Drifting off in that haze between awareness and dreams, Marion was slow to recognize the subtle change in Dunstan’s embrace. Dimly, she noticed the great muscles in the arm beneath her head become hard and tense, the body touching hers grow taut. She moved, snuggling tighter, but the low hiss of his indrawn breath made her open her eyes and freeze, suddenly alarmed.
Her first thought was that something threatened them, but Marion realized quickly that no forest danger made the heart beneath her hand quicken its pace. In an instant, she knew what the problem was, for in an instant she felt it, too. What had but a moment ago been an innocent caress had become something else entirely as that strange fire flared between them.
Although she could not see his eyes, Marion knew they had darkened to the green-black that marked his desire. Her own eyes widened in shock, but she remained still, afraid to move lest any motion acerbate the raw, hot feeling that was coursing through her and, she suspected, through him.
Dunstan burned her everywhere they met—where her knee rested casually on his thigh and where his hard chest, encased in mail, lay beneath her arm. Even her scalp tingled where it touched the thick muscle of his arm. Her breasts became absurdly sensitive, the linen of her shift seeming to rub against them. It felt deliciously good.
Marion stiffened in surprise. Although she knew little of her past, she thought herself innocent. Then why this wanton yearning? And why only with Dunstan? She had never lain in a man’s arms before, as far as she knew, but she had touched all of the de Burghs at one time or another and had never felt this wrenching heat with any of them—except the eldest.
Her throat became dry, and her body began to ache from the effort it took to hold herself rigidly in place. Finally, when she could bear it no more, Marion shifted her weight, easing away from him a little, her leg sliding along his. Dunstan made a soft, strangled sound, and she glanced up at him swiftly, but she could see naught of his shadowed face in the darkness.
“Go to sleep,” he ordered hoarsely. Sleep? Every humor in her body was alive and seeking Dunstan. It was the strangest experience, frightening and wonderful, exciting and terrible, all at the same time. Would he kiss her? Marion fought the urge to search his face with her fingers and beg him to do just that. If only she could see him! Was he scowling? Or were his green eyes glinting with that wolfish look that threatened to devour her?
She waited, tense with anticipation, but Dunstan made no move, no sound, and gradually she realized the foolishness of her behavior. She had heard enough of Stephen’s ribald commentary to know that she should not be here, lying in Dunstan’s embrace, and wanting more.
Shame colored her cheeks and made her roll over, but she was not free of Dunstan immediately. Her bottom brushed his hip, and he jerked as if she had scorched him before she could inch from his side. Now only the top of her head touched him, resting against his arm.
They both lay stiffly then, their breathing swift and shallow. Marion stared out into the blackness of the woods, feeling again the chill in the air and the bark of the tree digging into her. Her new position left something to be desired in the way of comfort, but what else could she do?
She could turn back over and put her arms around him, drawing him to her and melting into his heat….
Marion had to bite back the sound that rushed up at the thought. She could not. There were names for women who gave their favors freely, and they were not nice. Did she really want a quick tumble from the Wolf? No, Marion’s heart cried out. She wanted more….
It was impossible. No matter what strange desires she might harbor for him, no matter what tender emotions she might feel for him, Dunstan was the man who was taking her, against her will, to Baddersly, where he would abandon her. Marion closed her eyes against a sudden ache and turned her mind to calming images, as she often did to maintain her composure. “Tell me of Wessex,” she said softly.
“Wessex?” For a moment, Dunstan sounded as if he were the one with no memory, as if the name of his home ushered up naught but confusion in his mind. Then he began to talk, slowly at first, but soon warming to his subject, and Marion could almost see his holdings in her mind: the green valleys, the steep hillsides and the tall castle in the midst of it all.
Under the soft, low rhythm of his speech, the fire between them waned, and the exhaustion that had been working upon Marion since her ordeal drew her heavily into its grasp. The hard bed, the height of her perch, and the coolness of the night faded away under the lulling warmth of his voice, and she slept.
* * *
It was barely light when Dunstan woke her. He stood below her, a great, menacing presence, staring up at her with a scowl, and Marion sensed that the man who had spoken freely to her of his hopes for his home was gone with the darkness. Dunstan was back to his old surly self. She smiled at him, anyway, for she had grown accustomed to his moods.
“I would get back to the train as quickly as we can. ‘Tis unwise to linger here,” he said curtly.
Marion nodded, and he lifted her down. For a moment, his hands rested at her waist and his green eyes met hers, but then he drew back as if she had burned him. Was she only imagining this strange pull between them? Or perhaps she, naive fool that she was, was the only one of them who felt anything at all.
Reaching down to smooth out her clothes, Marion’s suspicions were realized, for one look at herself told her that the Wolf of Wessex could not possibly be attracted to her. Her cloak and gown were filthy dirty and covered in dark splotches that could only be the blood of her attackers. With a sinking heart, she lifted a hand to her hair to find it curling about her wildly. She fished a piece of leaf and a small twig from the tangles and frowned at them, unaware that Dunstan was watching her.
“‘Tis not so pleasant to be on the run, is it, Marion?” he said sharply.
Oh, here it comes…. The lecture she had expected last night would be delivered now, when he was obviously at his worst. Remind me never to wake him early, Marion thought, then wondered what had put such a ridiculous notion into her head. She certainly would never be called upon to rouse the Wolf!
None too pleased herself this morn, Marion turned away, intending to attend to her personal needs, but his big hand closed about her arm in a firm grip. Her first reaction was to shrink into herself, to lower her head and protect herself somehow from whatever angry tirade was coming, but a winter spent with Dunstan’s brothers had hardened her, and after three escape attempts her small spark of independence was flaring brightly.
She had also weathered enough recently to put her into a mood foul enough to match his own. The attack upon her person and the ensuing battle had left her shaken, dirty and covered with blood, while the night spent in the tree had left her bruised and aching and nursing a stiff neck. She was thirsty, hungry and desperate to relieve herself, and right now, she did not want to hear Dunstan de Burgh yell at her.
The surge of temper gave her strength, and Marion swung around so swiftly that she managed to loose herself from his grasp. “Let go of me, Dunstan de Burgh!” she cried. “I am sick to death of your bullying!”
He stared down at her openmouthed, the stunned look on his face nearly comical. “Bullying? Bullying! By faith, I saved your life, you ungrateful wench!” Tall and broad as one of the surrounding oaks, he stood with his feet apart and both hands on his hips, the scowl on his face reaching a new level of ferocity.
Marion was unmoved. “Now, if you will excuse me!” She turned to go, but his hand shot out to stop her again.
“I will not!” Dunstan’s eyes narrowed, and his fine lips tightened into a thin line. “For I cannot trust you to have the good sense not to run off again! Day of God, lady, are you witless? Know you not what those men were about last night? They would have used you and left you for dead!”
Gripping her arm tighter, Dunstan shook her roughly, as if to gain her attention, and Marion realized that she really ought to be frightened of this huge, threatening knight. She really ought to freeze where she w
as, uttering not a word, and hope that he tired of this game before he truly hurt her. If she did anything at all, she ought to fall to her knees and beg his forgiveness.
Marion knew what she ought to do. Instead, she spat a curse at him and stomped on his foot. It was hard as a rock and made her own ache. She hopped up and down in a one-legged jig.
Dunstan swore to himself, grimacing at her antics. “By faith, listen to me, Marion! I am trying to protect you! Even if you are so foolish as to ignore what happened to you last night, I am not! Do you know how I felt when I saw you between those men?”
Although he was shouting and he still held her arm too tightly, his words made her look up, and Marion stared in surprise. Was something besides rage fueling this fit of his? His green eyes held a hint of confusion, and Marion felt her own anger fade.
“No, I do not know,” she said softly. “What did you feel, Dunstan?”
Releasing her so suddenly that she nearly stumbled, he turned and strode restlessly away from her. “I would that you see how dangerous it is to be out here alone.” Although his voice was low and taut, the reply came too easily, as if he hid the real answer not only from her, but from himself.
Or perhaps her imagination ran away with her. Marion rubbed her bruised arm and stared at the handsome man who roamed like a wolf among the woods, avoiding her gaze, avoiding anything that might tame him, and she knew not what he really felt. “I want you to stop this foolishness and go home willingly,” he said gruffly.
“To what?” Marion asked softly. “What difference if I die here or at Baddersly?”
He swung around to face her, and she stepped back from his menacing form as he snarled at her. “Be reasonable, woman! The difference is that you will die here—and brutally—yet you do not know that death awaits you at your home.”
“It does, and I know it, Dunstan,” Marion answered calmly. Looking off into the distance, she tried to frame Baddersly in her mind, but failed. Slowly, quietly, she laid a hand over her breast. “I do not know it with my mind or my memory, but I know it with my heart. I sense it.”
Dunstan snorted loudly.
“If you refuse to believe me, then I know not what to say to convince you.” Marion disliked argument of any sort, and she knew that this exchange with the eldest de Burgh would change nothing. Obviously, he was not in a receptive mood. As filthy as herself, he had probably kept watch throughout the darkness. He was tired and surly and no doubt chafing at the delay the night had cost him.
His mouth twisted. “You try my patience, Marion. Have you no faith in Campion? He will see to it no harm comes to you.”
“Will he?” Marion scoffed. “My champion has sent me from the safety of his walls to a place I do not know, where I will be at the mercy of a man I do not even remember!” The skeptical look on his face grated her temper again, and she pointed a finger at his massive chest.
“You can have no idea how I feel, Dunstan, because you have always been surrounded by your brothers. You have a loving family, trusted retainers and soldiers who would risk their lives for you. At Baddersly naught familiar awaits me. I know naught of that place but dread!”
“You are mad,” he snarled, “either that or totally witless.”
“Fine,” Marion said with resignation. “Believe what you will. You always have. But, now, I must attend to myself.” She stepped forward, but he was in front of her, halting her path, in a thrice, and she wondered how someone so big could move so quickly and so quietly.
“No.” Dunstan’s hands were on his hips again, his legs apart in his warrior stance as he glared down at her.
“What?” Marion’s eyes flew to his in confusion.
“No,” he said smugly. “I admit that you have tricked me more than once, wren, but I would be a fool to let you do it again. You may not have a care for that luscious body of yours, but I must. My father has charged me with returning you to Baddersly, alive and reasonably well, so I do not intend to let you out of my sight until I have delivered you into the hands of your uncle. I suggest that if you wish to relieve yourself, you had better lift your skirts, and do it. We have already wasted enough time this morn.”
Marion was taken aback. Surely, he did not mean to watch her? “But…but…” she stammered, blushing furiously. “You cannot expect me to…” Her voice trailed off as she realized there was something positively malicious in the way his lips curved into a smile that was not quite a smile.
“I do,” he said simply.
Marion flushed crimson. “How dare you? I am a gentlewoman!” she protested.
Instead of agreeing, Dunstan had the audacity to throw back his head and laugh. “You have yet to convince me of it,” he said.
For the first time in her life, Marion felt like striking someone. She smoothed her hands upon her gown, instead, and searched for some semblance of composure. Obviously, she could not assault the Wolf of Wessex. She would have to reason with him. “You are being ridiculous. I can go nowhere in these woods, and you have proven that you can find me anyway,” she said a bit bitterly.
“‘Tis true,” he said, “but I have no wish to dally further. Come, now, do what you will and let us be off.” He glanced pointedly at the dawn breaking over the treetops.
Marion opened her mouth to protest further, but something in his stance told her that it would be futile. She was rapidly learning that arguing with Dunstan de Burgh was a useless endeavor, and while she did not think him vindictive, she suspected that he was enjoying her discomfiture. Not wishing to prolong the ignominious conversation any longer, Marion bent her head. “Turn around at least,” she said softly.
“I will not.”
“Dunstan!” Her eyes snapped up to forest-green ones.
“I will look away,” he conceded. “I have no intention of watching you closely, wren, but I mean to keep a bit of your skirts in sight ere you climb up the nearest tree or lead me upon some new dance. Hear me now, Marion, you have made your last escape from me.”
Utterly mortified, at first Marion simply gave him her back, but nature’s call was too strong. Somehow, she managed to squat carefully, arranging her skirts as best she good, and go about her business. Of course, she knew he could not really see anything, but it was little comfort.
“I do not suppose there is a stream nearby in which to wash,” she said as she turned again to face him.
“I do not suppose there is, Marion,” he answered. “‘Tis one of the disadvantages of running away into the wild.”
He motioned for her to walk with him, back to camp, and Marion calmly did as he bade, wrapping her cloak tightly around her as if to ward off his ill humor. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.
“I shall never forgive you for that, Dunstan de Burgh,” she said as they moved forward.
He did not even grunt in response, and Marion concentrated on making her way through the heavy undergrowth. Really, the man was impossible! Obviously, Campion had spoiled him unforgivably and everyone let him run roughshod over them, but she would not!
Handsome and strong and vital he might be, but she could not excuse his behavior. Well, some of it was, of course, due to her penchant for tricking him. And some seemed to stem from the Wolf’s concern for her—which she still found difficult to believe. But most of it was rudeness, plain and simple. The man really needed to be taken in hand….
Although outwardly composed, Marion was still out of sorts. While walking along, she recalled every bit of their conversation, adding pithy comments she wished she had thought of at the time. They had reached the path before she slanted a shocked look up at the man beside her and nearly stumbled.
Had the Wolf of Wessex really called her body “luscious”?
CHAPTER NINE
Marion trudged along the path, wondering what she had done in her life to deserve the trials she had recently undergone—especially the trial who strode easily beside her over the uneven ground. Despite being twice her size, Dunstan was much more graceful than she
would ever be, which was another example of the injustice of the world, Marion decided. As if she needed another example to add to her already lengthy list! Losing her memory was bad enough. Then Campion had tossed her out, and now… Now she had done the most ridiculous thing she could recall.
Out of all seven of the de Burgh brothers, she had to pick the least likable, most recalcitrant one with whom to fall in love.
It was obvious to her now, although she was not quite sure when it had happened. Sometime during their days on the road together, she had begun to care for the huge, surly knight at her side. Last night, when he had come to her rescue, Marion had felt it—a warm, rush of feeling unlike anything she could remember. It had filled her up so completely that it threatened to spill out of her, perhaps onto Dunstan himself.
Foolishness. Marion slanted a glance at him and nearly stumbled. His hand shot out and gripped her arm—too tightly—but she did not protest. In his own way, he was trying his best to help her, even though he was scowling ferociously at her plodding, bumbling pace. Marion noted idly that she was in desperate straits. She was not only accustomed to his grimace; she had grown to like it.
Foolishness! None of it mattered because in a few days he would leave her to her fate, without a backward glance. And she… She had no business mooning over the Wolf; she had her very life to think about. The closer they drew to Baddersly, the more imperative it became that she manage to escape. Yet how could she, when Dunstan would not let her out of his sight even to relieve herself?
Would he continue to haunt her? What of tonight? Did he intend to sleep beside her in her small tent? Marion tried to ignore the heated rush of bodily humors that the very thought of such closeness engendered. She shut her eyes, suddenly, painfully aware of his presence beside her—and his touch.
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