Marin's Promise (Borderland Ladies Book 1)

by Madeline Martin

  A neat line of men appeared on the parapet, staggered against the crenellations, their bows jutting up from them like staffs. They drew back in unison, aimed their arrows and let them fly.

  12

  Bran braced for the impact of several arrows. They soared through the air in a unified hiss and landed in errant thunks on the battlefield. For the briefest of moments, the battle seemed to pause in wait for the impact, for the powerful hit upon the band of battling men and women. Some sank harmlessly into the ground or against shields, but others buried into flesh. Men cried out in surprise and agony, and opponents took advantage of their weakened state.

  Two of Werrick’s guards were struck by arrows and fell. They were immediately replaced by Leila, who put her small body in the space once occupied by two men. Catriona stood in the shelter of men and her sisters, pulling arrow after arrow to feed into her bow. Graham after Graham fell around them as a result.

  Bran swept his axe at a reiver who lunged in his direction. The weapon caught the man on the side of the head and sent him to his knees, before crashing to the blood and dirt below. The circle of English soldiers and the sisters was in view. Finally.

  If the older sisters' skills were exceptional, young Leila's were truly extraordinary. Her small hands lashed out with daggers at such speed, he could scarcely make out her movements. A call sounded from the parapets above once more, and the archers readied another volley of arrows.

  Marin rushed forward to her sisters with a desperate speed Bran could not match. A man headed her off, too far for Bran to stop him, and whipped a blade at her head. She arched backward, but it still came so close, Bran heard a ping as the edge of the weapon glanced off the bottom of her helm as it was pulled free from her head. She spun around, dazed and blinking.

  Anice cried out and ran forward, her sword drawn to cut down the man who had struck out at Marin.

  The sky hummed with the impending rain of arrows and every man and woman tensed for its impact. Everyone save Anice, whose determination propelled her forward. And Leila, who stopped fighting as suddenly as she started, and darted protectively toward Anice.

  Leila braced herself, small and brave, at Anice's back, and stared up at the arrows with steely determination as they continued to suck down toward the earth. Bran's voice rasped out with his cry. He tried to run toward her, through the layer of bodies at his feet and the blood-slick ground.

  The harder he tried to get to Leila, the further away she seemed. The arrows thrust down upon them. One glanced off his shoulder, but he barely registered it as he saw two arrows punch through Leila's body–one in the arm and one in her narrow chest.

  Something heavy and massive struck Bran in the back of his head. Stars winked in and out of his vision. But Leila needed him.

  He swung his weapon blindly until it connected with a body, and the grunt of death sounded. The ringing in Bran's head left his mind thick, as though it'd been stuffed with wool. The sharpness of his hearing went muffled and distorted, as if underwater.

  He shook his head and turned back to Leila in time to see her body curl around her injuries as she began to pitch toward the ground. Bran reached out to her, nearly falling himself, and snagged her in the safety of his arms. Blood dotted her cheeks and narrow chin. She'd lost her helm and her dark hair spilled free. Pain shone in her large blue eyes.

  Nay, this was not Leila. This young girl was Ena. His sister.

  Panic locked around his heart and gripped its erratic pounding in a vice. Suddenly, he was a scared boy again, tucked up beneath the cabinets with his hand pressed over his ears to block out the screams. Ena was crying for him. He had to go to Ena. To save her. Because he had not been able to save anyone else.

  “Ena, I—”

  “Behind you,” she said in a weak voice.

  He had to save her. He must.

  Gingerly, he set her down. He exploded upward while swinging his axe with all the power of his roiling emotions–the blaze of rage and the enormity of his fear. The man fell amid a spray of blood.

  Bran stood over the dark-haired girl, his breath coming in great huffs, while his blood pounded molten through his veins. Men continued to come, and he continued to fight.

  The rain had started once more in a heavy downpour that stung at his eyes and made him blink hard to clear his vision. Still, on he fought, until a cry sounded from the castle and the Graham men eased back, defeated.

  They had won.

  And yet it was a sad victory when faced with so much loss.

  The fight dropped out of Bran and he crashed to his knees at Ena's side. His body was heavy with exhaustion. He pushed aside the pain. It was not uncommon to receive flesh wounds in battle. Nor was it rare to be so tired.

  Nay, mayhap not this tired. His eyes began to close. He wanted to lay his head in the dirt and sleep.

  But he could not.

  Ena.

  He said her name aloud and her eyes fluttered open. Blue. Not brown. Confusion prickled through him. Not Ena's eyes.

  He scooped her into his arms, trying as hard as he could to be mindful of her wounds. The arrows lay on the ground, glistening with her blood. Who had taken them out? His thoughts were too slow in his mind, muddy as they swirled in a fog of confusion.

  “We must get her to safety.” A blonde woman reached for Ena.

  Bran stared at the woman, this stranger who sought to take his sister. His body turned to protectively block Ena from the woman, to ensure his sister could not be taken from his arms. “I'll kill ye if ye touch her.”

  She looked behind her, where the Graham soldiers had run. How long had passed since they had been there? Damn it, he could not keep his thoughts in one place.

  “We may not have enough time.” Worry creased her brow, but she was still beautiful. Familiar?

  Damn but he couldn't think.

  “We must go now, and you can hardly stand.” She gestured to him and her eyes flashed.

  Of course, he could stand. He hugged Ena more tightly to him. The blonde woman cursed and grabbed the padding of his gambeson and dragged him forward. His legs were weighted and awkward. He stumbled and caught himself, only to stumble once more.

  “Anice, take Leila. Bran, come with me.” She spoke with authority, a leader.

  Another woman who looked much like the one who gave the order snatched Ena out of his arms with a warning look in her eye. The air vibrated with danger and the stench of congealing blood hovered around him. It clogged his throat and nose and left his head spinning. The authoritative woman pushed at him to walk.

  “If we don't get to the horses, we're dead.” She pulled at him, but his steps were clumsy and too slow to move.

  His feet met the uneven surface of the dead, their stares vacant, their faces like cold marble chiseled into masks of horror. The odor of blood was so thick, it seemed to coat the back of his tongue with its coppery tang. His mouth filled with water and his stomach wrenched into his throat. The woman didn't stop tugging at him.

  Marin.

  The name slid into the swirling mess of his thoughts. “Marin.”

  “Aye,” the woman confirmed. “And you're Bran, and that is Leila, not Ena.”

  His gaze moved to the three blonde young women running ahead, one with a black-haired girl in her arms.

  Ena.

  His heart lurched and he quickened his pace. He had to get to her. He had to save her.

  “Bran.” Marin's voice was gentle with something he didn't recognize, something he didn't like. Pity? “Bran, what ails you?”

  “Where is Ena?” His words slurred together, his tongue too thick and uncooperative in his mouth.

  Marin merely looked at him but did not answer.

  His heart pounded faster. Where was Ena? Was she dead?

  “Where is she?” He pulled his hand from Marin's.

  By God, he could not lose Ena. She was all he had left.

  Marin glanced behind him and the muscles at her neck tensed. “She's just ahead. Don’t
you see her?”

  Bran followed her gaze to where the dark-haired girl was being handed to a woman on horseback. Ena’s name choked in the back of his throat.

  He ran forward then, as fast as his stubborn legs could take him, running with the urgency he'd suppressed before. His awareness waned and threatened to wink out, but still he ran. He continued on until his body had nothing left to give, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

  Ena.

  Marin stared down at Bran's unmoving form. The Graham reinforcements who charged from the castle were gaining on them. If she did not get everyone out soon, they would all be massacred.

  She could leave him, of course. He might already be dead after the knock he’d taken to his skull. And yet every one of her sisters and a handful of her men had survived because of him. He'd fought like a beast, tearing through scores of Graham reivers, hovering over Leila protectively and keeping her from the worst of the melee that might have otherwise killed her in her weakened state.

  Marin fixed her stare on Sir Richard, who limped several paces behind her. “Have our two strongest, uninjured men get him to a horse, and quickly.”

  If her captain of the guard questioned her orders, it did not show on his face. Sir Richard nodded, and pulled two men forward. Drake had been assisting Marin’s sisters, but stopped and took the place of one of the men.

  Marin stood by Bran's side with her blade in her hand as he was carted to the nearest horse. Drake nodded in gratitude as he passed, his mouth set in a grim line as he helped Bran to safety. All around them, Bran's reivers were claiming the horses and abandoning the area. Some did not ride in the direction of Werrick Castle.

  Perhaps they thought Bran was dead. Even if they did, the number who abandoned him was not enough to allow Marin the opportunity to seize control of her home once more. Not with the number of men she had lost. And certainly not with her promise to marry Bran.

  She suspected many had grown weary of their time at Werrick Castle. A full belly only went so far when one’s pockets were not being padded with coin.

  Sir Richard waited by her side until Bran was put onto a horse with Drake. An arrow shot from somewhere unseen and sank into the earth between them.

  The Grahams were too close. It was time to go whether they were ready or not. Drake nodded and took off with Bran secured on the horse with him. Sir Richard and Marin urged their horses onward but remained at the rear of the band of her father’s soldiers and Bran's reivers. They rode as hard from battle as they'd ridden into it, both man and beast sweating with the effort to avoid the storm of Graham fighters thundering at their heels.

  There were so few soldiers ahead of them. Leila slumped limp against Anice, with Piquette running to keep up with the horses. Marin's heart clenched. Ella and Cat’s horses remained close to Anice; their concern echoed by their proximity to their fallen sister. She’d come so close to losing them all. And so many men had been slain.

  They had yet to assess those killed today, but she knew the number would be significant to her small force. She gritted her teeth against the icy wind pelting her face with shards of rain and wished she could equally stand up to tearing pain within.

  “They've gone, my lady,” Sir Richard shouted over the wind.

  She whipped her head to peer behind her. The Grahams were in the distance, their horses turned back in the direction of Mabrick. Apparently, they had decided the chase was not worth it with their stolen castle now secure.

  Tears burned in her eyes and leaked hot at the corners. She angrily wiped them away before Sir Richard could see and sniffed hard. Her face was chaffed from the wind, as raw outside as she was on the inside.

  She slowed their horses to a canter, as did the soldiers and reivers in front of them. All but Anice and Drake, who continued to sprint onward to get Leila and Bran to the healer with haste.

  Marin gasped for breath, her heart still going too fast. Beneath her legs, her horse's sides swelled in and out as he attempted to catch his breath as well. It had been close for all of them.

  “Richard, I…” Marin's words choked off as tears threatened to overwhelm her. Instead, she took a moment and looked down at her hands. She'd lost her gloves in the fray and her fingers had gone pink with bitter cold beneath the stains of fresh blood. “I'm sorry I sent you to Mabrick. All of you. I didn't know.” Her words broke again, and she shook her head in an attempt to clear the ache from her throat.

  The lines of Sir Richard's brow deepened. “You couldn't possibly have known, my lady.”

  Marin offered a distracted nod, unconvinced. Her father always seemed to know what was safe, and what was treacherous. It was a skill she had not yet had the opportunity to master. Her limited experience had incurred a steep cost.

  How she missed him, and longed for him to be home, to have made all these decisions instead of her.

  “Do you think enough of Bran's men have abandoned him?” Sir Richard nodded to Drake’s horse in the distance ahead of them.

  Her sigh billowed white in front of her face for a split second before being torn away by the wind. “Even if they did, retaking the castle isn't possible.” Marin's heart slid lower in her chest by the tug of regret. “I made an agreement.”

  “To save them.” Sir Richard regarded her sisters.

  She nodded.

  “Your father will be proud of you, my lady.”

  The captain of the guard always had encouraged her at her lower moments, except this time she couldn't tolerate Sir Richard’s praise. Not with everything she was giving up. For what would her father do when he returned from war and found his castle belonging to a marauder? And that Marin had married him?

  She merely nodded, unable to speak, unable to quell the gnawing unease in her stomach. Bran had been limp where he lay against Drake before they rode ahead. In truth, Bran might not live through the remainder of the journey back to the castle.

  And she would have nothing to uphold if he was dead.

  13

  Marin ran through the halls of the castle to where Leila shared chambers with the other three sisters. Bran's men did not stop her. In fact, many of his men had left the castle after seeing him in such an injured state.

  Bran was alive from what she’d heard, but his head wound had left him confused and disoriented. Marin had ordered him sent to the healer and would check on him later. But first she had to see to Leila, to know she was safe.

  Marin entered the room and found Anice standing over where Leila's small form lay in bed with Piquette on the floor by the foot of the bed. Anice looked up, tears bright in her eyes.

  “How is she?” Marin asked, even as she made her own assessment of their youngest sister's pale face.

  “Fortunate.” Anice spun the delicate ruby ring on her finger. Their mother had given it to her for her namesake day before the castle had been taken. It served to remind those who could remember of better times.

  “The arrow stuck fast into a rib, and the other in her arm, and will cause some discomfort.” Anice’s voice choked off. She swallowed and continued. “Isla says Leila will need several days of rest but will otherwise be fine.”

  Marin's throat went tight with the threat of tears. She settled her hand on Leila's small cheek. The littlest of her sisters did not register the caress, but the warmth of her skin against Marin's palm was sufficient reassurance.

  “Isla gave her a tea to help her sleep,” Anice said.

  Marin nodded, unable to break her gaze from Leila's precious face. Their healer had extraordinary skills, and never was Marin more grateful for those skills than now.

  Leila’s long dark lashes fanned down over pale cheeks. She had the pert nose of their mother and her deep blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. Marin's mind flinched away from any further thoughts of Leila's appearance, the way all the sisters did in avoidance of such thoughts.

  “She saw my death.” Anice's whisper was threaded with anguish. “She said she knew if she did not block those arrows,
I would have died.” Piquette issued forth a whine and shifted on the floor, as if understanding his mistress’ words.

  Marin glanced up at Anice in time to see the tears run down her cheeks.

  “She thought to sacrifice herself to save me.” Anice's voice broke on a sob. Piquette leapt to his feet and was immediately at her side, his great muzzle bumping into her palm.

  Marin opened her arms and Anice ran to her with the large dog in tow, the way she had done so often after their mother died. Anice tucked her face into Marin's shoulder and her back jerked with the force of her sobs.

  Marin offered soothing shushes and rubbed small circles over her sister’s back until the worst of her weeping had ceased. All the while, Piquette wriggled his tail nervously and pressed his massive body against the two of them, almost knocking them over in his clumsy attempt to comfort.

  In truth, it was hardest to console in times such as these, when Marin's own heart was breaking. Little Leila's near-sacrifice had been so altruistic, one of incredible generosity and love. And yet they had almost lost her. For a child of only ten, she was selfless when it came to those she loved—mayhap to a fault.

  “Leila will be fine,” Marin said resolutely, as much for herself as for Anice. “And you are alive, my beautiful sister.”

  Anice pulled away from Marin and wiped at her red-rimmed eyes. Even after having cried, Anice was still lovely.

  “Marin, I was so scared.” She shook her head. “If Bran and his reivers had not arrived, I do not think…” She sucked in a pained breath and did not finish the sentence they both knew the answer to. “Why did Bran come? Are his hostages worth so much? And where had you gone?”

  Marin's heart sank low into her belly. “I'd gone to kill him. I intended to secure our castle into our possession without risking anyone else. When I found out the Grahams had Mabrick, I asked him for help.” She tried to keep her head lifted, to stand by her decision made in a moment of desperation. For soon she would be honoring her vow.