Whether a convent or death or exile awaited her, what use to keep her maiden’s virtue? She loved Dunstan de Burgh with every breath of her body, and whether sinful or no, she would take this chance to know him as a woman. Any moment now she might wake up to find this all a dream, a frenzied fantasy brought on by the long, wet march and her love for the man before her. Why not glory in it?
Marion was disinclined to let go of this vision without savoring each moment. Gathering her courage, she reached out and laid her palm against the soft matting of hair upon his chest.
The Wolf growled a low sound of encouragement as his hand moved into her hair to drag her face to his. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deep and hot, in a kiss that acknowledged her surrender. Between them, the blanket slipped from her lifeless fingers, and their naked bodies came together.
It was incredible. The same wild, drowning sensation that Dunstan had conjured out in the rain, rushed through her, and Marion welcomed it. She lifted her arms and circled his neck, enjoying the strange feel of her bare breasts pressing into his hard chest. His hands ran down her back, closed over her buttocks and then lifted her to meet him.
Marion felt the floor drop away and the dizzying pressure of his manhood as he fitted her to him at the same time that he deepened his kiss, his mouth hot and open upon hers, devouring her. She had no idea how long she clung to him breathlessly, adrift in a maelstrom of passion, but eventually she became aware that Dunstan was lifting her legs to his hips. Then, he slid an arm around her and bent, with amazing ease, to pick up the blanket.
Still holding her, Dunstan tossed the material over the straw and fell onto the mattress. With a gasp, Marion took some of his great weight before he settled himself over her. Then he was upon her, his heat torching her skin, his callused palms running over her as his lips reclaimed hers. He cupped her breasts, kneading and lifting, rubbing the nipples with his thumbs until Marion whimpered and shivered.
“Ah, wren. Ah, yes,” Dunstan muttered before his hand moved lower, caressing her thighs and closing tightly around her buttocks. Blinking up at him, Marion saw that his handsome face looked dark and fierce in the dim glow of the fire. It gleamed off a lock of drying hair that fell across his cheek, and her blood sang in her ears at the sight of him, beautiful and untamed.
When he touched her between her legs, Marion flinched at the contact, but he murmured a rough assurance in her ear. “Yes, wren, I must… Ah, God, you are already wet.” And it was true, though where the moisture came from, Marion had no idea. It was there, and he was spreading it on her, stroking her with his great, callused hand. Who would ever have imagined such a thing? As if of their own accord, Marion’s hips lifted to his questing touch, and then one of his large, long fingers slipped inside her.
Marion gasped at the bizarre intimacy. He probed her, and she let him, but just as she was becoming accustomed to the foreign presence, Dunstan removed it and settled himself between her thighs. With a shock, she realized that he was guiding himself into her now, and she was dizzy with a mixture of shock and forbidden pleasure.
To think of Dunstan de Burgh inside her body. It was as startling as it was seductive, and then he was entering her, huge and hard, and Marion felt too full of him. She cried out, and he stopped his uncomfortable progress. His breath was a harsh rhythm above her, his face taut, his eyes closed. Had she done something wrong? She had no idea how to ease this increasingly painful union.
“Ah, Marion, Marion,” he said, his voice catching oddly. “You are a maid.”
“Of course,” she murmured, confused by his words.
“Ah, God, I did not…” Dunstan sucked in air in a low hiss. “I must go deeper, wren,” he muttered, and she realized that he was gritting his teeth, as if he, too, were suffering.
“No!” Marion protested, alarmed.
“Yes. Yes, take all of me, wren.” The speech seemed torn from his throat, then he surged forward, and pain seared through her like a hot lance. Marion cried out with the force of it, sure that he had rent her asunder.
“Day of God,” Dunstan muttered. As she stared up at him in mute horror, he opened his eyes and met her accusing gaze. “Ah, wren, do not look at me like that. I would make you tremble again.” He lifted a handful of her hair and ran his fingers through its thickness. “I will make you tremble again for me. Only me.”
Growling out the promise, Dunstan moved inside of her, and Marion would have balked but for the rapturous expression on his face. Small beads of sweat formed on his brow as he withdrew and then thrust, slowly at first, and then faster. He made wonderful sounds that made her feel all weak and warm inside, and yet she sensed the Wolf was tightly reined. Then, abruptly, he slid a big hand to her buttocks and lifted her to meet him, straining, in a gesture of fierce possession.
He would devour her. Marion felt again that thin thread of alarm at his ferocious plundering, but her body knew no fear. It rose to greet him, and passion returned with a vengeance. Suddenly, she was as wild and desperate as the Wolf himself. When his fingers dug into her, forcing her closer while he thrust deeper, Marion answered by sobbing his name.
“Dunstan!” she screamed as piercing pleasure so sharp as to be painful shattered her, and then, as if through a haze, she saw the Wolf’s great body shudder violently before it fell heavily on top of her. She was nearly crushed for a moment before he seemed to come back to his senses and rolled to the side, taking her with him.
“Ah, wren, so good. So good…” he whispered against the top of her head.
Marion tried to reply, but she could find no words to describe what had happened between them, the passion and the glory and the wonder…. I love you, Dunstan de Burgh, she wanted to say, but instead she blinked back tears and snuggled closer to the amazing heat of him.
For once, Marion did not worry about tomorrow or escape or Baddersly. She thought only of Dunstan, and she let the even sound of his breathing lull her to sleep.
* * *
Marion was dreaming of butterflies. They fluttered across her skin as she lay naked in the sun, blessedly warm and fascinated by the sensation of their wings touching her bare flesh. Bare flesh? Confused, Marion felt the dream fade, to be replaced by a reality even more delightful: tender, moist kisses were being placed all over her body.
She opened her eyes, startled to see the dark head of Dunstan de Burgh poised over her until remembrance flooded back, heating her blood and her cheeks. The fire cast his features in gold and shadow, making him look fierce, as usual, but Marion was surprised to see his green eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched.
“I did that,” he said. Marion was at a loss as to his meaning until she followed his intent gaze to her upper arms, marked with bruises that were of his making.
“Not…recently,” she whispered, her face flushing crimson.
He grunted in response, and Marion would have admitted that her skin bruised easily, but the words stopped in her throat. As she watched, the Wolf lowered his head and placed his lips to the discolored flesh. His kiss was utterly gentle, warm and tantalizing, and then she felt the slow sweep of sensation when he touched his tongue to her.
Marion sighed as all her senses reawakened, clamoring to life for the Wolf. He lavished his attention first on one arm, then the other, and then he returned to hover over her chest, a secretive smile, full of dark promise, curving his lips before he leaned forward and put his mouth to her breast.
She shivered, although her body was aflame, alive and wanting. Dunstan growled in triumph, his tongue darting out to taste her, and its touch seemed to delve beyond the surface of her skin to reach deep inside of her. Helplessly, Marion entwined her fingers in his hair and arched upward until he took her nipple into his mouth, suckling her like an infant.
Just when she thought she could stand no more, he took her other breast, and Marion moved against him restlessly, hungry for the surcease she had known before. If all this was designed to make her want him inside of her again, it was working, she th
ought, for she wanted him, needed him, had to have him….
When his lips left her breast, Marion was bereft, but he moved down her stomach, teasing her flesh, fueling her desire. She felt him part her legs, and he kissed the inside of her thighs, drifting closer and closer to the apex. And then he took her bottom in his big hands and lifted her to his mouth.
Marion gasped when his tongue touched her so intimately. It stroked her, flicking against her secrets and making forays inside her until she was shivering uncontrollably at this strange, new torment. “Mercy!” she cried, breathlessly.
“Yes, love, yes! Tremble for me,” Dunstan whispered heatedly. The rough stubble of his cheeks rasped against her skin wickedly as he spoke, and his fingers tightened upon her buttocks. He lifted his head to look at her, and Marion, through the dark mane of his hair, saw his eyes glinting with a feral light. His parted lips glistened with a sheen of moisture before he bent his head to her again.
Suddenly, everything seemed to converge in that spot between her legs: each breath, each beat of her heart, each drop of blood, each fiber of muscle. Closing her eyes, Marion threw back her head, and gasping wildly, pushed against the mouth that eagerly met her. Then she came apart, shattering into a million pieces even as she clutched at Dunstan and cried out at the unimaginable pleasure that rent her flesh.
Vaguely, Marion became aware of him nudging at her body, gaining entrance, and filling her with his great member as she became whole again. This time there was no pain, only a biting hot sensation of fullness, and then Dunstan was moving, sliding nearly out of her until she demanded his return and he buried himself deep again. It felt so good that Marion was soon wild, so consumed with new passion that she did not even know she had spoken aloud until Dunstan echoed her.
“Yes. So good, my wren. So good,” he growled. Wrapping a fist in her hair, he bent down to kiss her, his tongue plundering as she tasted herself upon his lips. He devoured her, eating her mouth in a fierce and frantic communion until finally, gasping, he loosed her to move faster and sink farther. “I shall never have my fill of you, wren,” he whispered hoarsely. “No matter how deep I go, ‘tis never enough.”
He slid a hand along her thigh, lifting it, and, because it seemed the thing to do, Marion wrapped her legs around him. He responded with another low growl and pushed harder, as if he truly could not reach his goal. His breathing was loud and ragged and he grunted his pleasure until the sound alone made Marion feverish and frantic.
She dug her nails into his muscles, wanting him to do something, anything, to ease the fires raging inside her. In response, she felt his palms slide down her arms to pin her hands against the mattress just as everything was coalescing. Entwining his fingers in hers, he thrust home, and Marion came apart again while he groaned and shuddered, spilling his seed into her.
This time, Dunstan said nothing in the aftermath of their union, but he again pulled her close, fitting her back to his massive chest and wrapping his strong arms around her until she felt as though she were in a cocoon, safe and blessedly warm. Marion was so accustomed to seeing him resting upright against a tree that this nestling position seemed strangely at odds with his usual behavior.
Perhaps he only curled up this way when he had a woman with him, Marion thought, and felt immediate regret at the notion. She did not want to imagine Dunstan de Burgh with any other female, but she could not fool herself. She knew from his reputation that he had known his share of ladies. And yet, maybe today had been different for him, Marion thought, with a glimmer of defiant hope. She had been amazed at the selfless way the Wolf had pleasured her this last time, and she colored to remember just how he had done so. He had seemed different somehow, more tender and giving.
Swallowing back a thickness in her throat, Marion listened to his even breathing, and then smiled when she heard him emit a low snore. Apparently, the man did sleep sometimes! The unguarded intimacy of the sound made her blink back tears. Foolishness, she knew, but how she loved him! The passion they had shared only made that love more wonderful, more powerful and…more painful. For no matter what she felt, they would part—and soon.
And now, when she knew that he well and truly slept, would be as good a time as any for her to make her escape. Marion realized that, and yet she could not force her limbs, still heavy with lethargy, to move. She wanted to stay in the heavenly heat of him forever.
Heaving a great sigh of regret, Marion finally wiggled free of his embrace. She sat up on their makeshift bed and looked down at him, still deep in slumber, and her heart swelled with yearning. Without his perpetual scowl, his handsome face was softer, his lips gently curved in repose. His dark lashes were long and thick, a perfect compliment to the dark de Burgh hair that fell across his forehead.
If only she could stay.
Perhaps she would remain just long enough to eat, Marion considered. After all, there was no sense in running off into the wilds and starving to death. And she was thirsty, too. Climbing out of the cozy bower where Dunstan de Burgh had taught her the meaning of passion, she looked around the small, dim hut.
She needed a bath. Standing, Marion realized how sticky and sore she was. Mayhap she would stay long enough to wash. With a slow smile she remembered the well, and dressing in her dry clothes, she grabbed up a bucket by the fireplace and opened the door.
The afternoon was as sparkling and bright as a newly minted coin, and Marion blinked in the sunlight. All around her the wet grass gleamed, and the air itself smelled fresh and clean. Was it only a coincidence that the gloominess of the past few days had vanished in the sweet consummation of her love? With a giddiness she had not known since girlhood, Marion ran across the shining green carpet to her destination.
She was busy trying to lower the bucket when the sound of hoofbeats froze her in her spot. She stood silently, her hand upon the rope while she glanced around, realizing all too quickly that there was no place to hide. The hut was set in what had obviously been a clearing, and both it and the nearest grove of trees were too far away for her to reach running.
Letting the bucket fall, Marion slowly turned, memories of mounted marauders flashing vividly in her mind. Should she scream? Would Dunstan hear her? Counting six riders, she clamped her mouth shut, for even the Wolf could do nothing against that many men. Her fear shifted its focus to Dunstan then, and Marion silently willed him to continue his slumber, for worse than anything that might happen to her was the thought that he might be cut down, like the Miller boys, before her eyes.
It never crossed her mind that the riders could be harmless or lost or fellow travelers; Marion had learned to expect the worst. And as if to confirm her beliefs, the worst appeared in front of her as she spotted the black and gold colors that marked the riders as her uncle’s men.
They had come for her at last. Panic nearly blinded her, but Marion sucked in deep breaths, trying to think, to scheme, to lose the dazed contentment that had clouded her sharp mind.
Bryan Goodson, the head of her uncle’s guard, rode at the lead, and when Marion recognized him, her very heart stilled. Half-formed plans to brazen out the meeting by posing as a peasant wench died a quick death, for Goodson would know her, even dressed as she was in wrinkled and stained clothing, her hair loose and tangled.
She was lost.
Perhaps it was best this way, Marion thought a bit wildly. She would not have to suffer any sad goodbyes or strained words with Dunstan; she would take only the glory of the past few hours with her. She sought it out, clutching it tightly as she turned to face them and retreated deep within herself.
“Lady Warenne!” She heard the shocked surprise in Goodson’s voice and saw the thinly veiled disdain for her appearance. How well her uncle had turned them all against her! “What are you about? How came you here?”
“My escort was slain,” Marion said, her eyes narrowing. Or do you know that only too well, Goodson? Did you kill them all? she wondered, her throat tightening as she choked back the unformed words.
&nb
sp; Marion waited, wondering if he intended to finish his bloody job right now and murder her where she stood. A small part of her longed for a swift end, but that tenacious flame that had begun burning inside her at Campion would not go out. It urged her to practice deceit and regain her freedom. “And how is it that you are here on this road, heading toward Baddersly?” she asked.
“We were sent out to meet your party, but finding the carnage back there, we feared you were…dead, and turned around,” Goodson said slowly. “How did you escape the slaughter? Are you alone?” he asked, his sharp glance raking the area and lighting upon the hut.
Marion’s heart stopped in her chest. Dunstan! She could not trust her uncle’s men with the life of the Wolf. Her own fate abruptly faded in significance at the thought of her love cut down, the heat stolen from his great, beautiful body.
“Yes. I am alone,” she lied, looking Goodson directly in the eye. “I was attending to myself in the woods when the attack came, and I hid myself away until it was long over. Everyone was dead. Even the horses were gone. So I began walking. What else could I do?” She waved a hand in the air. “I took shelter here from the storm.”
Staring up at the head of the guard, Marion read no guilt in his face, and for the first time since regaining her memory, she knew some doubt. Goodson did not look like a man who had but recently missed finding her corpse. But, if her uncle was not responsible for the raid upon Dunstan’s camp, then who was? And for what purpose?
Marion knew she had no time to waste in such contemplation. At any moment, Dunstan might waken and charge out of the hut to be killed by her uncle’s men. Perhaps they would not attack him, but she could not take that chance. She was familiar with Goodson and his ilk; they knew no honor, no rules but their own. She had heard dark rumors of torture and innocent blood spilled by their hands. Marion would not risk the Wolf.
Taming the Wolf Page 14
