Marion backed away, recognizing, all too well, the abrupt change in his tone. He had been drinking, and that meant he was capable of anything. Sitting down upon the edge of the bed, she bent her head, able to do naught but cower before the man who had tormented her so often.
“No!” he shouted. “You never could do anything right, could you? Worthless, useless spawn of my worthless, useless sister, standing between me and what is rightfully mine.” Marion heard him step closer, but she remained where she was, silent and still.
“You think to take Baddersly from me, do you?” he snarled. Marion said nothing, having learned not to answer his questions even with a denial when he was in such a mood. “Well, you will not. You cannot!” His voice rose higher, his tone fierce. “I will—”
The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud crack, and Marion looked up to see the Wolf filling the doorway, huge and threatening and powerful.
“What are you doing in my chamber?” he growled at her uncle.
“She invited me in,” Peasely said, waving a hand in Marion’s direction. Hearing his easy tone, she cast him a sharp glance and was surprised to realize that he was not cowed by Dunstan. Why? Mercy, but the Wolf had been known to scare his own brothers when he was in a black humor.
“Is that true, Marion?” Dunstan asked, piercing her with his bright green gaze.
It glittered dangerously. He was tightly reined, but Marion could see that the slightest word from her would unleash his temper. Frightened as she had been, she wanted no bloodshed here in their chamber. She nodded in agreement.
Despite her response, Dunstan stood where he was, assessing her for a long moment before turning toward Peasely. “I warned you, Peasely,” he growled. “See that you remember it.”
“Oh, I will, my lord,” her uncle said with a conciliatory smile and a mocking manner that made Marion stare at him, wide-eyed. Had he lost his senses? Perhaps he was foolhardy with drink, for why else would he bait the Wolf? Then, with one last glance that promised her retribution, he slipped by Dunstan and out of the room, leaving them alone.
“What the devil was that about?” Dunstan asked, obviously still angry and frustrated. No doubt he would have liked to slam her uncle into the wall, but had restrained himself on her account. Marion managed a tremulous smile at his patience.
“Nothing. He only sought to taunt me,” she said. “You came bursting in before he did anything but bluster.” It was true, she realized, and she felt a little ashamed for letting her uncle intimidate her in her very own home, in her very own room. But he had always done that….
She looked up in some surprise to see Dunstan kneeling before her. He took her hands in his roughly, but the look in his eyes was so gentle she felt the tears threaten again. Mercy, but she was a watering pot of late!
“He is nothing, Marion. Nothing. He cannot harm you ever again,” Dunstan whispered.
“I know,” she admitted. “I know it is silly, but when I see him, it is as if I am only seven again and all alone in the world—” She broke off as Dunstan’s arms came around her, and she finally gave in to the urge to weep, burying her face against his neck and soaking the collar of his tunic.
* * *
Dunstan barely touched his trencher. Even if he had been starving, which he was not, his jaw was clenched too tightly to eat. He leaned back in his chair, alternately watching his wife and her uncle, and brooded. Day of God, he wanted to be rid of Peasely. How dared the bastard threaten his wife in his own chamber? Dunstan’s blood boiled at the very thought.
Marion was his. His. And, by faith, he would protect her. It was strange and new yet, this business of having a wife, and not at all what he had envisioned. Perhaps it was his time spent in the dungeon that made him cherish every minute with Marion, but he found he no longer wanted to put her aside while he went about his business. In a way, she was his business.
And he wanted her back! He wanted his wife, the spirited little sprite who poked her tiny finger into his chest and argued with him, not this quiet shadow of a woman. The change in her was all Peasely’s fault and Dunstan was sorely tempted to murder the man. Right now.
Dunstan’s mouth tightened into a grim line at the sound of Peasely’s harsh laugh. Marion’s uncle and Stephen were in their cups, their tongues growing sharper with each drink, and although everyone was well used to ignoring Stephen, Peasely was a different story. Dunstan liked not his loud speech, peppered with oaths, or the look of him, full of ill-disguised loathing for his hosts.
Glancing again toward Marion, Dunstan saw the wariness in her eyes, and he wanted to smash Peasely’s face in with his bare fist. Maybe he would. He imagined breaking the man’s bulbous nose and what pleasure that would give him. Then he caught Geoffrey’s frown of warning and remembered that Peasely’s soldiers still camped outside. With a grunt, he curbed his urge to violence—just barely.
“I would retire now,” Marion said, rising and whispering excuses. At her words, Dunstan nodded, moving swiftly to his feet. Although he would have liked to stay in the hall to keep an eye upon his enemy, he did not want to let Marion out of his sight, especially after Peasely had bearded her in their chamber this afternoon. When she darted across the tiles like a frightened mouse, he moved to follow.
Their attempted departure did not go unnoticed, however. “Marion!” Peasely shouted. “Surely you would not leave us yet? The night is young, and there is much to discuss.”
“You can talk tomorrow, Peasely,” Dunstan growled, turning toward his guest.
“But I would talk now,” Peasely snapped. And, in response, Marion swiftly sat down upon the nearest bench, lowering her face in that submissive way that hit Dunstan like a blow to the gut. “I would talk about why a man with naught but a small and poor holding would marry the heiress to Baddersly.”
Ignoring the hush that fell over the room, Peasely lurched to his feet. “He wanted a rich wife so badly that he sold himself to this sniveling creature,” he said, waving his arm toward his niece.
With a contemptuous sneer, Peasely swaggered over to Marion. “I have seen the way the famous Wolf of Wessex dances around his wealthy bride, and I think it is pathetic!” he shouted. “She snaps her fingers, and he jumps. She speaks, and he follows her around like a dog, waiting for a bone!”
Dunstan heard Nicholas’s outraged gasp and silenced him with a glance. This was between Peasely and himself, and he was more than ready to finish it. He stared stonily at his guest, his hand drifting to rest on the hilt of his sword, while Marion’s uncle continued ranting.
Peasely’s face was red and mottled as he swung toward his niece. “Methinks my little Marion has tamed the Wolf with her inheritance,” he spat out. “But I am not so easily bought, my lord. Women were not created as our equals—they are to be little seen and little heard. And I would teach this one her place.”
To Dunstan’s shock, Peasely lifted his hand to strike Marion, who sat, still as a statue, to accept it. Too late, Dunstan realized just how far away from his wife he was, with Peasely standing between them. With a roar, he bounded forward, but just as he did Marion screamed, “No!” The single, defiant shout was so loud that Peasely hesitated, and she lifted her arms to block his blow easily. Then, instead of cowering, she leaped at her uncle, spewing oaths and clawing at his eyes.
Unsteady from drink, Peasely fell to the floor, with Marion atop him, kicking and gouging him with her tiny nails like some kind of wild animal. For a long moment, everyone stared in stunned surprise, then the entire hall exploded as all the de Burghs rushed to Marion’s aid.
Dunstan, who was the closest, was struck with a kind of relief to see that his spirited wife was back, but then he saw the flash of silver that told him Peasely had a dagger. And in that instant, Dunstan discovered just what his wife meant to him. It came to him like a wound to his chest, sharp and clean and painful—and straight to the heart. He loved. He loved her.
And Peasely was cutting her. Dunstan saw the blade s
lice her arm and the blood spill, bright red upon the pale yellow of her sleeve. His vision was blurred briefly with a hot flood of dizzying anger such as he had never known. Then, with a great growl of rage, Dunstan threw himself across the rushes in a desperate reach for Peasely’s wrist.
At the last minute, his quarry twisted, however, and whether by accident or intention, the dagger gored Dunstan’s chest. He faltered in dazed surprise for a brief moment that could well have finished him, if Peasely had been quicker. But Marion’s uncle had been slowed by drink and stunned by his niece’s attack. He struggled under Dunstan’s great weight, and when Marion rolled away to the safety of Geoffrey’s waiting arms, he was distracted. Dunstan seized his chance, closing his fingers around Peasely’s hand in a deadly grip. The two men struggled for possession of the knife as everyone in the hall looked on in hushed silence.
Emboldened by wine, Peasely thought himself invincible, but he was no match for the Wolf, who bettered him in size and strength. Dunstan was a fierce fighter, known to ignore his own injuries, and tonight he was consumed with a blood lust that blinded him to all else but the man who had threatened his wife.
“I warned you,” Dunstan snarled, when he wrested the weapon away. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grimace of victory, and he saw the mocking contempt in Peasely’s eyes replaced by fear, raw and real, before he buried the dagger deep in the man’s heart.
Heaving a great sigh, Dunstan staggered to his feet. In the stark quiet of the hall, he could hear Marion weeping, and he turned toward the sound. She was kneeling not far away, sobbing beside Geoffrey, who was trying vainly to get a look at her cut. At the sight of her blood, Dunstan wanted to howl out a protest, but instead he fell down beside her and took her in his arms.
“Ah, wren,” he whispered. “What a fierce falcon you were tonight.”
* * *
“‘Tis but a scratch,” Dunstan protested.
“A scratch that has reopened the wound Fitzhugh gave you,” his wife answered. She pursed that lovely, wide mouth of hers in such a pretty way that Dunstan wanted to kiss it. Instead, he sighed and let her wrap the cut with clean linen. He had seen her own injury attended first, but then Marion had insisted on bathing his chest and rubbing on ointments and propping him up on thick pillows and…fussing over him.
He reveled in it.
“I swear, Dunstan, you are the worst patient I have ever had,” she scolded, playing along with him as a good wife should.
“I am the only patient you have ever had!”
“That is not true. I was able to help a few of my people at Baddersly, when I had a chance, and some at Campion. Now I will take my place here as a healer.”
Dunstan grunted and watched her hide her amusement. He had a healthy suspicion that Marion knew exactly how much he enjoyed her ministrations. She was a clever one, he was aware of that, and she seemed to know whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, without words passing between them.
That suited him to perfection, for he was not a talker. He was heartily relieved that she was not the kind of woman who begged for compliments and gifts or whined for proof of his affection. In truth, she had never mentioned love since the day of their wedding, though he found himself wishing that she would. Suddenly, knowing that he returned the emotion, he would like to hear her speak of it again, perhaps in that breathy whisper he so enjoyed, or mayhap in that high cry she released when she came in his arms…Dunstan felt himself stir beneath the sheet at the thought.
“There.” She finished with the bindings, laid her hand over his heart and looked at him, her huge eyes filled with tenderness and concern. Now that Dunstan knew just how much she meant to him, this business of love seemed crystal clear. Had he not been drawn to her from the first? Well, very nearly.
And the attraction had grown until he had to have her, not only physically, but with him, body and soul. Still, he had refused to believe the inevitable, even during his stay in the dungeon when thoughts of her were what kept him alive, and afterward, when that time without her made him painfully aware of his need for her.
“Now, drink this, for it will ease the ache and make you sleep,” Marion said. She reached out for a cup beside the bed, but his fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was to drug himself into some senseless state. “Nay, I want no potions, wren. You may cease coddling me now.”
Her head came up at that, as if she would argue, but apparently giving consideration to his condition, she spared him that aggravation. “Yes, Dunstan,” she said, looking him right in the eye.
He laughed until his chest hurt with it, snorting soundly when she watched him, as wide-eyed and innocent as a babe. “Liar,” he said softly.
“What?” She tried to look affronted.
“My dear Marion,” he said. “I discovered not long into our acquaintance exactly when you are lying and when you are not.”
That surprised her. “I do not believe you,” she said, shaking her head with a teasing smile. “You only caught me now because you know I shall never cease coddling you.”
Dunstan felt the low rumble of laughter gathering again, and it felt good. “Why, ‘tis easy enough to see. When you lie, you look me directly in the eye in a most earnest fashion.”
“Humph.” She made a sound not unlike his own grunts and seemed disgusted.
“Do not be so stricken, wren. Perhaps others cannot tell as easily, for as your husband I am wont to know you well,” he said. The words came out low and rough, for he hoped to soon show her just how well he knew her, every inch of her skin, every sensitive spot that made her tremble for him.
“Dunstan.” She looked down at his chest, a slight frown marring her sweet face. Had he ever thought her plain? He had been mad, for she was utterly beautiful, from the widow’s peak at the top of her dark head to the tips of the small toes that he liked to feel curling into his calves.
“Aye? What is it?”
She peeked up at him, her lashes so thick and inviting he wanted to touch them with his mouth until they closed and she moaned his name. “You are not angry over what my uncle said, are you? All those awful things he said about you dancing attendance upon me. ‘Tis not true, of course. Everyone knows you do not want Baddersly or any wealth that I might have. I would not have you…avoid me because of what he said.”
“Avoid you?” Dunstan felt a rush of hatred for the dead man. “Peasely was a fool, and I care not what he said.” He regarded her, breathlessly waiting, her great eyes full of worry, and he felt his annoyance with her kin slip away, to be replaced by the kind of peace it seemed he had spent his life seeking. “If you have tamed me, then so be it.”
She smiled then, her wide mouth parting, her dimples peeking out merrily, and slowly he lifted a hand to her cheek, touching the crease brought on by her happiness. And he was awed by the depth of his feelings for her.
“Such dimples…” Dunstan whispered. Then he reached up to curl his hand behind her neck, underneath her thick hair, and pulled her toward him. He claimed her, possessing her with his mouth, and in turn, he became possessed. It was as if he had never beheld her before, never really made love to her….
“Your wound,” Marion said, breaking the kiss. Ignoring her concern, Dunstan muttered a dismissive oath as his hands slid down to her shoulders. “You are to lie still and rest,” she added more forcefully.
His answer was another grunt, and he dragged down her gown, letting her generous breasts spill into his hands. Her skin was creamy and silken, her nipples large and dark, and so enticing he was straining against the sheet. The familiar heat sparked between them, and he drew her near to suckle. She shivered. By faith, how her pleasure worked on his own!
“Tremble for me, wren,” he urged hoarsely. She did, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched toward him, gasping in abandon while his tongue tasted her, his teeth tugged gently, his hand cupping her to his eager mouth.
She smelled of wildflowers and fr
esh fields, and Dunstan drew in a long draft, filling his lungs and his head with her scent as he filled his hands with her ripe curves. Lifting her easily, he swept the sheet aside and moved her over him until she was straddling his naked body. He raised his knees behind her to cradle her in his lap, and she braced her hands on his chest, her fingers delving into the hair below his wrappings.
He had swelled beneath her, and she glanced at him out of doe eyes dazed with passion. “Dunstan,” she murmured breathlessly. “You must not strain yourself.”
He grunted in disagreement, his need for her too strong to deny, now or ever. Normally, he would roll her under him and pour himself into her, but not this night. He had no desire to set his chest to bleeding again. It might upset Marion, and besides, he was getting too old to play the invincible knight.
“Take me inside you, wren,” he whispered.
If possible, her eyes grew even more huge. She needed no further encouragement but rose and fumbled with her skirts, her fingers shaking in eager anticipation. When she could not arrange them to her satisfaction, she reached up, tugged the gown and shift over her head and tossed them aside.
Dunstan’s gaze swept her, and just the sight of her, naked and straddling him, was enough to set him afire. Her pale body was lush and quivering, and he felt his own shudder in response. “Now, Marion,” he urged in a strangled voice, and when she did not move, he closed his hands around her hips and pulled her down upon him, impaling her in one swift gesture.
He growled low and heard her release an answering cry of pleasure. Then she threw her head back, her hair spilling over his knees, and he groaned again. She was a fever in his blood, and he had to have her, needed her, wanted her—each time more powerfully than before.
Buried full inside her, he did not stir, but grabbed a fistful of her dark mane and bade her look at him, made her see the promise implicit in his gaze, along with the yielding of his heart.
Taming the Wolf Page 25
