Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  “I am being set upon,” Dunstan muttered. Dragging the wren along beside him, he strode back toward camp.

  “You found her in a cave?” Walter asked, amusement evident in his tone.

  Dunstan sent his vassal a look that told him to save his breath, but Walter, never too good at obeying orders, merely chuckled. “What happened to your face? Did she attack you?”

  Dunstan grunted in annoyance while Marion gasped. “Your face, Dunstan! You simply must let me tend it!” She continued babbling in such a vein as she ran to keep up with him.

  “‘Tis nothing but a few scratches,” Dunstan finally growled. Thankfully, they had reached camp, and hopefully, an end to all arguments.

  “Perhaps,” Marion answered when they stopped. She gazed up at his bloody forehead dubiously. “But even scratches fester. Why, think, Dunstan, what would happen if it should putrefy! It might even swell your brain,” she warned ominously. “And then your poor brothers would be saddled with a great witless man to take care of. Surely, you would not wish that upon them.”

  Did the wren have the audacity to toy with him? Dunstan eyed her sharply, but she simply stared directly at him with those huge brown eyes, innocence plastered all over her heart-shaped face. Something tugged at the edges of his mind, out of reach. By faith! He did not believe that a small head wound could lead to madness, but he was rapidly becoming convinced that Marion Warenne could drive a man to the brink.

  “Get to your mount,” he said through gritted teeth. Then he turned on his heel and strode away from her as rapidly as possible.

  Walter sidled up to him immediately. “A little rude, are we not? ‘Tis not like you, Dunstan!” his vassal teased.

  “That woman is a menace!” Dunstan growled, lifting a hand to his throbbing head.

  Walter laughed. “Because she wants to see to your wounds? I wish that I were menaced so terribly!”

  Dunstan snorted and gave his vassal a threatening look. “Perhaps I shall set you to watch her then.”

  Walter smiled and shrugged. “‘Twould suit me well enough.”

  Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. Somehow the idea of his vassal fawning over Marion did not sit well with him. Walter had been with him for years before rising to his right hand; he was a good soldier and a friend. However, the wren’s property was rich enough to tempt a saint, let alone a landless knight. With a grimace, Dunstan pictured Walter seducing the heiress and presenting himself to her uncle as the father of her child.

  “No,” Dunstan said, finally. “‘Tis bad enough that we must all serve as errand boys for my father. I will not have my best man act as nursemaid to the parcel. Let Cedric do it.”

  The boy was at his side, stammering apologies in an instant. “Enough,” Dunstan said, cutting him off. “I will give you another chance, Cedric, but do not fail me this time. Keep watch upon the lady at all times. If she wants to attend to herself, as before, make sure that you keep a part of her in sight, and do not let her stick her cloak upon a bush and leave you staring at it!” Dunstan advised. “Make sure you see the top of her head and her hair. We are dealing with a very clever lady here.”

  Cedric listened, his face a study of surprise and awe. Obviously, the youth was not accustomed to hearing a woman described in such terms, and Dunstan realized that he had never used them. But the wren was something altogether different. “Have Benedict spell you,” Dunstan ordered, glancing toward an elderly knight whom he trusted to keep his hands off Marion.

  “Yes, my lord,” Cedric said, and he rushed after his charge, his face somber and alert.

  Dunstan turned away and strode toward his waiting horse. He did not fault Cedric for being fooled. Day of God! She had tricked them all—twice now! But once stung, a wise man would beware the bee. Dunstan decided he had better keep an eye on Marion, too. He had no intention of letting her flee again or of seeing her work her wiles upon his men to their detriment.

  And, keeping wiles in mind, Dunstan judged that it might be well to post an extra watch this night, just in case her uncle really did present a threat. Of course, the woman spouted nothing but nonsense, yet it could not hurt to be more vigilant.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Dunstan sighed. The simple errand his father had entrusted to him was becoming more complicated than he could ever have imagined.

  * * *

  “Back again, are you?” Agnes cackled with glee when Marion mounted her palfrey. “What did the Wolf do to you this time?”

  Despite all that had happened between Dunstan and herself in the past hour, Marion’s mind, directed perhaps by Agnes’s chortling, dredged up only one image. Her face flooded with color as she remembered, all too vividly, when Dunstan had held her in his arms. Warmth and strength had surrounded her, and his face had been so close to her own that she could see the darkening of his eyes—as deep and green as the thickest forest. For a moment, he had seemed to devour her with his gaze, and Marion could have sworn that he took a hungry glance at her lips. But then he had practically dropped her to the ground in his haste to be rid of her!

  Marion sighed at her own foolishness. Surely, it was only her imagination that had Dunstan looking as if he might kiss her, for why would the Wolf of Wessex be interested in her? The great, handsome brute probably had his pick of lovely ladies….

  As if in answer to her unspoken question, Agnes chuckled beside her. “You have captured his attention, lady. There is no doubt of that,” she said, grinning crookedly to display several missing teeth. “You are a puzzle to him, and he has not known the like before. It makes you prey on his mind—more than any other female, I will warrant.”

  Agnes nodded sagely before continuing. “Yes, you are getting under his skin. The question is—what will he do when the itch strikes him? Will he scratch it?” Just as though she had made some hearty jest, Agnes threw back her head and let out a coarse peal of laughter, which Marion tried hard to ignore.

  Although she had been listening with only half an ear to the old woman’s rambling, Marion decided she did not care to know what would happen when she got under the Wolf’s skin. Although he had not hurt her, she suspected that he was nearly at the end of his tether, and she would not like his temper loosed upon her.

  He was such a surly, bullying wretch! All he ever did was shout and grunt and growl at her like some great wild beast. At one point, she had even thought he might strike her, but she should have known better. Even Dunstan, with all his faults, would not do that, for Campion would not raise a son to violence.

  Marion was wary, though. When he had lifted his fist something inside her made her seek to protect herself—even from a de Burgh. What that something was, Marion did not care to examine, but she had an eerie feeling that the answer lay in the veiled mystery of her past.

  And that was another thing, she thought, suddenly fuming. Dunstan did not even have the courtesy to hear her out about her uncle; he made it plain that he did not believe a word she told him of Baddersly. Of course, his reaction was no surprise to her, for she had seen enough of his behavior to know it well. The man constantly treated her like a child who had no life of her own, and no thoughts, no hopes, no dreams worth considering.

  Well, she would show him! What had once existed only as a tiny spark inside of her was now a small blaze, fed by Dunstan’s scorn, and Marion felt it—and herself—growing stronger each day. Twice now she had nearly outwitted the Wolf of Wessex. Today he must truly have sniffed her out like the beast that he was, but in the future she would cover her tracks more thoroughly. The third time was often the charm, Marion told herself.

  If he would not save her, she must save herself. No matter what smug Dunstan de Burgh might think, Marion knew that her life was in danger, and she refused to be led to her death like some lamb to slaughter.

  She had only to make a new plan for escape and leave the Wolf behind. Forever.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dunstan woke early. He had slept sitting up against a tree trunk, as was his way upon the road, and
when he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was Lady Warenne’s tent. Uttering a sharp oath, Dunstan stood quickly and went to rinse off his face in the cold running stream. In a moment, he had stripped off his clothes and doused his entire body instead.

  When he had finished and dressed anew, Dunstan felt better than he had in days. Telling himself that he had rid the Lady Marion from his thoughts, he roused everyone with a vengeance in order to get the train off to an early start. The weather was holding and he wanted to take advantage of it.

  Once they were off, he tried to maintain his improved mood, but the rest of the day stretched before him with all the appeal of a stay in the dungeon, and Dunstan decided he was getting too old for this nomadic life.

  At one time a new journey would have thrilled him; now, he found that he longed far more for a good meal and a soft bed—mayhap even a wife with whom to share them. The idea of marriage, which would have startled him not so long ago, suddenly seemed long overdue. Perhaps it was time to get himself an heir.

  Dunstan gazed behind him, toward a certain dark-haired female, and he found himself watching her, noting little details about her that had escaped his attention before.

  Like the way she held herself, consummate grace exhibited in her every movement.

  Like the way her body’s generous curves were visible even under the relatively shapeless gown she wore and the cloak that covered it.

  Like the way her hair curled against her throat under her hood, begging to be set free.

  When Dunstan felt himself longing to jerk away the material, letting the rich, dark locks fall loose, he knew he was not himself. With a low curse, he reminded himself of the lady’s sins. They were plentiful! She was reckless, willful, argumentative, thoughtless, fanciful and untruthful. She was delaying not only this errand with her antics, but his presence at Wessex, as well.

  Dunstan was a man who liked his world as plain and simple as possible, while she had more facets than Hydra had heads! And he had not the patience to sort through them all. Ruing his own wayward thoughts, Dunstan resolved that although he might take a bride someday soon, the wren was definitely not worth considering for the position. Then he wheeled his destrier to the head of the column—well away from her.

  Dunstan stayed there for most of the day. Although they passed only a few other travelers and some farmers, he remained alert. Despite their number, attack on the roadways was always a possibility, and his job was to see that nothing happened to his charge or his men.

  As they approached a village, Dunstan fell back, searching for Marion. Although he did not think her so foolish as to try to flee again, he knew passing by gawking peasants would make a good diversion for her to try to escape, and he had no desire for any further delays.

  When he did not immediately spy her or his squire, Dunstan felt a prick of uneasiness. Although he knew not how she could escape on horseback in full view of all, he was beginning to think that Marion was possessed of extraordinary abilities not associated with the typical female.

  His jaw clenched tightly, Dunstan reined in and waited, eyeing the soldiers, servants and carts that passed him for a sign of her form. Despite his best efforts, his agitation grew—until he heard something that heralded her approach as nothing else could. Laughter such as Dunstan had never known danced across the air to him, rich as good earth and warm as summer sunshine, though what made him liken a sound to such, he was not sure. His mind, Dunstan decided, with grim humor, had been too much on husbandry of late.

  Of course, it was her laughter, Dunstan noted with wry appreciation. When he noticed the source of the wren’s delight, however, his amusement fled, for it was Walter who rode beside her, coaxing the most amazing smiles from her and engaging her in easy banter. As Dunstan watched, she laughed again, deep and full-throated, and he felt something inside himself stir and reach toward the sound like a plant to the light.

  But it was Walter who basked in the glow of her brightness, and Dunstan felt his gut twist at that knowledge. He scowled blackly at his vassal before his attention was drawn to his squire, who rode behind the merry duo, easy prey for any outlaw and pathetic protection for Marion.

  Dunstan’s anger easily fixed upon his vassal, who knew better than to place the most vulnerable riders at the rear. What was Walter thinking? Dunstan wondered, before he realized that in all probability, Walter was not thinking at all—except with his nether regions.

  “Walter.” Dunstan’s tone made his vassal swivel toward him immediately. “Scout up ahead,” he ordered curtly. Not trusting himself to say more, Dunstan saved his rebuke for later and simply urged the knight on with a jerk of his head. For a moment, Dunstan thought he saw anger pass across his vassal’s face, but so quickly was it replaced by a mocking smile that Dunstan deemed himself mistaken.

  With an insolent nod, Walter sent him a look that plainly asked him if he was jealous. Jealous? Dunstan gritted his teeth as raw fury rushed through him at the ridiculous accusation. Walter knew very well that Dunstan could not care less about Marion Warenne. She was naught but a package to be delivered, but delivered she would be—in one piece and untouched by his men—to Baddersly.

  While Walter rode away, Dunstan narrowed his eyes suspiciously and pondered his vassal’s sudden interest in the woman. Aside from a few sly comments, Walter had never shown her the slightest notice, yet today he was playing the gallant, drawing her out, chatting with her and moving her to the end of the train…. It was passing strange.

  “What be you about, my lord? Am I barred from any discourse with my companions?” Dunstan was dragged from his thoughts by the sound of Marion’s soft voice. Turning to face her, he saw that she had donned her most composed manner, which, in light of her behavior with Walter, pricked sorely at Dunstan’s already black temper.

  “Perhaps you should be, if your intention is to work your womanly wiles upon my men until they are so addled that they are of no use to me,” he snapped.

  Her lovely eyes widened in response, as if his accusation stunned her, and Dunstan might have been taken in, had he not known her for a lying trickster. He began to wonder if her speech with his vassal hid ulterior motives. Surely she would not try to engage Walter to her cause. Even she would not attempt another flight alone into the woods…would she? Dunstan felt an uneasiness settle upon him that had nothing to do with her discourse with Walter.

  “Cedric,” he said in quiet admonition. “My lady’s place is not at the end of the train. She is in danger here.”

  Cedric jerked upright in the saddle. “Yes, my lord!”

  “Let us ride on till we are in the midst of the men,” Dunstan instructed, sliding a glance toward Marion. She darted a look behind her, as if expecting to see outlaws pressing down upon them.

  “Yea, my lady. The roads are dangerous,” Dunstan said grimly. His disquiet grew at the thought of something happening to her, and an alien sort of fear washed over him, followed swiftly by anger at her foibles. By faith, he wanted to shake some sense into her! Had she no notion of the dangers that stalked abroad?

  “We travel with a good band of armed men, and yet we must constantly be alert,” Dunstan told her through gritted teeth. “All manner of brigand would fain kill us for our purse and ransom you—or worse. Have you no idea what can happen to you, a beautiful woman, at the hands of lawless men?” he asked.

  She did not answer, but regarded him with those huge eyes, wide with surprise—and innocence. Dunstan clenched his jaw tighter against the need to make her heed him.

  “There are those who kill for the sheer thrill of it, but at least the end would be swift. Some things, I suspect, are worse than death. Ladies, especially, can be ill-used beyond imagination.” Dunstan broke off, torn between wanting her to see the folly of flight and wishing to protect her sensibilities.

  Was she even listening to him? Her head was bent, her dark curls tumbling about her face in wild disarray, and her hands were still upon the reins. Dunstan longed to shatter that composure, to gra
b her by the shoulders and force her to listen until she swore never to endanger herself again. But he was not so uncivilized. He had learned restraint from his father, who rarely raised a hand to anyone. Campion had earned respect through his fairness, his leadership and the rewards he bestowed on those who served him well, and Dunstan tried hard to follow in his footsteps.

  Sometimes it was harder than others, Dunstan thought as he glared at the lady beside him. How could he reach her? Beneath her sometimes foolish behavior was a clever mind, as he well knew. Why would she not be sensible? Had she not been attacked before? “The world is full of threats, Marion, but then, you must know this, for is that not how you came to meet my brothers?” he asked.

  Dunstan saw his taunt hit its mark, for Marion blanched, her great eyes darting toward him in horror. “I…I do not know,” she answered.

  “Ah, yes, the infamous memory lapse,” Dunstan muttered.

  Marion drew herself up then, the pain he had briefly glimpsed swiftly replaced by the cool, unreachable mask he well recognized. Dunstan suddenly regretted his mockery. Clenching his jaw, he told himself that the advice he gave was for her own good, and yet he felt as wretched as if he had kicked her in the teeth for no good reason.

  “I really do not remember,” she said suddenly. She was staring off into the distance, and somehow, she seemed more truthful now than when she was looking him directly in the eye.

  Dunstan felt something stir again inside him. The urge to take her into his arms, to protect this maddening woman from all of the world’s hurts, was overwhelming. He grunted, disgusted, but unable to stop himself from offering whatever feeble comfort he could. “I have heard of such things,” he said finally. “Back when I was a young knight, I saw a man with a head wound wander for days without his senses.”

  She looked at him, and he felt as if those wonderful wide eyes would swallow him up, taking him into their depths forever. “Thank you, Dunstan,” she said. It was only a few words, gently spoken, but they touched him down to the bone. Strange, far too strange for his blood, he thought with a grimace.