Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  “But the lady! Surely, you cannot mean to let her run away,” Walter argued. “What will your father say?”

  Something in Walter’s voice made Dunstan lift his head and look closely at his vassal. Was that scorn he heard? Contempt? Walter’s face showed nothing but taut lines of concentration in the vanishing light.

  Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck. On top of everything else, he was imagining things. Perhaps he was hearing taunts where there were none because of his own sense of frustration and helplessness. What was he to do? “I will go alone,” he said finally. “And I will find her.” Or what is left of her, he thought grimly.

  In truth, he had not considered his father’s reaction should he fail in his mission or, worse yet, if the woman his family adored came up dead or missing when in his charge. Campion’s disapproval or Simon’s scorn suddenly seemed a lot less important than they once might have. Right now, Dunstan just wanted to find her alive.

  Then he would kill her himself.

  Stopping only to grab up his pack, Dunstan headed toward the woods. Cedric begged to come along, but knowing the boy would slow him down, Dunstan bade him stay. He wanted no distractions as he sought her trail in the dusk. He spared a moment to consider the workings of her mind, but decided that was beyond any sane man. Instead, he simply took the most likely route away from the camp toward the cover of the trees.

  Dunstan trod softly, taking the easiest way and hoping she did not veer off in her cleverness. If she hoped no one would discover her missing until morning, she was probably putting as much distance between herself and the camp as possible. Dunstan suspected that was her course, but the knowledge gave him no comfort, for moving as swiftly as he could to catch up, he might never find her in the blackness.

  It was full dark under the trees, the moon casting its light but faintly through the branches overhead. Dunstan stepped more carefully, afraid that he might miss her form huddled off the track he had discovered. It twisted and turned over fallen logs and slippery ditches, which made him wonder if she would break her neck in some gully.

  Actually, that was the least of the possible fates that disturbed him. There were so many other dangers, so many threats to a woman alone in a strange forest in the dark, that Dunstan could not even consider them. He concentrated solely on following her—on a muddy footprint, glimpsed in an open glade, or a bush, visibly disturbed—while he tried to ignore the weight that pressed down upon him, making him feel powerless for the first time in many long years.

  Although Dunstan was not a superstitious man, what finally kept him going was a blind faith that she was ahead of him. And with no other clues to guide him, Dunstan did not stop to question whence the alien feeling sprung. He simply heeded it, moving forward with increasing urgency.

  He went swiftly because something was not right. He could feel it as surely as a man sensed a coming battle—or an ambush. The woods were too quiet, the normal noises of night animals stilled, and even the air hushed with danger. Dunstan paused to listen, his very soul reaching out into the blackness.

  And through the silence, she spoke to him, though it would not have been the call that he desired. The sound that rent the night was a scream that made his blood run cold, for it was a woman’s scream of terror and pain and it belonged to Marion. His body flew to life in response.

  Afterward, Dunstan cursed himself as ten times a fool for charging off like a madman, but at the time he could do nothing else. He saw red, his own blood seeming to burst through his brain to cloud his vision. All his soldier’s training and years of caution went by the wayside as he rushed toward her.

  Another scream was cut off, muffled somehow, but the first still rang in his ears, driving him onward, and, unsheathing his sword, Dunstan burst into a clearing. In less than a second, his mind took in the scene before him, lit by a small fire: Marion stretched out between two men, one holding her arms, while the other bent over her, pushing up her skirts. In less than a second, Dunstan had raised his blade, overwhelmed by a blood lust such as he had never known, and bellowed his rage.

  The one between her legs looked up, his face registering a startled expression before Dunstan severed his head from his body in one blow. Blood showered through the air, making the other man shriek and fall back, fumbling for a weapon. But Dunstan was too fast. Leaping over Marion’s body, Dunstan sliced the man’s arm where it reached for a sword and then ran him through.

  For a long moment Dunstan stood there, breathing heavily, his heart thundering, his body still tense, his eyes raking the area for more enemies. But the clearing was empty. Nothing moved but the flickering flames of the low fire, and the only sound was the bubble of life’s blood leaving the fallen.

  Dunstan drew in a deep, shaky breath as he tried to bring himself back to normalcy. It was not easy. He had fought fiercer battles many times, had been in more danger more often than he could count and had even been wounded several times, as his body’s scars could attest. But never had he known such killing lust—unreasoning, overwhelming and still unappeased. When he realized that he longed to hack the corpses to pieces, Dunstan let the air out of his lungs in a low hiss and turned.

  Spattered with blood, Marion was lying in the dirt with her gown bunched around her hips and one pale limb resting against the headless body of one of her attackers. Her beautiful dark hair was spread out around her face in wild disarray, framing delicate features that were as white and still as death. Dunstan fell to his knees beside her and forced himself to speak evenly.

  His voice came out a ragged whisper. “Wren! Wren…are you hurt?” Now that the threat to her was vanquished, Dunstan felt at a loss. What if she was injured? He knew naught of healing and even less of succoring the wounded. “Marion, ‘tis I, Dunstan,” he said louder.

  When she did not respond, he removed his gauntlets slowly, afraid to startle her, and put a hand to her forehead. Her long lashes fluttered open. “Dunstan…” She murmured his name like a caress.

  The pain in his chest eased a little, and he held out a hand toward her. She took it, rising to a sitting position, and he arranged her skirts to cover shapely legs made visible in the firelight. When he had finished, she was looking up at him with an expression he had never seen before. Something akin to dazed wonder shone out of those huge brown eyes, and then she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in the warm curve of his throat above his mail coat and wept.

  Dunstan grudgingly embraced her, hugging her close as he had not held another human being since Nicholas was a babe. He felt ridiculously ill-equipped to give comfort. What did he know of it? His years as a soldier had taught him to disdain such things, and women who took him to their beds knew better than to ask for more than a friendly tumble. But the wren needed him.

  Awkwardly, Dunstan put a palm to the tangled softness of her hair, glad to feel the life pulsing beneath it. She was all right. By God’s good grace, she was all right. Dunstan felt a shudder and told himself that Marion was reacting normally to all that had happened. It was certainly not his own body that was trembling like a newly weaned babe at the sight of a little blood. Thank God that it was not her blood….

  Dunstan’s fingers drifted through curls silky and rich as the finest cloth. And thick! By faith, he could feel the weight of the mass tumbling over his fist. A man could bury his hand in hair like that, anchoring himself, he thought, before removing his own hand abruptly and laying it gingerly upon her shoulder.

  He told himself she had nearly been raped. He told himself that she was frightened out of her mind and clinging to him for solace. He told himself that she was a troublesome piece of baggage who was here because of her own recklessness and that he had no liking for her.

  But no matter what he told himself, Dunstan was becoming all too aware of the woman in his arms. The tears she had shed upon his neck were caught by a breeze, cooling the surface of his skin in a tantalizing sensation. Her breath was soft and warm upon his throat, and she carried some elusive scent of rich
earth and fertile flowers. Her lush breasts were nestled against his chest, and her hips were nearly touching his own. Cursing himself for a fiend, Dunstan felt himself spring to life.

  As if sensing his perfidy, she lifted her head, but her heart-shaped face held no accusation. Those great brown eyes of hers looked at him as no one had ever looked at him before—that strange sort of wonder mixed with something else. Could it be desire? Dunstan felt the spark between them ignite, heating the air, burning away all else. His hands went to her shoulders. She parted her lips. Shuddering with need, he leaned closer—and swore softly.

  Pushing her away, Dunstan got to his feet before he took her himself, making him little better than the corpses that surrounded them. After a brush with death, a man often craved life, or the best use he could make of it, but that was no excuse. The wren was no whore, and they were not safely ensconced in any camp. With another low curse, Dunstan whirled around, half-expecting to see himself surrounded. What kind of a randy, witless fool was he to lie about as if they were on a pleasure outing?

  From the looks of the camp, the two dead men had not been alone, and their companions might return at any moment. “We must go,” Dunstan snapped without regard to Marion’s sensibilities. His brain was working quickly now, and he was cursing himself for his vainglorious charge into the clearing. Why had he not left one of the men alive, at least long enough to discover who they were and what they were about?

  Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck. Never, since learning the rules of combat at his father’s knee, had he been so rash. The blood lust that had seized him now seemed a disturbing thing, robbing him of his senses and taking control of his body. With a low oath, Dunstan glanced down at the corpse, wishing, too late, that the dead could speak. Unfortunately, this fellow would tell him nothing, so Dunstan turned on his heel to go. But something made him swing back around to look more closely at the wretch at his feet.

  The man was dressed poorly in plain rough wool, and yet he carried a sword. Unusual, that. Something niggled at the back of Dunstan’s mind. Something familiar. Leaning down, he searched the body, but found nothing except a purse with a few coins. If the man was a robber, he had yet to win his gold—or be paid. Dunstan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” The wren’s shaky voice brought him upright.

  “Nothing,” Dunstan answered abruptly. “Can you walk?”

  She looked up at him, her great eyes awash with confusion, reminding him of nothing so much as a little lost fawn. He felt like cursing. He did not want to hurt her, but he had wasted enough time coddling her. Danger was in the air. He could almost smell it.

  “Can you walk?” he asked again. She nodded dully, and he reached out a hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come then. We must be off.” He glanced around the site and decided to let the low fire burn itself out. If it served as a beacon for other outlaws, he did not want to draw their attention by extinguishing it.

  “What of…them?” Marion asked. Her voice was shaky, and he looked down to see her hugging herself tightly as she stared at the bodies. Anger pulsed through him—anger at the men who had reduced his little wren to this, and anger at himself for not reaching her sooner, for not being able to give her what she needed, and for not having his own wits about him.

  “Leave them for carrion,” Dunstan answered gruffly. He strode swiftly toward the trees, taking note of the footprints that marked the passage of more than those two. He stifled a curse. They needed to get away from the clearing and the path and find a resting place. Others, obviously, were abroad this night, and few men roamed the dark woods with good intentions.

  “Dunstan.” She was tugging on his sleeve, and when he turned to her, she let her hand slide down to his, apparently taking some comfort from his touch. Awkwardly, he squeezed her fingers. Then he strode from the clearing, one hand pulling her along with him, the other resting on his sword hilt.

  Once under the trees, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the blackness, then he pushed on, far enough from the path to be out of the way of any travelers. When he finally paused, Dunstan stood looking up at several tall oaks, assessing them as well as he could in the dark. Moving to a large one with a split trunk, he said, “We shall bed down here.”

  Marion’s small palm jerked in his. “Can we not go back to the train?”

  “No. Others are abroad this night, and in this light, I can little judge what they are about. We know that some of them, at least, are not above attacking a woman.”

  She clutched his hand tighter, and the answering squeeze he gave hers came more naturally now. “Since you sleep like a babe in a tree, this spot should suit you perfectly,” he noted wryly.

  “But—but…” Marion stammered, and Dunstan’s lips curved upward. Then he put his hands about her waist and lifted her up, setting her in the crook of the giant tree. She was still sputtering when he climbed up beside her and leaned back against the sturdy trunk.

  “But what?” Dunstan asked easily. Despite having found her hiding in a large oak after her first escape, he assumed that she would object to spending the night on a branch. After all, he could imagine few ladies finding a comfortable berth up here.

  “But…you do not really expect me to sleep here, do you?”

  “Why not?” Dunstan asked. Although he had one ear tuned to the forest, he was beginning to enjoy himself. The wren was recovered enough to endure some teasing. He could not wait to hear her admit that her story about falling asleep in the tree had been a fantastic lie. Perhaps then he could get some other truths from her, as well. He listened, suddenly eager to hear her confession, but when she spoke, it was not to complain about the bed, but the company.

  “Why, ‘twould not be seemly to stay here alone with you,” she protested.

  Dunstan threw back his head and guffawed before he caught himself. “Do not make me laugh. We must be quiet. Now hush, and try to rest.” He could make out the dark shape of her form and smiled.

  By faith, what kind of woman thought nothing of running into the woods alone, but felt threatened by spending the night with him? A bit of moonlight danced through the leaves, illuminating Marion’s face, and Dunstan caught a glimpse of her licking her lips before she was again cast in shadow.

  In that instant, his smile died. Perhaps Marion was right, he thought grimly. She might be in more danger than either of them suspected.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Marion glared at the great dark form that disappeared into the blackness of the tree trunk, and did not know what to think. When she had first seen him, when he had held out his hand to her, dragging her back from the horror that had gripped her, Marion had been so happy that she had wept with relief.

  When he had held her, comforting her in his own awkward way, she had felt something for Dunstan de Burgh that she had never known before, a welling of emotion so profound that she hardly dared trust her own senses. When he had stroked her hair and that odd look came over his handsome face, she had been breathless with anticipation—and wanting.

  Marion blushed to admit it even to herself. And yet, for just a moment, it had seemed as if nothing existed but Dunstan and herself. There were no filthy hands pawing at her, no death cries, no blood and no flights into the woods. There was not even a Baddersly, waiting like a giant, loathsome spider, ready to draw her into its web. There was only Dunstan and the way he made her body tingle and her heart trip over itself eagerly.

  But, all too soon, that brief interlude was over, and Dunstan was back to his old, surly self, grunting and dragging her along as if she were naught but unwanted baggage. And now he had tossed her up in a tree and laughed at her. The man was impossible! Marion moved restlessly, the bark digging into her back. How could anyone actually sleep here?

  Her gown had ridden up, and Marion tugged at the hem, bringing it down. Although the weather had been pleasant, the setting sun had brought a chill to the woods. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her head on her knees and her eyes upon the bla
ck shape opposite.

  And, as soon as she did, it came again—that sweet rush of emotion. Was it only because he had rescued her? Would she have greeted any savior with the depth of feeling that swelled now in her breast? Marion stared at his dark figure and knew not with certainty, but she suspected that whatever she felt was reserved for Dunstan de Burgh, pigheaded, sullen and handsome devil that he was. Closing her eyes to call up his visage, she smiled—because it was scowling.

  At least he had not scolded her. Marion would not have been surprised if he had launched into a long lecture about her foolishness. Grudgingly, she admitted that he had the right, for his warning had been all too true; the forest was full of desperate men. With disconcerting haste, the image of Dunstan was replaced by others, with faces and hands that held her down and something worse. It was there at the edge of her mind, taunting her tonight, that great well of her memories, threatening to overwhelm her. And Marion wanted no part of them. She opened her eyes wide.

  “It is there, so close I can almost feel it,” she whispered.

  “What?” Dunstan’s low, urgent response told her that he was awake and alert for danger.

  “My past.”

  He grunted, rather irritably, and Marion wondered if he was heartily sick of chasing after her. Who could blame him? He had a home and duties awaiting him, while she had only bleak nothingness. “I am afraid of it, Dunstan,” she said. “I do not want to remember.”

  “Then, do not,” he said gruffly, and suddenly Marion felt his arm around her, pulling her into the curve of his body. “Sleep,” he ordered in a rough whisper.

  She had forgotten how warm he was, but the reminder made her snuggle up against his side. His heat surrounded her immediately, driving away the chill in the air, the horrors of the night and the dread of a history that loomed over her like a black cloud. She rested her head on his shoulder, safe and content, and began to relax, slowly but surely. Dazedly, she knew that she should not be curled up so close to a man, alone in the night, but it felt so right, how could it be wrong? She slid a leg up over his thick thigh and sighed softly.