He wanted her.
Dunstan told himself it was the memory of the camp, the brush with death, that made him want to seize life, however briefly. But as he stared down at her, he knew that the need plaguing him could be assuaged by no other woman. He wanted only this one. Now.
She was staring up at him like a trapped doe, and he could hear her breathing, quick and shallow. Dimly, he suspected that his own was coming loud and harsh. Tightening his grip on her arms, Dunstan tried to gain control of himself, but only when she flinched under his hold did his mind clear enough to return to him. In that instant, the flashing, hot moment was gone, the spell broken.
She blinked, as if suddenly released from some dark place—perhaps the same that had possessed him. “Dunstan de Burgh! Must you always bruise me?” she complained shakily.
He let go of her. “Come, we must be off,” he said roughly. Turning away, he strode forward without even waiting to see if she followed. His groin ached so painfully that he felt like seeing to himself. That would certainly send the wren scurrying for cover, he thought grimly. His lips curved at the image of touching himself in front of her, but his amusement fled swiftly, to be replaced by a swift surge of blood rushing through his body, heating him anew. By faith, of all the women in the land, why did this single female affect him so?
Clenching his jaw, Dunstan marched forward. To him, this bizarre attraction to one insignificant female was simply one more complication for which he had no time. Mentally, he tried to calculate how many more days he would have to spend in her company. If they could just reach Wisborough today, then he could find horses for them and perhaps an inn where they could spend the night. He would welcome a warm, soft bed in which to rest his bones. Unbidden, an image of Marion stretched out upon a feather tick, with her body loosely gowned and her hair spread out around her, came to his mind.
Dunstan swore aloud and turned his head round to glare at her.
She was walking with head bent, despair etched across her usually composed features, and Dunstan felt a sharp pain inside himself, as if someone had lanced a wound he did not remember taking. He shuddered for a moment, uncharacteristic indecision making him pause. Then, with a growl of annoyance, he reached out, unable to stop himself from touching her.
He saw her swift glance of surprise, those great dark eyes of hers wide and rich as the finest velvet, as he took her hand. He had only meant to comfort her, but the moment his ungloved fingers contacted the butter-soft leather that covered her own, the air sizzled between them as if a storm were brewing. Her dark gaze flew to his again, startlement followed swiftly by a heart-stopping languor that made him want to toss her down upon a bed of grass and thrust into her.
She wanted him, too.
The thought sent his head reeling, but all the connotations were lost in the shrill call of a bird overhead. Distractions. Complications. Dunstan thought of his dead men and cursed himself for a randy fool. Like as not, he would find his pleasure followed by an arrow in the back when his enemies discovered him taking his leisure upon her. And the wren… As much as he desired her, he did not want her life lost because of his own carelessness.
Dunstan dropped her hand, swearing silently this time, and trudged on.
CHAPTER TEN
Marion huddled in her blanket, watching Dunstan under lowered lashes. They had spoken little during the day’s long, tiring march. She had nursed her anger, and he had kept his thoughts to himself. Like a wolf, he had prowled restlessly forward, growling under his breath and maintaining his distance, except for a few odd occasions when he had suddenly reached out to her. At those moments, Marion could have sworn she saw dark desire flashing in his forest eyes.
She told herself she was imagining things.
The man had enough on his mind, between his grief and trying to keep them alive, without her putting dangerous thoughts in his head. Besides, he did not even like her. He did not even believe her. That stung, and Marion swallowed against a lump rising in her throat. His disbelief stood between them like one of Campion’s walls—tall, cold and impregnable.
Although it pained her, Marion was not really surprised by the Wolf’s attitude. That he had listened to her story at all was a small wonder. Dunstan de Burgh was not a man for half-truths or half measures. He liked things plain and simple, and with a sad smile, Marion knew her life could hardly be described in those terms.
Exhaustion rolled over her aching body in waves, threatening to drown her, but she struggled against it. Focusing on Dunstan, she watched him, marking with her eyes the dark spill of his hair, the high curve of his cheek, the muscled contours of his great body. And slowly, like a nameless fever, the strange heat that sparked between them roused her flagging body.
He would not light a fire, so they had eaten what food they had packed and made their bed at the foot of some trees. He sat leaning against a trunk, his legs spread before him and his eyes closed, and Marion felt a sweet familiarity at the sight. She concentrated on details to take with her when she left him: his thick lashes in repose against his skin and the shape of his hands, large but gentle, their backs dusted with hair.
Marion swallowed back a sound of shock at the sudden rise of her bodily humors. What was it about his hands that made her feel like shivering? She wondered if the rest of his body was covered with that fine coat of hair. She had never seen any part of his flesh uncovered, save for his hands. Perhaps that was why they seemed so exciting to her. They were naked without his gauntlets, and they had the power to daze her with one touch.
Tearing her gaze away from his fingers, Marion noted the rise and fall of his massive chest and wondered how soon he would be asleep. Despite her aching feet and tired body, she had to stay awake until she was certain that he slept, for it was then that she meant to make her escape.
The thought held no joy for her, only a numbing inevitability. Where once she would have been thrilled to outwit him, now Marion only felt an absurd longing for what could not be. Ironically, of all the pain that fought for a hold upon her, the impending loss of Dunstan was uppermost. The return of her memory made all her griefs fresh and new, from the deaths of her parents to the slaughter of her train, but her love for the Wolf was so overwhelming that to leave him would cut more deeply than aught else. Yet she could hardly stay with him just to be delivered to her enemy.
No matter how much she loved him, Marion refused to die needlessly for him.
And now, knowing the truth about her uncle, she was certain that death awaited her at Baddersly. Although she could not prove that Harold Peasely was responsible for last night’s slaughter, she knew for certain that he had murdered her own train that autumn morn, a lifetime ago, when she had sought to leave him.
Closing her eyes, Marion called back those days after the death of her parents when she had been grief-stricken and lonely. In the bleak years that followed, she had become a shadow of herself, isolated and fearful of her uncle’s increasingly difficult moods and violent behavior.
Like someone removed, Marion thought of the woman she had been then and wanted to weep for her. That woman could not have held her own against the de Burgh brothers, and she would never have had the courage to argue with the Wolf of Wessex. If he had slammed her up against a tree, pinning her with his body and his dark green gaze, she would have fainted away.
With a wry smile, Marion thought perhaps it was best that she had lost her memory, for how else would she have found this new woman inside herself? She closed her eyes to find an image of Dunstan forming in her mind, warming her even in the chill of the night. If she were truly brave, she would offer herself up to the Wolf and let him devour her….
Marion jerked awake and stared across at Dunstan’s shadowed form in the darkness. How long had she dozed? She cursed her weary body as she scanned the blackness that surrounded them, but perhaps it was not too late to make her escape. Listening to the Wolf’s breathing, low and even, Marion waited, her own breath caught perilously, until she was sure he was a
sleep. Then she rose, slowly and stealthily, to make her departure.
Maybe this time he would not follow her. After all, he was needed back at Wessex, and had more pressing concerns than one wayward woman. If only he would just let her go and get on with his life…Marion turned as quietly as possible and took a step away from him.
“Going somewhere, wren?”
Marion jumped a good foot at the question, which emanated from the base of the tree where Dunstan lounged in the blackness. “I was…just thirsty,” she said. “Where did you put the flagon of water?”
“‘Tis beside you,” he snapped, and Marion noted the underlying anger in his tone. Obviously, he did not believe her. She rooted noisily for the vessel, wondering how she was ever going to get away from him when he seemed never to sleep or let her out of his sight. Taking a long swallow, she put the drink away, and glared at him across the darkness. The man was infuriating.
“Remember, Marion—you have made your last escape from me,” Dunstan said suddenly, his voice harsh with warning.
It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but she had no desire to be trussed up and hauled back to Baddersly on the Wolf’s shoulder. And she would put nothing past Dunstan when he was in one of his moods. Let him think that she heeded him well; then she would do as she pleased.
“Yes, Dunstan,” she said meekly.
He grunted, incredulity evident in the sound, and Marion fought a smile. Apparently, he accepted her agreement, however, for when he spoke again his tone was gentler. “I shall judge myself just what kind of man this uncle of yours may be. You have no need to fear, wren, for I will not let anyone kill you.”
The gruff assurance was a small concession, but Marion’s heart swelled. She loved him so much that she was surprised he could not see it, rising up to overflow her and wash over him in the night. If only he would believe her… If only things were different…
“Now, come. Lie with me,” Dunstan said softly, extending his hand.
Taking his words at face value, Marion made a small sound of startlement as her body responded with a dizzying assent. Although she had only vague ideas of what went on between a man and a woman, she felt helpless to deny such an invitation. The Wolf of Wessex wanted her? Marion leaned forward eagerly, her love for him overriding her modesty, her caution and her good sense.
The hiss of Dunstan’s surprise rang out loudly in the stillness. “Make your bed here beside me, wren, and get some sleep,” he ordered harshly. Disappointment flooded Marion as she realized her mistake. He did not want her to lie with him; he wanted her to lie near him—probably so he could prevent any further escapes. For some reason, the knowledge made the backs of her eyelids prick with pressure.
Of all the foolishness! She had seen enough death and destruction this day to last her a lifetime, and yet she would weep because Dunstan de Burgh was not going to kiss her? Marion smiled crookedly, glad that he could not see her features. It was too dark for that, but she could still make out his arm, reaching toward her.
Gathering up her blanket obediently, Marion inched forward, then hesitated. His hand was still outstretched, waiting, and without a thought about it, Marion stripped off her glove and placed her bare hand in his.
It was wonderful. His fingers were so warm and strong. She had known that, of course, but she could never have guessed at the way his skin would feel against her own—delightfully rough and different, firm but gentle. She wanted to rub her palm against his in a soft caress.
He growled her name, so low and impatiently that it startled her, and Marion lifted her head, trying to see his face in the blackness. He said nothing more, but she could hear his breath, rapid as her own tripping heartbeat. A long minute passed by, and then another.
“Go to sleep,” Dunstan finally ordered gruffly. He released her, and Marion knew a moment’s regret, but she felt good, too. She had touched him, really touched him, her skin to his, and now she could take the memory of it with her when she left. Nestling down beside him as he leaned against the tree, Marion pulled the cover over her and closed her eyes.
Dunstan’s heat reached out to her, and she fought the urge to doze once again in the warm shelter of his body, for she was still determined to escape. After all, the man had to sleep sometime, and when he did, she wanted to be ready. Stifling a great yawn, Marion told herself to stay awake, but before she knew it, her mind was drifting, the image of the Wolf’s hand appearing before her eyes.
Was it only yesterday when she had been shocked at spending the night alone with him? Now, she would willingly go into his arms, if he would but ask her. Smiling, Marion dreamed of kissing the dark hairs that were scattered across his skin, the long fingers that held such strength and the roughened palm that had touched her own.
* * *
The rain woke her. It began dripping down through the leaves around dawn, striking her face until she opened her eyes. Still groggy with sleep, Marion took a few minutes to realize where she was, but when she glanced around, Dunstan was already up, hurriedly preparing for another march. Marion felt like groaning aloud—or throwing something at him.
The prospect of another day of walking filled her with loathing. Her body ached, her feet were blistered, and she longed for nothing more than a soft bed where she could lay her head. Instead, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with the Wolf of Wessex, who, from the looks of him, was even grumpier than usual.
A steady drizzle continued, obscuring the line of the road and forcing them to leave the cover of the trees, which ill suited Dunstan. After a string of low oaths, he said they should reach Wisborough soon, but as every new hill rose and fell before them, Marion began to wonder. And even the promise of approaching a village could not raise her spirits, for each step took them closer to Baddersly.
Although she had not surrendered her hopes for escape, Marion did not know how to get away in the mess that the world had become. She could barely keep her footing on the slick grass and muddy hollows. As the morning wore on, she was soaked to the bone, wet through cloak and gown and shift and skin—wet, tired and miserable.
Knight that he was, Dunstan plodded on as though oblivious to the conditions that tortured her, and his stoic silence added to her frustration. The only time he even acknowledged her existence was when she slipped. Then a strong arm would shoot out to steady her, but gradually those gestures began to resemble impatient tugs rather than chivalrous assistance.
The temper that Marion had only recently discovered in herself began to make itself known, urging her to stomp along in an ungainly manner that could not match the Wolf’s long, graceful strides. Naturally, she slid again, prevented from a tumble into a puddle only by a swift, bone-crunching grip on her elbow.
She shook it off, stopped still right where she was and let the rain pelt her sodden cloak. For a long moment, she stood watching as Dunstan trudged on ahead. Then, suddenly, he turned around to glare at her, a question in his shadowed eyes. Her first thought was that the insufferable man still looked as handsome as ever, even with water matting his dark hair to his head and dripping down his broad cheekbones past that incredible mouth.
Marion’s anger dimmed somewhat as helpless, hopeless love for him welled up in her, but she tried on one of his infamous grimaces and held her ground. “I am surprised, Dunstan de Burgh, that you do not pull out a length of rope, tie me to you and drag me along like chattel.”
His positively blank look told her that he was oblivious to his less than tender treatment of her. Against her will, Marion’s heart melted some more. She had to force her lips into a scowl. “Dunstan, I am a mass of bruises from your rough handling! Despite what you may think of me, I am a woman, and I am not made of leather and stone.”
A long silence followed in which his forest eyes seemed to burn into her. “Believe me, wren,” he finally said, his voice low and rough. “I am well aware that you are a woman.”
His tone made Marion catch her breath, but she told herself not to read anything into it. H
ow often had she imagined that Dunstan de Burgh was noticing her? More times than she could count, and naught, so far, had come from it. She steeled herself against the darkening of his gaze. “Then quit grabbing me!”
His eyes narrowed, and he gave her that look that said she was a woman all right—a baffling one. “You want me to let you fall headfirst into a ditch?”
“No.”
He put his hands on his hips. “Well, then, Marion, what exactly do you want?” The condescending tone that told her he thought her naught but a foolish female made her temper flare anew.
“What do I want? I will tell you what I want, Dunstan de Burgh, baron of Wessex. I want this to stop—all of this,” she said, raising a hand to encompass the surrounding area. “And right now. Why should I trudge along in this rain on a march to my own death? It is bad enough that you are going to deliver me into the hands of a murderer, but must you torture me first?”
Marion could see the swift rise of irritation in the tightening of his mouth, but she went on. “Let us just turn around, Dunstan, for the love of God! Take me to Campion or to Wessex or the nearest village. Or just leave me here! Go on. Go on about your business,” she said, moving her hand in a shooing gesture.
“Go on about your business and tell everyone that I died along with your train. It will hurt you naught to tell this small falsehood. And it will save my life!”
“My father—” Dunstan began, a grimace on his face, but Marion did not let him continue.
“Your father cares not what becomes of me. And my uncle will be overjoyed to learn of my demise. ‘Twill save him the trouble of murdering me, and he will take all my lands in celebration. May he have joy of them.” Worn-out and dejected, she stared at Dunstan, hoping against hope for some sign of agreement.
“Are you finished?” he growled at her, his jaw clenched.
“No, I am not.” Marion plopped down upon a nearby rock. “I am staying right here. Go on, now,” she said, shooing him away again as she would a pesky fly. “And leave me be.”
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