Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  Dunstan had lost none of his personal resentment at his task, however, for he was still anxious to return to Wessex. They were making good progress now, even over the poor roads, and he had to admit that all was, once again, going smoothly. At this rate, they should reach Baddersly in only a few more days. But his absence from his holdings still chafed at him, and the errand could not be finished swiftly enough for his taste.

  So he drove the train on, stopping only for the midmorning meal. Dunstan caught sight of her then, accidentally, as she sat alone with Cedric, the sunlight gleaming on her unbound hair. For a moment, he stared after her, wondering why she seemed to grow lovelier each time that he saw her.

  Then, snorting in disgust, Dunstan turned on his heel to nearly run headlong into his vassal. Stopping just short of collision, Dunstan glared at the knight, who assessed his lord with a speculative gleam in his eye.

  “Why do you not simply join her, or ride with her? Or perhaps ‘twould be better just to ride her,” Walter said with a smirk.

  “What?” Dunstan looked at his trusted knight as if the man had spoken some foreign tongue.

  Walter smiled slowly. “The lady, Dunstan. You have been avoiding her for days, while you snarl at everyone. Why not simply draw her out so that you may satisfy your…curiosity?” The words were spoken with sly innuendo, and Dunstan growled menacingly.

  “I have no interest in Lady Warenne other than to make certain she reaches her home, Walter.”

  This time, his vassal laughed outright. “Then why the bristling, my friend? Everyone is talking about how the lady is making our lord testy as a boar with a toothache.” He grinned wickedly. “Or is the pain located elsewhere?”

  Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. “That female has naught to do with my mood,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I like not this errand and would rather be at home, keeping Wessex safe from the bastard Fitzhugh.”

  Walter’s smile fled. “Wessex is in good hands.”

  “Aye,” Dunstan said softly, thinking of the head of the castle guard, Leonard Collins. Leonard and Walter had been with Dunstan a long time, going back to the days of their youth when they served Edward together. Dunstan trusted them both, but he still felt a deep desire to be at Wessex, protecting his own, instead of on the road with a exasperating wench.

  “Come,” said Walter, banging him roughly on the back. “Sit and take your meal with me, and I shall ease your mind.”

  Dunstan nodded curtly, and the two ate companionably together, as they had countless times before. They spoke of Fitzhugh and Wessex’s defenses, but Dunstan did not mention the crops that he hoped were being well tended in his absence. Strictly a soldier, with no head for farming, Walter would not understand. Dunstan had more to concern him than his next battle, however, and he felt the weight of his own responsibilities distance him from his old friend.

  Perhaps because his mind was occupied with thoughts of Wessex, or perhaps because he had taken Walter’s gibes to heart, Dunstan did not so much as glance toward Lady Warenne during the meal. It was only afterwards, when the train was again preparing to leave, that he looked to her palfrey. When he did not see her, Dunstan felt a vague apprehension.

  He quelled it immediately, thinking that he might be acting testy after all—simply because of the insufferable woman he was forced to escort. Dunstan did not see Cedric either, so, obviously, the two had not rejoined the group yet. Their absence was probably easily explained, but Dunstan felt an odd sense of foreboding. Where were they? Slowly he turned, his eyes raking the area for his squire, but when he found the boy, he was not encouraged. Cedric stood near the edge of some bushes with a worried look on his thin countenance.

  And Lady Warenne was nowhere in sight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the time Dunstan reached him, Cedric was red-faced and stammering. “She…she said she needed to…to take a few moments to…to attend to herself, but it has been some time, my lord. Should I…”

  In no mood to take pity on the youth, Dunstan gave him a furious glare that halted his speech. “Come, then, and help me look for her!”

  At least she could not have gotten far this time, Dunstan told himself. He was in no mood to spend the rest of the afternoon searching for her again. A hot rush of anger swept through him, and he set his jaw hard. He always kept a cool head in battle and never lashed out at his servants or villeins, but this slip of a woman was sorely pressing him.

  Dunstan glanced up at the trees, looking for the telltale flash of a slipper or gown, but he doubted that she would try the same trick. While his eyes flicked over the surrounding area, he tried to make himself think along the convoluted lines that the lady’s mind followed.

  She would not just walk through the woods; she had proved that before. Would she double back and sneak around the wagons? Was she, even now, on the other side of the roadway? No, Dunstan swore his men would not be that remiss. He had placed guards all around the perimeter of the camp, and she would truly have to be a witch to weave her way among them.

  With the swift judgment that was his ally in battle, Dunstan decided his course and moved deeper into the forest as quietly as possible. He was certain that he would find her somewhere up ahead, but he was just as certain that she would use her wiles to try to hide from any pursuit.

  Dunstan’s long strides ate up the ground, giving him an advantage, if only she did not veer off in another direction. A straight, fast walk carried him through a dry riverbed where a broken branch made him smile grimly. He was on her trail, all right, and would soon overtake her.

  He was surprised by the strange thrill of victory that rushed through him at the knowledge. It was as if he had won a skirmish through strategy alone, and yet there was something more to it, an unknown component that added heady pleasure to his triumph. Ignoring the strange pulsing of his blood, Dunstan concentrated on the ground, which ended abruptly in a great outcropping of rock. It rose before him, barring his way and forcing him to choose a new path.

  Cedric came up behind him, breathing fast, but saying nothing while Dunstan surveyed the landscape. In a glance, he took in the surface of the stone, and rather than strike left or right, Dunstan continued on, moving closer to the face. Slowly, he began to walk along in front of the ridge, a sly smile lifting his mouth just as a certain suspicion entered his mind.

  “Caves. There must be caves here,” he murmured.

  “Caves?” Cedric echoed.

  “Aye. There will be caves,” Dunstan said. And she will be in one of them. Knowing what he did of the lady, he suspected this was just the sort of trick she would try. Dunstan moved forward, his practiced gaze running along the rock until he found the branches of a bush that had obviously been disturbed, with the deep black of a telltale hole behind it. “There,” he said softly to a dumbfounded Cedric. “She will be there.”

  Pushing the growth aside, Dunstan stooped to peer into the darkness, but he could see nothing. The foolish chit, to crawl around in there without even a light! Caves could be dangerous places, liable to drop off into fathomless caverns without warning, not to mention the vermin, vipers and beasts that might be harbored there. Dunstan shut out a sudden vision of the little wren lying broken or mauled upon the cold stone.

  “Make me a torch,” Dunstan ordered curtly, and Cedric quickly gathered a fistful of rushes and bound them together. While Dunstan peered into the hole, the squire produced a piece of flint from the supplies at his belt and struck a spark against the steel of his dagger.

  “Lady Warenne?” Dunstan shouted into the space. Nothing greeted him but silence. With a grimace, he took the makeshift light from his squire and pushed aside the bush.

  “Wait here,” he told Cedric over his shoulder. “If I do not return, summon Walter, but do not follow me.” He thrust the fire inside the cave and saw that the floor was solid. “Lady Warenne, I am coming in after you,” he announced. Stepping inside, Dunstan finally heard a sound ahead, and he moved toward it impatiently, determined to beat the
woman soundly when he found her.

  “Dunstan! Watch out for the—” Smiling grimly as he recognized her voice, Dunstan lunged forward, banging his forehead firmly against a jagged ledge. “Overhang,” Lady Warenne finished lamely.

  Dunstan staggered back a moment, fury blazing as pain shot through his head. He would kill her. He was going to kill her. Righting himself, he stretched out an arm to lean against the cave wall and tried to contain his rage. He had never lifted his hand to a woman in his life, had never even been tempted, but Lady Warenne was something else entirely. “Come here now,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I am sorry, Dunstan, but I cannot,” she answered, her voice musical in the enclosed chamber.

  He counted to ten, something he had not done since he had lived at home and his younger brothers’ pranks had driven him beyond endurance. “Why not?” he growled.

  “I am afraid that I have twisted my ankle and cannot walk very well. I suppose I could crawl…” Her words trailed off forlornly just as though she were put upon, and Dunstan let astonishment wash over him for a moment before he swallowed the worst of his ire.

  With a grunt, he stepped forward, stooping until he was nearly bent double and all the time cursing her under his breath. The cave dipped and turned and then there she was, a huddled heap in the glow of the torch, only a few yards from the entrance really, but hidden by the twist of the tunnel. She was seated upon the floor of the cave backed up against the wall, looking pale and anxious, and Dunstan felt more of his anger slip away.

  For a moment, he considered handing her the fire, but something told him that she would probably set his hair ablaze—accidentally, of course—should she gain possession of it. Giving the tight quarters one last look, Dunstan dropped the flame and reached for her. She was light and warm in his arms, like a wounded bird.

  He was surprised to feel the wild beating of her heart, which gave away her distress even though her manner did not. So, the lady was not so calm as she pretended! That discovery did something to Dunstan’s insides, but he ignored it, and, crouching low, made his way the short distance back to the entrance, remembering to duck especially deeply at the outcropping.

  Fighting past the bushy growth, Dunstan finally straightened, glad to see the light of day once more.

  Without sparing a glance at his squire, he pulled the form in his arms up closer to his chest and studied her with a fierce glare. She looked perfectly composed, if a bit dusty, and she had the gall to assess him in return.

  Before he could launch into a diatribe about reckless, runaway women, her gaze lifted to his brow. “You are injured!” she cried softly. He felt her fingers, infinitely gentle, against his skin, and without thought, Dunstan leaned into the touch. Her face was but inches from his own, her huge eyes fixed on his forehead, her wide mouth parted, and Dunstan felt an ache that had nothing to do with his injury.

  He noticed the curve of her cheek and the way her pale skin glowed with a slight rosy flush. Only when she lifted up her cloak to dab at the blood, did Dunstan realize he was staring. “‘Tis but a scratch,” he grunted.

  “Nay. You must let me tend it,” she protested. Her voice was low and melodious, like the purr of a kitten he had once held as a boy, and Dunstan was drawn by it. The hood of her cloak had fallen, revealing that wild riot of dark curls as a perfect frame for a heart-shaped face that was so vivid, so remarkable…. She is not beautiful, he told himself.

  Or was she? Dunstan found her as intoxicating as spiced wine, an interesting mixture of sweet and tangy and heady. He pulled her closer, enjoying the soft roundness of her small body, and saw her take in a sharp breath in response. Her eyes flew to his own, the concern in them changing to surprise, then something dark and alluring, like wanting…. He pressed her hip against his groin, where he had grown suddenly hard, and watched her gaze drop to his lips. Day of God!

  Some sound from Cedric drew Dunstan out of his daze, and he deposited the lady on the ground just as though she were a thorny branch that threatened to prick him. By faith, she was weaving some sort of spell upon him!

  “Run on ahead, Cedric,” he snapped at his squire. The boy scrambled to do his bidding, spurred on by the tone of Dunstan’s voice, no doubt, but Dunstan wasted no more thought on his squire. It was time to settle accounts with the world’s most troublesome female.

  Taking a step forward, he towered over her with a scowl that had frightened more than one man, but Lady Warenne did not seem one whit intimidated. She simply looked up at him with those great, wide eyes as though she were as dazed as he had been. Dunstan shook his head, realizing suddenly that it throbbed, as did his groin, and he grunted in annoyance.

  “Do not tell me. Let me guess,” he said, resting his hands on his hips. “The self-same boar that sent you up a tree chased you out of camp and all the way into this cave.”

  She actually frowned at him. “Do not be silly, Dunstan. ‘Twas a man who grabbed me and dragged me here against my will,” she said, her brown eyes guileless as they gazed directly into his own. “He forced me into the cave and bade me not to leave or call out for fear of my life.”

  Dunstan stared at her for a long moment, then threw back his head and laughed so hard it hurt. “Do not jest with me,” he said, grimacing, as he lifted a hand to his brow.

  “You are hurt,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “No,” he said shortly. “Now, describe this man to me.”

  “What man?” she asked, appearing genuinely, innocently puzzled.

  Dunstan’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted. “The man who abducted you, wren.”

  “Wren? I am told it is Warenne, not Wren.”

  Dunstan swallowed back an exasperated growl. “Describe him.”

  “He was short and dark,” she answered, her eyes meeting his own without hesitation. “Perhaps he is my uncle’s man, up to some devilry.”

  “What nonsense!” Dunstan snorted. “If you wish to have me believe that your guardian threatens you in some way, you must give me facts, not vague conjecture.”

  “I cannot! Do you think I have not tried to remember, Dunstan?” she asked, poking a tiny finger at his chest. “I have tried! I have tried so hard that the dread overwhelms me, but that is all there is—dread. I cannot tell you what awaits me at Baddersly, only that ‘tis not the life of a pampered heiress that you de Burghs would have for me!”

  The fire that sparked from her was becoming, and Dunstan realized he much preferred this lively creature to the little wren. Her words, however, were as ridiculous as usual. Female whimsy at best—more probably lies. And if they were not? Dunstan did not care to consider that possibility, for if she told the truth, what then of his errand?

  “My dear lady Warenne,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have had enough of your tales and tricks. So, unless you want to travel the rest of the way home in chains, I suggest you cease your foolish antics and stay where I can see you at all times.”

  Obviously her brief show of spirit was spent, because she stepped back from him until she was pressed against a rock. Dunstan eyed her up and down and then suddenly noticed what had somehow escaped his attention during their heated exchange. Fresh anger at being duped once again by the wench came on him so swiftly that he felt his face flush with it.

  “There is naught wrong with your ankle!” he growled. He raised his hand, an involuntary gesture, and she grew still—absolutely still.

  It pained him, that stillness. It was as if she were no longer there, and he realized, standing there holding his arm in the air, that she thought he would strike her. Muttering a profanity, he dropped his hand. As if he would ever hit a woman! “I have never abused a woman in my life and never will—no matter how sorely tempted.”

  The lady did not answer. Those great brown eyes were empty, and she was far away. Dunstan cursed again, feeling an absurd sense of loss. “Come!” he snapped. “I am in a hurry, and each hour you delay us costs me dearly.”

  She moved
then, walking in front of him with that quiet grace of hers, and Dunstan stared after her, feeling sorely disgruntled. The lying witch had led him a merry dance through the woods and deserved to be beaten soundly for her mischief. Why, then, did it seem as if he were the one who had taken a blow?

  He grunted, urging her on, but it was not long before the rhythmic sway of her hips moving in front of him made his mouth water. He had been too long without a woman, that was the problem, and it would be easily remedied once he finished this errand, Dunstan told himself. He moved beside her in an effort to change his view, but she stumbled at the sight of him. He steadied her with an arm around her waist, and she looked up at him with eyes so wide and startled that he stepped back to follow her again.

  By faith, Dunstan thought with a scowl, the camp seemed to be leagues away! They had only now reached the dry riverbed. The wren had a stride the length of a bird’s, Dunstan noted, convinced that such dainty legs could not carry her far. Studying her walk a bit too closely, he caught a glimpse of a shapely ankle at just the moment that the lady, having pushed aside some brush, let it fall back.

  It struck him directly in the face.

  Dunstan erupted with a thunderous roar that made Marion jump and shriek. “Dunstan!” she gasped, backing away from him, her hand at her throat. “What? Oh! Did I do that? Oh, I am sorry.”

  If she had laughed, he might very well have strangled her and let his high-minded ideas about ladies go hang. But she did not laugh. She did not even smile. She rushed toward him with eyes so bright with concern that Dunstan was momentarily transfixed. Had anyone ever looked at him that way before?

  The sounds of shouts and movement from the direction of the camp made him break whatever spell held him in her gaze. With a grunt, he grabbed her arm and stalked toward the noise. An anxious and breathless Cedric appeared, followed by a grinning and definitely unworried Walter.

  “I heard the screams, my lord, and thought you were being set upon,” Cedric explained nervously.