin to the humiliation of the barbaric old custom.

His wife moved without thought, the way a warrior does in battle when their body reacts independently from their mind. Her fragile smile continued to hover on her lips as they made their way across the hall. It stayed through the long walk up the stone stairs and into Marin’s room.

It had been Bran’s idea to occupy the earl’s former rooms, but Marin had asked that they share hers instead. A consideration Bran had agreed to.

Once the door was completely closed, her pleasant expression wilted. The performance was over.

Whatever was left was what lay between them, cold and foreign, a yawning gap of discomforting silence. Not what Bran had been anticipating.

An unexpected awkwardness seized Bran.

He'd had plenty of women in his life, but never had he needed to work to woo them. None of those women had been ones of noble birth. And certainly, never had they been his wife, nor a maiden for that matter.