Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  She was stooping, making herself even smaller to speak to the children who crowded happily around her, when Dunstan reached her. He did not pause or wait for her to acknowledge his presence. He simply grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up. “I told you to stay put!” he snapped.

  For an instant, she seemed startled, her big brown eyes growing huge in her delicate face. By faith, they were enormous, those eyes and rather…striking in their fashion. Was she frightened of him? Good, Dunstan thought smugly. Then perhaps she would listen to him in the future. “When I give an order I expect you to obey it,” he said gruffly.

  Her head bowed, and he thought she would nod submissively, but then she lifted her chin and spoke. “And I expect you to have better manners, Dunstan de Burgh!” she replied. Her voice was low and shaky, but the words were plain enough. They took him aback, and he stared at her. He could not recall the last time anyone had scolded him; no one possessed the audacity to talk back to him. The idea of this tiny female, this little wren, asserting herself, made him want to laugh. He released her arm none too gently.

  “I want this journey to pass swiftly and uneventfully. Heed me, and we shall have no further problems. Now, please accompany me, my lady,” he said. He snapped the polite phrases through clenched teeth and spread out an arm in an exaggerated gesture of cordiality. Although she shot him a brief look that hinted at barely suppressed outrage, she gracefully took her place in front of him.

  Dunstan decided he had imagined the fierceness in her glance and smiled smugly at her back. Already he had the woman well in hand. The little wren might have thought she could run roughshod over him, as she had his brothers, but he had effectively put her in her place. He had no intention of playing nursemaid, nor did he plan on becoming besotted like the rest of his family by one small, insignificant female with huge eyes.

  * * *

  Marion let a faceless soldier help her mount her palfrey, then she gripped the reins tightly and waited for the train to get under way. Having seen her to her horse, Dunstan had gone about other business, and Marion was heartily glad to see his back, for she liked him not. Whatever appeal he had initially held for her had disappeared with his unfeeling handling of her departure. He had shown his true nature quickly enough!

  Surprised to find her hands shaking with the force of her anger, Marion looked down at them, turning them over and over, as she assessed this unusual reaction. At Campion, she had never known such blood-coursing emotion, but somehow, it felt good. She let her hands tremble and her rage boil at the thought of Dunstan de Burgh’s behavior.

  On some level, Marion knew that Dunstan was not much different from his brothers. They had been gruff and rude and sometimes ill-mannered when she had arrived. Reynold still was difficult to reach, owing, she suspected, to his bad leg…and yet she knew that he cared for her.

  Dunstan did not. There was no excuse for the way he had grabbed at her, bruising her tender arm with his huge hand and subduing her with his overpowering strength. Marion lifted her chin. For him she would make no allowances. He was the one who had brought the bad tidings. He would steal her from the people she loved and wrest her from the only home she had ever known. He would take her to a place she did not want to go.

  Just the thought of this Baddersly made Marion stiffen. Happy at Campion, she had known no desire to discover her past, and whenever she tried to remember, she had been stricken with blinding headaches and cold, sweating dread that left her sick and shaken. How could she willingly travel back toward whatever horrors she had left behind?

  Dunstan’s sharp words came back to her, demanding in his smug, masculine way that she obey him, and Marion’s will wavered. She knew what she should do.

  She should remain in the middle of the train, riding her palfrey without complaint and avoiding any more confrontations with Dunstan. She should not disrupt the trip or call attention to herself. She should go calmly and quietly while he delivered her into the hands of her unknown guardian and into the dark mysteries of his castle.

  That would be the wisest course, and she sensed that whoever Marion Warenne was, Marion would definitely have stayed out of the way, meekly meeting her fate.

  But she was a different girl now. She had discovered a small spark of something in herself, something that had helped her bravely make a new life at Campion without a memory to call her own. She had nurtured that tiny flame, and it had helped her tame six de Burgh brothers, fierce as wolves, into accepting her into their home and their hearts.

  That spark, infinitesimal as it seemed now, would not allow her to sit back and let Dunstan bully her. Nor was it going to let him take her back to whatever awaited her at…Baddersly. The very name of the place was fraught with foreboding.

  Though she knew little enough about herself, Marion sensed that she was not an imaginative woman. Nothing else in her brief history had roused in her such tumultuous emotions as the mention of this purported holding of hers. Her entire being screamed a warning that she could not ignore.

  She could not go there.

  Her decision made, Marion felt an easing inside her, as if she had escaped the executioner’s block but narrowly. Now, her only problem lay in getting away from her escort, and that, she realized, would be no easy task.

  Dunstan would not be pleased.

  * * *

  Dunstan was pleased. They had traveled well their first day out and had camped peacefully off the road. He had seen little of the wench but a flutter of brown when she scurried to her tent to sleep, so he thought her well subdued.

  This morning had dawned fair and mild, and he decided to stop to take the late-morning meal under some large oaks. This was, after all, not a military trek, but a journey with a lady, Dunstan told himself, even if the lady was hardly noticeable.

  Eating his bread and cheese quickly, he quaffed some water and surveyed the train, checking the horses and carts and assessing the mood of his men. Accustomed to traveling with him, they were soon finished, too, and Dunstan had no intention of lingering. Although it was nearly summer, they could not count upon continued good weather. Today’s warmth could turn suddenly cool, and rainstorms could reduce the already bad road into a mire of muck.

  “Load up,” he said to Walter, who echoed his order. Then he glanced around, watching with a practiced eye the swift dismantling of the makeshift camp. His men mounted their horses, and all seemed in order, but for something that nagged at the edge of his thoughts.

  “Where is Lady Warenne?” he asked suddenly. Those who deigned to answer shook their heads. Dunstan stalked along the edge of the group until he found her palfrey. It stood, without its rider, next to another gentle beast ridden by an ancient servant. “Where is your mistress, old woman?” he snapped.

  Shrewd eyes peered out at him from a wrinkled face, and he was met with a nearly toothless smile. “I know not, master! Have you lost her?” The crone laughed then, a high, cackling sound that grated against his ears. Dunstan silenced her with a swift glare.

  “Walter, check the carts,” he barked. Females! Lady Warenne probably was fetching some possession from storage and delaying them all with her thoughtlessness. Clenching his jaw in annoyance, he settled his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. When he had last noticed her, the wren had been eating her meal under one of the trees. She might have slipped into one of the carts, but he was beginning to doubt that. Something did not seem right, and Dunstan had not achieved his knighthood by ignoring his presentiments.

  “She is not anywhere in the train, my lord,” Walter answered briskly, confirming what Dunstan already felt in his gut.

  Taking a long breath, Dunstan exhaled slowly and cleared his mind of the anger that threatened to cloud it. No brigands could have stolen her off with his small force surrounding her, and they were not deep enough into the forest to be threatened by wild beasts. If something had happened to the lady, Dunstan surmised, it was her own doing. With a scowl, he strode toward the oak where he had last seen her.

&n
bsp; “Perhaps she wandered off to heed nature’s call and became lost,” Walter suggested, peering into the woods. It was a possibility, Dunstan agreed, for the little wren certainly looked witless enough to do such a thing. If so, he would have to stop and search for her, a course of action that did not please him in the least.

  Dunstan followed Walter’s gaze, but he could see no sign of passage through the brush. He dropped to one knee and studied the ground. Although the grass was trampled near the bole, there was no evidence of impressions away from the tree. A little thing like her would probably have a light step, though, Dunstan acknowledged.

  “Lady Warenne!” Dunstan called out loudly, only to receive no answer. “Lady Warenne! Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” Silence met his words. With a low oath, Dunstan ordered his men to look in ever-widening circles until the stupid woman was found. She was, unfortunately, the sole reason for this trip, and he could not return to Wessex until she was delivered to her uncle.

  As he mounted and turned his horse toward the woods, Dunstan tried not to think of the delay she was costing him. He tried not to think of how he would like to shake the foolish chit until her teeth rattled. He tried, valiantly, to control his temper.

  After an hour, Dunstan was furious. They had combed the forest, the road and the fields, and had found nothing of Lady Warenne. It was as if she had disappeared without a trace. Gritting his teeth, Dunstan reined in his destrier near the spot where they had originally stopped and forced himself to admit the truth.

  He did not like escorting foolhardy women to their homes, but even less did he like being bested by them. And that was what he was sure had happened. Somehow, the lady had fled of her own free will!

  Dunstan chided himself for not taking his mission more seriously, for letting his thoughts drift to his own troubles at Wessex when they should have been focused solely on the business at hand. He knew the wench did not want to return to her uncle, so he should have kept a closer eye upon her. But who would have thought the little wren would rather brave the wilds of the countryside than go back to Baddersly?

  Her flight had been so swiftly arranged that Dunstan could not even blame her success on outside assistance. No, he realized, the minx had outwitted him all by herself. Under normal circumstances, Dunstan might spare a fleeting moment of admiration for such a trick, but not today, when each minute spent looking for her delayed him further.

  Instead, he stared at the now-familiar eating area, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the facts before him, trying to puzzle an answer from them. Finally, with one last glance at the clearing alongside the road, Dunstan shouted to Walter. “Come! Let us gather the train together and head toward Campion. Perhaps she is making her way there.” Grim-faced, his men began turning the carts around and taking their places for the trek back.

  Waiting while the others rode ahead, Dunstan caught the swift look that Walter sent him, a look that said, What will your father do when you return without the lady? But his vassal knew better than to voice such concerns, and Dunstan refused to consider them. He never failed in his tasks, and he did not intend to start now.

  A mile down the road, Dunstan told his men to fan out again, while he turned back toward where they had camped. When he neared the site, Dunstan slipped from his horse and walked silently, making his way in a circle through the woods until he reached a point where he could see the tree under which Lady Warenne had taken her meal. Then he leaned back against an oak, crossed his arms against his chest and watched.

  He did not have long to wait. Soon there was a peculiar rustling up in the branches, and Dunstan moved forward soundlessly. By the time he saw a green slipper descending, he was underneath the tree. A shapely ankle, encased in dark hose, revealed itself, followed by a swish of emerald skirts. With a rather gleeful malice, Dunstan doffed his gauntlets, reached up and closed his fingers about her calf.

  “Eeeek!” Lady Warenne shrieked like a captured fowl, lost her footing and tumbled directly into his arms.

  Dunstan would never have believed that anyone so small could put up such a fight, but the little wren struggled like a falcon. Finally, he was forced to pin her up against the bole of the tree, her wrists pressed to her sides and her body stilled by the pressure of his own. “Cease, Lady Warenne,” he ordered grimly.

  Her large eyes flashed recognition, and she finally stilled, but in that instant the shape of their encounter altered subtly. Those incredibly huge eyes were not a dull brown, as Dunstan had first thought, but the gentle, warm hue of a doe’s and fringed with the thickest dark lashes he had ever seen. He found himself caught by them, and, at the same time, he became aware of the feel of her against him.

  She was soft and lushly curved. Her abundant breasts pressed into his chest, and his fingers grazed her generous hips. Her ever-present hood had fallen to release a mass of heavy, mahogany curls that tumbled about her shoulders as if she had just risen, tousled, from her bed. Her cheeks were flushed, a compelling, deep rose, and her lips, full and wide, were parted in silent startlement. A pulse beat at the base of her throat, and Dunstan could feel the rise and fall of her breath.

  With vague surprise, he found himself spring to life against her belly. He looked down at her, trapped like a wild bird by his form, and he felt something indescribable. Without thought, he moved against her, and the tantalizing press of her body against his groin made him hot as a flame.

  Dunstan closed his eyes against a realization that he would rather deny, but it formed nonetheless: he wanted her. He wanted her with a fierce desire that astonished him in its intensity. His head felt as if the blood was rushing from it, and like a man dazed, he released one of her wrists, sliding his hand along the sumptuous curve of her hip to her waist and then…

  Day of God, he wanted to touch her! He wanted to slip his palm inside her bodice and cup her bare breasts, to feel the heft and weight of them. Dunstan smoothed his thumb along her ribs, underneath one fat mound, letting its heavy softness ride him, and he shuddered, his fingers poised but a hairbreadth from the taut material that covered her chest.

  She made some sound, and he opened his eyes to gaze into hers, wide with some unnamed emotion. She was not afraid of him. He sensed that, but she was afraid nonetheless. Freeing her other wrist, he raised his left hand slowly, so as not to startle her. He wanted to curve it around her neck and take those parted lips with his mouth….

  With a growl, Dunstan stepped back, releasing her, and she slid down the bole of the tree to collapse at his feet. Refusing to look at her, he turned and whistled for his horse. By faith, he had never taken a woman against her will! He had rarely taken one outside of the confines of her own perfumed bed. What in God’s name had possessed him to nearly force himself upon a lady his own father had entrusted to him?

  Dunstan grimaced in disgust. Obviously, he had been too long without sex to react so heatedly…and to the wren, of all women! Instead of wanting to take her, he should want to strangle her after the dance she had led him!

  Anger, long-suppressed, rushed through him, sluicing away the last vestiges of his desire. Just what had possessed her to try to escape him in the first place? The whole business was so ludicrous. Dunstan did not care to admit how close she had come to succeeding. He whirled on her suddenly.

  “Why the devil were you up the tree?”

  She stopped dusting herself off to gaze directly at him, and Dunstan noticed, not for the first time, that she possessed an oddly affecting grace. Even after such treatment as he had just given her, she held herself calmly, displaying no distress. The color in her cheeks was still high, but she gave no other sign of their strange encounter. “I…I saw a wild boar and climbed up to get out of its path.”

  For a moment, Dunstan just stood there staring at her, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he threw back his head and laughed uproariously. She watched him serenely the entire time, just as if her explanation had not been the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

  “Perhaps you would ca
re to tell me why no one else saw or heard this animal? Or why a lady such as yourself would not scream and run away, but instead crawl up a tree? A decidedly unladylike response, I would say,” Dunstan said.

  She was looking at him curiously, those enormous eyes of hers wide with something he could not identify, but that obviously had nothing whatsoever to do with what he was saying. “Well?” he prodded her.

  “I was too afraid to scream,” she answered without demur. The forthright manner in which she spoke nearly made him doubt his own presumptions, but Dunstan knew better. He put his hands on his hips and assessed her.

  “And how is it that we spent a goodly time searching for you and calling for you, directly beneath this very same tree, and you made no response?”

  “I believe I must have fainted dead away from sheer fright,” she said, blithely meeting his gaze.

  “I see.” Dunstan eased out the words with no little effort. She was an audacious wench, if nothing else. “And you have been up there all this time, precariously balanced, but not awake—even to our cries?”

  She nodded sweetly. What a liar! And she looked so innocent, too. No wonder she had easily gulled his brothers. From what Dunstan understood, she had convinced them she did not even know her own name. Who could tell what game the girl was playing? Dunstan fully admitted that he did not, nor was he particularly interested in discovering the truth. As tempting as it was to join in the play, he had neither the time nor the energy at this point in his life. He frowned as he studied her closely. “And this muteness that affects you occurs whenever you are frightened?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord…Dunstan. May I call you Dunstan?” she asked, as nicely as if they were ensconced in a cozy solar exchanging sweetmeats and he had not just wasted precious hours dangling after her. He nodded curtly, then turned to his approaching horse.

  He stood there for a moment, his feet apart, and then slanted a glance toward her. She was trying, uselessly, to better her hair, which he suspected resisted constraints of any kind. He grinned, certain she was not watching him, and let loose a battle cry that had been known to freeze the blood of his enemies.