Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  “Dunstan, you are hurting me,” she finally said softly. It struck her then as to just how truly she spoke, though her arm suffered the least of it. The Wolf was making her ache from her head right down to her heart.

  “What?” He threw a sharp look at her and then loosened his grip, but he kept his hand upon her sleeve, and Marion felt the warmth all through her. He did not apologize, and she smiled, certain that he never would. He was Dunstan, beloved to her, despite all his rough edges, and she would cherish him, if she could.

  But she could not.

  They would have to part soon, and that would be best, for she knew as surely as she drew breath that the Wolf would never return her regard. Oh, he might think her body “luscious” and he might look at her at times with the flare of desire shining in his green eyes, but he could not give her what she wanted: love and a home and a family.

  He would not even give her freedom.

  The thought was sobering, and Marion went still for a moment before Dunstan urged her on with a jerk. He did not hurt her, though, until they finally neared the edge of the forest, when his fingers dug into her arm again with more pressure than was comfortable.

  Glancing up in surprise, Marion saw the tenseness in his stance, and she realized he did not even know what he did. He was looking ahead and concentrating intently, as if scenting trouble in the very air. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched, and Marion stiffened instantly in response.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Shh,” Dunstan said, his attention elsewhere. “‘Tis too quiet for my liking. Stay here.” Too quiet? Marion could hear the morning birds trilling their songs in the treetops and small animals foraging among the roots not far away. All seemed as it should be, but she remained where she was, watching, with admiration, as Dunstan walked ahead.

  His long hair was surely darker and richer than that of his brothers, she thought wistfully. His shoulders were definitely wider, and his thighs…Well, she had never really looked at any of his brothers’ legs, but Dunstan’s were strong and thickly muscled, yet he moved silently, like a wolf.

  Marion saw him disappear through the edge of the trees into the light that marked the campsite area, then she stood there, staring stupidly after him, dreamily musing on Dunstan de Burgh’s attributes. It took her a full minute to realize just what he had done, and when she did, she froze.

  The man who had sworn never to let her out of his sight had left her alone.

  It took another moment for the knowledge to sink in, and Marion hardly dared breathe as the possibilities presented themselves to her dazed mind. She could flee. She could actually leave the Wolf, his men and his nearby camp, and proceed with her plans. Although last night’s attack had left her wary, she told herself that it was morning now, and her chances of being set upon were surely fewer during the daylight hours. Were they not?

  Ignoring the echo of Dunstan’s warnings, Marion scanned the area around her, trying to make her decision swiftly. If she turned and made her way through the trees off the path and headed back toward Campion, Dunstan might not find her. Ever.

  Although she stood perfectly still, Marion’s heart raced, pounding so loudly that the sound seemed to rise above the raucous call of the birds. Suddenly aware of the number of dark wings flapping against the gray sky, Marion looked up and felt a chill omen, the kind of unearthly dread that she knew about Baddersly. She could not see the road, but she was sure that something was wrong. She could sense it.

  And then it came to her—the reason for Dunstan’s caution. The camp was too quiet. If it lay just ahead, why did she not hear Agnes’s cackle or the voices of the men or the sounds of the horses? Although the group was not boisterous, the general noise of people and animals surrounded them wherever they went. And yet, Marion heard nothing but the birds. Uneasiness crept over her, along with concern for Dunstan.

  If anything should happen to him… The thought rocked Marion with raw emotions so fierce that she nearly fell to her knees, and without hesitation, she stepped forward, determined to see for herself that he was all right. Then she stopped abruptly in her tracks. What of her plans to fly?

  Now, Marion! You must go now! Turning to leave, she told herself to run, but her legs refused to move. How could she go without making sure he was well? She felt torn, pulled in two different directions, and with only a moment, perhaps less, to decide.

  It was the hardest thing she had ever done. Finally, with a resignation that was painful, Marion closed her eyes tightly and discovered that she really had no choice. She loved Dunstan with a dizzying force that could not be denied, that seemed to engulf her body and her will.

  She loved him more, perhaps, than her own freedom.

  With calm determination, Marion pressed her hands to her skirts and walked to the edge of the woods. At the last line of trees, she took a deep breath and looked toward the roadway, afraid of what might meet her gaze.

  The camp appeared peaceful enough, mocking her fears as foolishness. Perhaps Dunstan was right and she was overly sensitive, seeing threats where there were none. With a soft sigh of relief, she realized why it was so quiet. The men were still asleep. Perhaps it was earlier than she thought or mayhap they thought to lie about without Dunstan to rouse them.

  Stepping out into the grassy area before the road, Marion walked to where the embers of the night’s fire glowed and several of the men still huddled in their blankets. Dunstan was standing not far away, with his back to her, and it was then that she began to notice the deathly quiet. Why was he not shouting at them all? The hair on the back of her neck rose, and her throat shut tightly, cutting off her air.

  She must have made some sound because Dunstan turned toward her, and the naked agony on his face struck her like a physical blow. Dread enveloped her, bearing down upon her very soul, and she closed her eyes. It was nearly overwhelming this time, and she struggled with it, pushing away that black well of memory that threatened to drag her into its depths. Fear of the past warred with fear of the present until she felt wrenched in two, until she had no choice but to open her eyes—and to look. And when she did, she saw that Dunstan’s men were not really sleeping.

  They were dead.

  Those near the fire must have been killed as they slept, for their bodies still lay wrapped in their woolen blankets, stained red with blood. Others had risen to fight, for they had fallen near the carts, their eyes open and staring, their wounds already sending up a stench.

  The unholy silence was broken only by the sound of a bit of tent flapping in the breeze. Not one single moan rose from the men, and Marion realized that there must be no survivors. No noise came from the animals, either, and a glance told her that the horses were all gone, leaving Dunstan and herself as the only living creatures in the entire camp—seemingly in all the world.

  For a long moment, Marion stood transfixed, her brain registering the facts that met her eyes without emotion as something built inside of her. Each gruesome sight added to it, until she felt a great weight upon her, threatening to burst her heart. Then she chanced to see the battered corpse of young Cedric, and whatever had held her distant from the horror gave way, letting pain rush through her like floodwaters through a dike, drowning her senses and making it difficult to breathe.

  And suddenly the terrible scene before her was replaced by another vision of carnage. Marion fell to her knees, covering her eyes, but it rose before her, erupting into her mind so vividly that she could neither stop it nor deny it.

  She could only watch helplessly as outlaws charged forward like fiends from hell, bent upon killing them all without a single word of treaty. Young John, little older than Cedric, was cut down immediately. Marion saw him fall herself and heard Enid’s screams. She pulled out her knife and turned to strike at the man who threatened her maid, but fear stayed her hand. And then it was too late.

  The assassin’s evil face rose before her, mottled and filthy, his eyes glinting with malice, the silver ring in his ear glitte
ring coldly. He struck her, sending her off her palfrey to the ground, but before the pain exploded in her head, Marion felt the sharp sting of recognition. She had seen that earring before.

  The man who wore it might masquerade as a common robber of the road, but she knew him as one of her uncle’s men.

  Marion shuddered, weeping silently and gasping for breath, until she felt a heavy hand upon her neck, pushing her head down to the ground so that she would not faint. Her dizziness passed then, and she simply cried silently, for the men who lay before her, for her own people, dead these past months, and for the memory that had returned to haunt her.

  “We cannot stay here,” Dunstan said. Marion heard the words but did not respond. Beyond her grief, fresh and wrenching, was the overwhelming sensation of remembering. Where once there had been nothing but a void, there was a lifetime, for all of it came back. Her uncle, her treacherous uncle, had sent his men to kill them all!

  She heard Dunstan mumble a low oath, but remained still, retreating inside of herself. “Marion, Marion!” He crouched beside her, exasperation edging his voice, and took her arms in a fierce grip. “Marion! We cannot stay here, for this was no ordinary attack. The thieves took nothing from the train. They came in silently at night to do murder, and they may not be finished.”

  “My uncle.” The words were a dry, hoarse croak struggling up from her throat.

  “Forget your uncle!” Dunstan said, giving her a shake. “I know not who has slaughtered my men, though I suspect those two from last night were a part of it. I know only that it was not common thieves who did this, and whoever it was might still be about. We must fly and watch our backs!”

  He loosed his fierce hold on her, his voice growing gentler. “Take whatever you can—a change of clothing, money, valuables and food if you can find it. But hurry.”

  He helped her to her feet, and moving as if in a dream, Marion crawled into the cart, her numb fingers making a bundle out of a blanket and some clothes. Even while she worked, images danced before her. She was a child again, sitting at her father’s knee and smiling at her mother’s sweet laugh. Oh, dear Lord, she had once had a family and a loving one! But they were gone—all but her mother’s treacherous brother who, even now, reached out to kill her.

  Jumping down from the cart, Marion lost her balance and nearly fell. She reached out for Dunstan and felt a moment’s panic when she did not see him. It never occurred to her to try to flee from him now; she was too shattered to scheme of escape. And Dunstan was all she had.

  Overwhelmed by terror and tragedy, she needed his strength, his warmth, to cling to, now more than ever. When she spotted him at the edge of the wood, pulling an arrow from the body of the sentry, her relief was palpable. Her love for him swelled and steadied her, dulling the sharp edges of her anguish.

  She ran to him, weaving her way among the dead and scattering the carrion birds that had returned to feed upon them. And when she reached him, Marion flung herself heedlessly at him, throwing her arms around him. For once, he did not snarl at her or turn away, but pulled her to him, crushing her against his mail and lifting her from the ground.

  “Ah…wren,” he whispered brokenly, and in his voice, Marion heard the pain, the aching, crushing pain that he was carrying around inside.

  His people had been slaughtered. Some he had known for years; some, surely, were his friends, but the Wolf of Wessex could not fall to the ground and cry like a maid. He was a knight, and he had to get them to safety. He was holding all that rage and hurt inside of his great body, and Marion wanted to weep anew—for him.

  Slowly, he let her slide back down to the ground. “Without horses, it will be a difficult journey, but there is a town within a day’s walk, I think. We shall get new mounts there.” He glanced up at the sky, his eyes narrowing, and Marion followed his gaze. After so much clear weather, they were due for rain, and from the looks of the darkening clouds overhead, it would come soon. With a low oath, he led her into the woods.

  They stayed among the trees near the edge of the forest, close enough to the road to keep their bearings, but under cover of the oaks and beeches. They walked along in silence, each brooding over what had happened, each grieving for their dead as they picked their way among the heavy undergrowth.

  They had gone perhaps a mile before Marion’s numbness finally wore off. One moment she was moving along, following Dunstan’s long strides with her own smaller steps, and then suddenly, she was on her hands and knees in the dirt, retching.

  Of course, there was naught that could rise from her empty stomach, but still she knelt there, heaving and crying until Dunstan crouched beside her. The touch of his hand, awkwardly stroking her brow, made her weep more piteously, for she knew that if not for her, he would not be suffering so.

  “My fault,” she gasped. “‘Tis all my fault.”

  “Nay.” His voice was low and gruff.

  “Yes! They are all dead because of me.”

  “Nay,” Dunstan countered, more insistent now, but Marion would not be comforted.

  “You do not understand,” she said. “My uncle did it. He killed them all.”

  “Stop it!” Dunstan’s hands grasped her shoulders, and she lifted her head to look at the handsome features that were now twisted into a fierce grimace. “Stop this nonsense about your uncle. I know not who murdered my men, but your uncle would have no reason to do the deed. As far as I know, he has done nothing, to you or anyone else. And until you can prove aught else, give me no woman’s prattle about vague dreads!”

  “You do not understand,” Marion said softly. She raised her hands to her face, burying her swollen eyes in her palms, trying desperately to regain control of herself. When she finally lifted her head, he was still there, his green eyes intent upon her, his mouth a tight line.

  Nothing showed in his face, and yet, she could sense his concern for her. She knew, without seeing it, that something blazed inside of Dunstan de Burgh, something besides grief and anger and frustration. Hope, like some long-forgotten strain of music, threaded its way into her heart. Perhaps, if she told him…

  “I remember now,” she said brokenly. “I remember everything.”

  * * *

  Why should he believe her?

  Dunstan had listened to the wren as she sat with head bent, her eyes trained upon the hands folded neatly in her lap while she recounted the miraculous return of her missing memory. And he could not countenance it. By faith, the woman had lied to him time and time again. Why should this new, fantastic tale be any different? And yet something in her calm delivery made him more inclined to trust her—this time.

  By faith, he did not need this nonsense! Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck, but the tension there seemed to have moved to his head, making it difficult to concentrate. And concentrate he must, for their very lives depended upon it. For the millionth time, he cursed this wretched errand and the woman he must escort home. His men were murdered, and he could not pursue the killers because he was burdened with a maddening female!

  They were alone and defenseless in the middle of nowhere, without even mounts to make an escape. And since his train had been slaughtered by no ordinary robbers, Dunstan had to face the possibility that whoever had done it could be out for more blood. He looked over his shoulder, knowing full well that they might be followed, even now. Although he had a fairly good idea of where they were, he was not certain how far away Wisborough lay. The wren was doing her best, but they were not making good time, and if the rain started…

  Dunstan closed his eyes against the throbbing in his temple. He needed to get her safely delivered to Baddersly as soon as possible so that he could go back to Wessex and avenge the deaths of his people. Now, more than ever, he worried about his absence from his holdings. And now, more than ever, he needed to be up and on the move instead of listening to fanciful stories from a troublesome piece of baggage.

  “You do not believe me.” The husky tone of her accusation pricked him, and he grunted.


  “I will speak to your uncle myself, as soon as we arrive,” he said, neither confirming nor denying her statement.

  She rose angrily to her feet, that beautiful mane of dark curls flying about her, and Dunstan was pleased to see the fire in her spark to life again. He did not like it when she knelt upon the ground, weeping and retching. It bothered him at some level that he did not care to explore. And he had enough problems right now without feeling someone else’s pain more acutely than his own.

  “You do not understand, Dunstan,” she said, pointing a dainty finger at him. “The man slaughtered my train, and now he has done the same to yours! If you take me there, he will kill me!”

  “Show me the proof!” Dunstan growled, resting his hands upon his hips. “What evidence have you that he is responsible for what happened at the camp? Tell me what his arrows look like. I have the one that killed a sentry in my pack, and we shall see whether it matches.”

  Marion frowned, her lovely mouth tipping downward, and Dunstan realized he would much rather draw a smile from her than argue. But he had a mission to accomplish and murder to investigate, and he could hardly credit the charges of one foolish female, however appealing she might be.

  She poked his mailed chest with her finger. “You are being as stupid and stubborn as the king when faced with your claims about your neighbor. You should know better than any that an enemy may take many guises.”

  Dunstan scowled at the mention of the bastard who harried him, and something niggled at his mind, just out of reach. He had no time for further disagreements, however. Reaching out, he grasped her arms tightly and opened his mouth to tell her to cease her prattle, but as soon as he touched her, the words failed him. She was flushed with anger, her cheeks rosy, her dark eyes wide, and her lips were parted slightly. Suddenly, he wanted her so badly that he could taste it.

  He wanted to taste her. He wanted to thrust his tongue into her mouth and his fists into her hair. He wanted to pull her up against him and ease the ache in his loins. He wanted to see her eyes hazy with desire and feel her tremble beneath his hands.