Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  “You frown too much, Dunstan.”

  Dunstan glanced at her in surprise to find her smiling at him. And the world dimmed in the face of it.

  Speechless, Dunstan stared at that smile. Bright with life and accompanied by two deep dimples, it was like none he had ever seen before. It seemed to encompass him, cloaking him in its warmth and lightening his heart. How would he feel to have that smile turned upon him again and again? It made him want to move his lips in return, to reach for something he had long forgotten.

  Dunstan decided a man would have to be as cold as stone to be unaffected by it, and he was not made of stone. Gad, but he felt himself go all soft inside. He straightened in the saddle. “I have had little enough to please me upon this journey,” he answered.

  Undiminished by his reference to her troublesome behavior, Marion’s grin deepened, and Dunstan swore he saw a sparkle in her eye. In spite of himself—in spite of all he knew of this exasperating female—he felt himself drawn to her. She seemed the embodiment of so many things he had been lacking: warmth and comfort and caring. Caring? Dunstan frowned at his own foolish thoughts. Perhaps his brain was swelling!

  “My lady, I would not have us be enemies,” he said politely. “If you and I had met under other circumstances, I might have found you pleasing. And I can assure you, you would have found me much more accommodating. But I have business that requires my attention, and this journey is wearing on me sorely.”

  “What weighs upon you so?” Marion tilted her head slightly to train her great dark gaze upon him, and Dunstan felt its gentle touch like a caress.

  You. Dunstan almost spoke the word aloud. You and your foolish escapades, from scaling trees to burrowing into caves. You and that bewitching smile of yours. You and the way you look and act and sound, filling my thoughts as no other woman ever has…. He stared off into the forest that rose in the distance. “I am needed at Wessex,” he said gruffly.

  “What is it? Have you problems there?”

  The concern in her big brown eyes tempted Dunstan to speak, but being the eldest of Campion’s sons, he had always borne the most responsibility. Long ago, he had learned to rely solely on himself in his efforts to meet his father’s standards, and he had never deigned to share his burdens with another.

  “There are difficulties, yes,” he said abruptly.

  “Surely ‘tis not so bad,” she murmured. Her voice, low and gentle, invited confidence. Dunstan felt himself drawn to her again, as if Marion could somehow lighten his load, free him from the weight of his worries, ease him….

  “My neighbor, Fitzhugh, tries me sorely,” he said slowly. “He constantly harries my people and attacks my property under the guise of outlawry. Many had fled before I came to the holding, so there are few villeins to work the soil. I would see they put in their proper days of service, so that we have a good harvest this year and do not all starve. Beyond the field work, there are ditches to be cleared, banks to be rebuilt….” The lady must be an enchantress, Dunstan mused, for he was voicing concerns he had not even shared with Walter.

  “What does your father say?”

  “Of what?” Dunstan asked, surprised by her question.

  “Of your burdens. I cannot believe that he would send you away from your holdings when you are so needed there.” Her heart-shaped face was tilted toward him, and the sun glowed on the heavy curls that escaped her hood.

  “I doubt that he knows of them,” Dunstan replied. “‘Tis not his land, but mine own that is threatened.”

  “But he is your sire, and loves you well!” Marion protested. “Surely he can help you. And what of your brothers? Why are they not watching out for your interests?”

  Dunstan frowned. “They have their own concerns.”

  “Nay! They have not,” she argued. “They are six grown, healthy men with little enough to do at Campion. They would welcome a change.”

  “They have not been overly eager to lend me their arms,” Dunstan said.

  “Have you ever asked them?”

  “Nay! I beg not,” Dunstan replied, his eyes narrowing.

  “Mercy! You are a stubborn fool!” Marion said, pushing a long, thick strand of hair from her face. Dunstan wondered what it would feel like between his fingers. A man could bury his hands in a mane like that….

  “They would never step in to help you without being asked, Dunstan de Burgh! They think you are invincible and need them not. Do you know how thrilled Simon would be to aid you?”

  Dunstan tore his gaze from her curls and looked at her earnest face, astounded that the little wren was working herself up in such a fashion.

  “He is always trying to live up to your example, yet he finds no chance for glory in serving Campion, for it is well defended. I know that he has asked to join King Edward’s forces, but your father is reluctant to let him go. Although your sire would admit it not, he likes having his sons around him. Simon needs a chance to prove himself, and what better way than by your side? Then, mayhap, he would see you are no god, but only mortal man, like himself.”

  Dunstan struggled to take it all in. Simon, cold and competent beyond reason, saw him as a god? Dunstan found that hard to believe, just as he did the notion of his father hoarding his brothers.

  “And Stephen and Reynold, too,” Marion added. “They need challenges. They have become less than they should be, kicking their heels at Campion. Stephen gets himself into mischief while Reynold broods in bitterness. Yet they are good men, brave knights all, who would be proud to stand by you. With such men as these, who would dare harry you?”

  Dunstan shook his head, wary of her words, and yet, amazing as it might seem, they made sense. He imagined Simon, clearheaded and capable of fending off the most vicious threat, standing guard at his gates, and Geoffrey…Marion had not mentioned him, but Geoffrey had more sense than all of them. Geoffrey could see that the fallow land at Wessex produced double its measure.

  Perhaps she was right. What good would come of remaining aloof and alone? Would he rather lose Wessex than ask his own family for assistance? He had already proved himself aplenty to his sire and his siblings. Mayhap it was time they proved themselves to him.

  “When you return, you must confide in your father,” Marion said. “‘Tis no sign of weakness to call upon your brothers. They need you as much as you need them, Dunstan.”

  “I will consider it,” Dunstan promised as he looked at Marion with new respect. She answered his regard with that beautiful, open smile that dimpled both her cheeks, and for an instant, Dunstan felt a dizzy sort of longing that had nothing to do with sex. Then his jaw tightened.

  “You will excuse me, lady,” he said abruptly, wheeling his horse out of the line and forward. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the need to get away from the only woman who had the power to twist and turn his thoughts into directions he found too disturbing for his comfort.

  * * *

  Marion passed the rest of the day in peace, glad to be left alone. Although she had enjoyed her brief conversation with Walter Avery, she found his sudden attention dismaying, and she had no desire for further complications. The fewer people interested in her the better. And she certainly had not cared to hear Dunstan’s dire warnings, especially when she was planning to disregard them soon enough.

  Although he did not seek her out again, Marion often sensed the Wolf’s eyes upon her. Sometimes she would look up only to catch him quickly glancing away, that perpetual scowl marring his handsome features. Presumably, he was simply guarding her well, Marion thought, with no little disgruntlement.

  When she had ridden beside him, Marion had briefly thought she saw longing in those green eyes of his, but it must have been indigestion—or loathing, she decided. Dunstan had no cause to like her, that was certain, especially since she had delayed this trip more than once.

  No wonder he was so grumpy. Even though she did not understand why he had accepted this errand, Marion could see what drove him to hurry. Dunstan was worried about his lands
and his people, and she could not fault him for that.

  Watching his mounted figure, Marion felt a twinge of admiration for the man she had once despised so thoroughly. Could the feeling be mutual? Dunstan had always treated her as less than nothing, but today she had sensed a change in him. Had she imagined it, or had the Wolf of Wessex finally eyed her with some respect? At least he believed her about her memory loss—a small step that, but a significant one. Perhaps there was hope for the eldest de Burgh, after all, Marion thought with a smile.

  With some surprise, Marion realized that she would not mind getting to know him better, to discover exactly what lay beneath that rough hide of his perhaps to change his snarls to smiles. She nearly laughed at the absurdity of such a scheme. Surely, it would be doomed to failure, for a wolf could no more change his nature than a leopard his spots.

  No matter. She would have to ignore Dunstan’s increasing appeal, for, though he might more readily believe some of her words, he was still intent upon returning her to Baddersly. And Marion had no intention of being left behind in that dark and dreadful place while the Wolf went on to resume his life.

  Escape was never far from her thoughts. All day she had watched for a chance to ease her mount away from the rest of the train, but no opportunity had arisen. The men stayed close to her for her own protection, as did Cedric, who seemed doubly attentive after receiving his reprimand from Dunstan. And Marion’s small but sturdy horse would be no match for the huge destriers ridden by the Wolf and his men.

  No, Marion knew that she must somehow gain time, enough time to get far ahead of any pursuit. Longingly, she looked at the forest that rose upon the hills to their right, dipping closer here and farther there as the road curved and twisted. She could lose herself in those woods, if only she could slip away undetected. She had but to find her chance.

  It came at supper.

  It seemed the Wolf was avoiding her again, so she was spared his company. Eating but little, she excused herself early from Cedric’s company. “But, my lady, ‘tis not even dark yet,” the boy protested, glancing up at the setting sun.

  “I know, but I am tired,” Marion explained with an apologetic smile. Would the boy forgive her deception? She felt sadly regretful for getting Cedric into trouble yet again, but she had to think of herself. And she knew that Dunstan was a fair master; he would not hurt the boy.

  “Good night,” she whispered.

  “Good night, my lady,” he answered, too kind and open to suspect her of anything but weariness.

  And in truth, Marion was weary, but it was not to rest that she entered her tent. She knew that once she was inside it, Cedric would relax his guard, and that was when she planned to escape. She waited patiently, hoping that Agnes would stay out by the fire until late, helping the men with their meal. Of Dunstan, she had seen little, but she suspected that he, too, would leave her be, for had he not lectured her long and vehemently against the follies of fleeing? He did not think she would, and that was exactly how she would manage to, once again.

  Peeking out from under the edge of the tent, Marion saw that Cedric had, indeed, left for the companionable glow of the fire, where most of the men still gathered. Agnes and Dunstan, too, must be there, for no one was near her tent. Wrapping the servant’s tattered cloak around her, Marion slipped out from under the other side and moved calmly toward the trees.

  She was nearly under the first heavy shadows of their leaves when a voice called after her, “Hey, old woman, don’t go far.”

  Without turning, Marion attempted an imitation of Agnes’s loud cackling laugh and limped into the woods, holding the worn garment closer about her. Praying that the sentry would take her for Agnes making her evening ablutions, Marion stepped into the shelter of the forest. Once there, she did not dally, however. This time, she intended to put as much ground between her and the Wolf as she could.

  She hurried forward, not daring to run over the uneven undergrowth, but moving as fast as she could. Already night was gathering under the oaks, and Marion knew it would be her ally. Slipping in and out of clumps of trees she came upon a path of sorts and decided to follow it, simply because she did not want to travel in circles. She moved off the trail at times, but kept close to it until darkness forced her to stay upon the narrow track.

  And darkness came soon, blanketing the world in a disconcerting blackness when the leaves above blocked out the moon and the stars. Marion lost some of her boldness. The rustling of small animals in the brush and the flap of wings overhead would make her freeze in her place, breathless. At first, it was pursuit from camp that she feared, but later, the strange sounds conveyed their own dangers.

  Trying not to think of all that Dunstan had warned her about—wild beasts and desperate outlaws—Marion clutched her small dagger close and stepped carefully. Breathing evenly through her nostrils, she focused on her freedom and a life without threat of a dreaded past. Safety lay ahead of her, and she could not let the night noises cause her to veer from it.

  Telling herself that no one could possibly be deep in the woods at this hour, Marion had herself convinced—until she heard a low rumble ahead that heralded the unmistakable movements of men.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dunstan stood staring into the trees and listened distractedly to Walter’s report. They had made good time today and had halted early enough to scare up some fresh game for the evening meal. The weather might hold another day, and they were that much closer to his mission’s end. Why did he not feel better?

  Glancing around the fire, Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck, where the muscles had tightened uncomfortably. The men seemed to be in good spirits, and even old Benedict was teasing that strange crone who served Marion…. Marion… Dunstan had tried to ignore her since this morning, but as if possessed by its own will, his gaze traveled toward her tent, seeking her out.

  His eyes narrowed when he did not immediately see her. When he could not find his squire, either, his jaw clenched, and when he caught sight of Cedric picking at the last bits of meat on the bones of the night’s supper, Dunstan felt a chill right to his own marrow.

  “Cedric!” Startled by the force of his master’s voice, the youth dropped a morsel onto the ground and jerked to attention. Dunstan closed the distance between them in two strides. “Why are you not with Lady Warenne?”

  “She is bedded down for the night,” the boy answered, flushing beneath Dunstan’s glare.

  “And who gave you leave to desert your post?”

  “Uh, no one, my lord. I just thought that since she was sleeping…”

  Dunstan tried to control his impatience even as raw fury, mixed with some foreign emotion, threatened to lay claim to him. “Is Benedict watching her?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “No, my lord.” Cedric was staring at him, wide-eyed, apparently too witless to comprehend the enormity of his misdeed. Not trusting himself to speak, Dunstan turned and made for the lady’s tent, Cedric at his heels.

  “But, my lord, she was tired,” the boy protested.

  Dunstan marched on, hoping that his instinct was wrong and that the wren would not be so foolish. By the Lord’s grace, let her not be so foolish…. Without preamble, Dunstan jerked aside the flap to the accompaniment of Cedric’s gasp. Inside the dark cocoon, a form lay upon the ground, seeming undisturbed by his entry, and Dunstan felt his blood go cold.

  Although Cedric breathed a soft sigh of relief at the sight of the heaped blankets, Dunstan was no empty-headed youth. A grim knowledge moved him to action, and with a swift flick of his boot, he tossed away the blanket to reveal to his astonished squire the mound of clothing and pillows that lay underneath.

  “She is gone!” Cedric squeaked. “But I never thought—”

  “Yes, she is gone! Heed you this, boy,” Dunstan growled. “When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed without question. You were not given leave to think!”

  “My lord, forgive me!” Cedric fell upon his knees.

  “Get up
!” Dunstan hissed. “And forgive yourself should we find her dead.”

  With a startled look, Cedric glanced at the woods, and Dunstan followed, staring into the fields and forest that lined the roadway. The sun was setting behind a hill, casting the ghostly glow of twilight all around them and heralding the coming night. It would be upon them soon, with only the moon and the stars to guide any search.

  Dunstan’s heart sank down to his toes as he realized the enormity of the situation. She could be anywhere—up a tree, hiding in a cave or fallen into a ravine—and he had not the resources to find her. It was too late. To divide up his men and send them off into the darkness would be just as foolhardy as her own recklessness. He could not do it.

  Walter’s voice broke through whatever force was gripping Dunstan, holding him stock-still. “She has fled again?” the vassal asked without surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “We had better hurry,” Walter said. Surprised, Dunstan shot a swift questioning glance at his vassal. Walter’s eyes were hooded in the twilight, and, when Dunstan said nothing, they turned to him, strangely bright. “We shall spread out and find her.”

  “No,” Dunstan said wearily. “It is too dangerous. I cannot risk separating the men and sending them off into the woods in the night to look for a needle in a haystack.”

  Walter opened his mouth as if to argue and then closed it again. “The road is quiet, and naught is abroad but one lone female,” he reasoned. “If we began now—”

  Dunstan shook his head, cutting off his vassal’s words. “You have fought beside me long enough to know the folly of such a course. Yes, in all probability there is no threat among these hills, but I did not stay alive this long by taking such chances.”

  A muscle in Walter’s cheek jumped at the implied reprimand, but Dunstan paid it no heed. He stared off into the trees, trying to decide what to do. He ought to abandon the foolish chit to her fate, but the thought of the wren alone out there did something to his chest, making it constrict painfully.