Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  He was not amused. “If you persist, Marion, I will be forced to carry you over my shoulder, and if you think you are miserable now, bumping along against my back is not going to be an improvement.”

  With a soft curse, borrowed from Dunstan’s vast store, Marion rose and huffed past him as best she could. They had veered away from the road along some kind of sheep track, and her slippers were sticking in the ooze. It made a dignified display of contempt difficult, but she continued on, ignoring the towering figure that caught up with her effortlessly.

  When they reached a small rise, Dunstan lifted his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the rain as was his habit, to have a look below. Marion did the same, and to her surprise, this time she saw something down in the hollow.

  “Look there!” she said, pointing excitedly. “What is it?”

  “A shepherd’s hut, perhaps,” Dunstan mused under his breath. “It does not look like much, but mayhap it will give us shelter from the storm.”

  Shelter! Marion rushed forward eagerly, but when she did, one slipper caught in the ooze and she fell, facefirst, onto the soggy ground. She came up sputtering to the sound of the Wolf’s laughter. It rang out, deep and rich, and normally it would have touched her very heart. But as she lifted herself from the wet, clinging dirt of the path, Marion was in no mood to admire anything about Dunstan de Burgh.

  “You…you bugger!” she cried, echoing a word she had heard from his brothers. Anger flaring brightly, she shoved at his mailed chest with all of her might. Of course, her puny efforts did little but leave muddy marks on the front of his tunic—and send her careening backward.

  This time, between gulps of laughter, he reached out to halt her fall, but suddenly the ground upon which she stood gave way and Marion’s feet dropped. She saw Dunstan’s wide-eyed look of surprise, and then they were both rolling and sliding down the muddy slope to the bottom of the hill.

  Unhurt, Marion ended up on her back in a puddle at the base of the rise, but before she could catch her breath, Dunstan landed with a thud on top of her, knocking the wind from her body. She opened her eyes to see his face above hers, the rain slashing down all around them and dripping from his face. His dark hair hung in wet ribbons, his green gaze focused intently upon her.

  Marion’s first thought was that he was crushing her, his great form bearing down on her with the weight of two men. Just as she opened her mouth to protest, however, she realized that he had shifted his mass somehow, allowing her to gulp in some air. He was up on his elbows, but still lying upon her. With that recognition came the discovery that his body felt extremely good just where it was. She shut her mouth.

  Rather bewildered, she looked up at him, and Dunstan caught her gaze, his green eyes damp and compelling. For a long moment, neither of them breathed as whatever strange forces worked between them sprang to life. Marion stilled, her humors rising feverishly while he hovered over her, his massive figure covering her own tiny one. Dunstan’s eyes darkened, unfathomable.

  “‘Tis time for the reckoning between us, Marion,” he growled. And then he lowered his head.

  Dunstan’s mouth came down upon hers, hot and frantic. Her memory now intact, Marion knew that she had never been kissed before, and this was hardly what she had expected. Dunstan, true to his nature, was not tender but demanding, and she felt a tingle of fear that the Wolf would devour her.

  She parted her lips to protest, but swallowed it in shocked surprise when his tongue thrust into her mouth. It swept over her teeth, searching, marking and claiming, until Marion was stunned, not only at the Wolf’s actions, but at her own reaction. Her body tightened, her nipples hardening against his massive chest and her thighs lifting, as if endowed with a will of their own, toward his.

  The rain pelted down, sluicing around her in its own wild fury, but it was nothing compared to the tempest raging between them. Marion felt as if she had spent her entire life sleepwalking, unaware of this whole world of passion and feeling, and now she was alive, every inch of her wet skin animated and seeking his.

  Heat, welcome and wonderful, seeped through the water to rouse her body to a frenzied pitch, and Marion reveled in it. She clutched at his tunic, hanging on for her very life as he swept her away on a maelstrom of liquid fire. A moan escaped her, and he answered by pressing his lower body into hers. His hand wound into her hair, forcing her head back so that he could thrust more deeply into her mouth.

  Tentatively, Marion ran her tongue along his lips, and Dunstan released a feral growl of pleasure that sent her reeling with breathless excitement. Lost in the tumult of sensation, she did not even notice the lightning cracking above them, followed by an answering boom of thunder, but suddenly Dunstan tore his mouth from hers to look up at the sky.

  She whimpered, bereft at the loss of him until he glanced back down at her. “Come, we must get inside,” he ordered roughly. Dazed, Marion simply lay there, staring up at him, unable to move while he rose swiftly. Then, with ridiculous ease, he lifted her into his arms and headed toward the shepherd’s croft. Her heart pounded so furiously that she thought she might faint, but she knew that was something the old Marion would do.

  The new Marion wrapped her arms around Dunstan’s neck and clung shamelessly. The rain, which had been an uncomfortable nuisance all day, abruptly became exhilarating. Marion lifted her face toward the chill water that washed over them, cleansing them in a natural bath, while Dunstan’s long strides carried them across the sodden grass.

  A bolt of lightning streaked through the black sky, lighting the area with an eerie glow that heightened Marion’s sense of unreality. Was she deep in a vivid dream, or was she really being carried by the Wolf through a savage storm, the wind pounding drops against them, soaking their skin and sliding off their wet bodies in great rivulets?

  Thunder reverberated with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very earth, and Marion looked up at the Wolf’s handsome face. His jaw was clenched, his features set with an intensity she had never seen, and she wondered if the warring elements were but a pale echo of what raged between the two of them. She fought back a shudder of anxiety.

  The hut looked deserted, and the plot of land beside it overgrown. Marion caught a glimpse of an old well, and then she was whisked inside, where a rotting stack of wood stood in a corner near a blackened fireplace, promising warmth, and a straw bed took up half of the space. Although it smelled dank and musty, the place was relatively clean, and, more important, it was dry. At one time, Marion might have protested such a tiny, dusty and smelly abode, but right now, anything with a roof seemed like heaven.

  “Abandoned,” Dunstan muttered. Then he flashed her a genuine, one-of-a-kind smile that made her grateful that he still carried her. Otherwise, she was certain her bones would have dissolved at the sight of those fine, white teeth, displayed so wickedly. He let her down slowly, sliding her against his body in an exotic motion that threatened her ability to stand, but when she tested her legs, she was astounded to find that they could support her.

  Leaving her with a burning look, Dunstan knelt to make a fire, and, suddenly cold without him, Marion rubbed her arms futilely as water dripped from her to the thirsty packed earth below.

  “You had better get out of those wet clothes,” he said over his shoulder. “We will lay them out as best we can here to dry.” He was right, of course; the sodden material was already chilling her. And yet the idea of removing her gown in the presence of Dunstan de Burgh was dismaying, to say the least, especially in the closeness of the hut. Even the new Marion could not do it.

  With a sigh, she struggled out of her clinging cloak and hung it on a rough spot in the wall. Although she immediately felt lighter, her gown was still hanging on her heavily, its damp folds pressing into her and making the drafts in the croft bite more sharply.

  Hearing the welcome hiss of wood catching, Marion turned toward the promise of a blaze. Instead of greeting it readily, however, she froze where she stood, a small shocked noise escaping her ti
ghtened throat.

  Apparently, Dunstan moved much faster than she, for he had already hung up his cloak and his tunic. His sword and his mail were set aside, and as Marion watched in stunned surprise, he calmly removed his braies.

  The sight of the his broad back, gleaming with moisture, and his buttocks below, narrow and steely, made her sway on her feet. Pressing hands to her scalded cheeks, she gasped in alarm when he turned to face her, and the sound became a strangled moan as the Wolf of Wessex stood before her totally, utterly naked.

  For long moments, Marion could only stare at his gigantic male body. She had never seen so much skin in her life. It stretched taut over bulging muscles, glistened with the remnants of the downpour and puckered in places where fiendish-looking scars marked him. His shoulders alone were massive, his chest, too. It was incredibly wide and covered with dark hair that trailed down to his groin, where his man part lay in a thicket.

  As Marion gaped, astonished, it rose up, growing before her eyes, as if gifted with a life of its own, until it was huge and erect. Mercy! Her gaze flew to his face, and she saw that smile that was not quite a smile, lifting the corners of Dunstan’s mouth while his eyes darkened ominously.

  No little afraid of the look in those eyes, and of the bare form of the man who possessed them, Marion backed away until she was pressed against the side of the hut and leaned into it, grateful for support. With difficulty, she found her voice.

  “Dunstan! What are you about?” she squeaked.

  “I was about getting myself warm and dry,” he answered in a low, rough voice, “until you distracted me, wren.” Totally unashamed of his nudity, Dunstan put his hands on his narrow hips and assessed her slowly, his gaze glinting hotly over every inch of her in a way that made her burn with an answering fire.

  “And I guess I shall have to take you in hand so that you may do the same.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Marion found herself staring at the moist whorl of hair on Dunstan’s massive chest, which led downward, inexorably, to the dark thatch at his thighs and the huge member that was rooted there. Breathless and weak, she wrenched her gaze up to his face, only to find his eyes gleaming with a feral light, his lips curved in a wicked smile.

  He reminded her forcibly of a wolf contemplating its prey.

  He took a step forward. Shaking her head, Marion tried to back away but she felt the rough wall of the hut behind her. “I cannot undress here…with you,” she choked.

  “Then I shall have to do it for you,” he said, grinning at her in that smug de Burgh manner that she had come to know so well from his brothers. He took another step, moving perilously close in the small confines of the hut.

  “No!” Marion shifted aside. She looked around frantically, knowing that there was nowhere to go, nowhere on earth that the Wolf could not find her, and then she felt a strange sense of resignation. To run was ridiculous, to argue futile. Dunstan had stripped her of choices; she did not wish him to take her clothes, as well. “I shall do it.”

  “Good,” he said simply. As if to give her the strength to begin, he turned away and knelt to feed the budding fire. Marion noticed how the glow cast his smooth, muscled body in gold and she was forced to admit that he was more beautiful than any man had the right to be. Although Marion knew she had no business admiring him, she could not help it. Her mind told her to glance away; her body had other ideas.

  It leaned forward as if reaching for him of its own accord. Her breasts grew taut, her nipples hard as they strained against the wet linen of her shift. The sodden heaviness of her clothes, a miserable nuisance only moments before, now seemed an exotic weight, rubbing and clinging to her flesh. Abruptly she wondered how it would feel to run her fingers down the contours of his back. A sound escaped her, of shame or torment or desire, she was not quite sure. His eyes flicked up to her.

  “Well?” The word held a wealth of impatience, and Marion hurried to keep the Wolf at bay. Turning around, she fumbled clumsily with her bodice, fingers shaking. She pulled at her gown, tugging at the wet material helplessly until it was whisked over her head with sudden ease. Whirling, she found Dunstan standing only a handbreadth from her, his eyes alive with green fire, his mouth wearing that smile that was not a smile, his chest so close she could reach out and touch it—if she dared.

  “Dunstan…please…” she whispered, uncomfortable with the proximity of his naked body, yet, paradoxically, wanting him nearer.

  “Do you need more help?” he asked, his normally husky voice even deeper and rougher than usual. Although Marion shook her head slowly, he knelt before her and put his hand on her leg.

  Mercy! When his fingers brushed against the bare flesh at the top of her hose, Marion nearly jumped. Although she was astonished by his boldness, Dunstan bent to his task as if it were not a shocking intimacy. After rolling down the wet material, his callused hands slid down her calf, lifted her foot and ran over her toes.

  It was such a simple thing really, a kindly service that one person would perform for another, Marion told herself, and yet she found her knees growing weak. Although Dunstan’s movements were measured and controlled, she sensed the intensity in him. It was there, just below the civilized surface…waiting. Dizzily, Marion wondered if he would again unleash the beast that she had seen outside, fierce and plundering. And if he did, would she recoil or rejoice?

  Just when Marion thought she might collapse from the heady thrill of his touch, Dunstan straightened slowly, his hands skimming to the hem of her shift. “No! Not that, too!” she cried. In embarrassed panic, Marion struggled to hold on to it, but her paltry efforts were useless. In an instant, her arms were lifted over her head and her only covering was gone. She was naked, and Dunstan, clutching her undergarment in his hand, was staring at her.

  It was not so much the lack of clothing that disturbed her, for she was used to sleeping nude, as was the norm. However, it was one thing to crawl between the sheets in this state; it was quite another to stand before a man in nothing but her flesh.

  But she did, and she did not cringe. There was nowhere to hide, and nothing to drape over herself, for she knew all her things were soaking wet. If Dunstan wished to see her, there was naught she could do about it. Painfully aware of all her faults, Marion suspected that the Wolf would soon tire of his view, anyway.

  In the meantime, Marion became absurdly concerned with her hair drying in its unruly waves. She lifted a hand to her head, but the sharp hiss of the Wolf’s indrawn breath made her drop it back to her side.

  He was gazing at her with an fierceness that was nearly frightening. His eyes had darkened in that manner she had come to associate with desire, but Marion sensed it was something stronger than that. He looked…hungry. Uneasiness trickled up her spine, along with a budding excitement. She rubbed her arms warily.

  “Day of God, wren. You are beautiful.” The words rushed from his wonderful mouth in a soft torrent, stunning her, for Dunstan spoke little. And Dunstan never lied. “Are you cold?”

  Dazed by the compliment, Marion just stared at him. When she did not answer, he put aside her shift and moved toward his leather pouch. To her amazement, he pulled out a cover and threw it across her shoulders.

  Released from her trance, Marion found her voice and used it. “Dunstan de Burgh! You had a dry blanket, and you made me stand here with nothing on!” Outraged, she balled a hand into a fist and thumped his chest. It was hard as stone.

  Smiling wickedly, Dunstan caught her hand. “In truth, ‘tis only a loan, for we must use it on the bed,” he said with a nod toward the straw mattress. “I would not vouch for the cleanliness of our nest.”

  Marion stilled, stunned by the notion that Dunstan planned to take the blanket from her—and by his reference to “our nest.” Were they to share the bed? Surely he did not want to sleep now. Although the hut was dim because of the storm that howled around it, she judged it to be morning still. “But ‘tis broad day!” she protested.

  Although Dunstan did no
t reply, his lips turned up at the corners, and his eyes gleamed like a deep forest, lush and welcoming. Glancing nervously at the narrow bed, Marion stepped back, but he followed, his fingers tightening upon her wrist. She bumped into the hut, and the blanket slipped, exposing her shoulders.

  Dunstan stared at them. “I care not for the time,” he said roughly. Even though Marion could move no farther, he came closer, stopping only when his huge body nearly touched her own. Putting a hand to the wall beside her head, he leaned forward and bent his head, that de Burgh hair, darker and richer than sable, falling forward.

  “‘Tis time for our reckoning, Marion,” he whispered. He loomed over her, so big, so beautiful and so assured that she could only stare up at him wide-eyed. “I have wanted you ever since you fell out of that tree into my arms. You have bewitched me, wren, just as surely as you did my brothers, and I can resist you no more. Enchantress…”

  Alarmed by his speech, Marion felt compelled to protest. “I am no enchantress, Dunstan!” she said. “I am but a simple female—short, rather plain and past marriageable age.”

  “Tell that to my brothers,” Dunstan replied with sudden ferocity, his eyes glinting brightly.

  “Your brothers think upon me as a sister!” Marion cried.

  Smiling in a manner that told her that, as usual, he did not quite believe her, Dunstan released her wrist and lifted his hand to her shoulder. Extending one finger, he ran it slowly along the edge of the blanket, across her arm and over the uppermost curve of her chest. The blanket drifted slightly, and Marion drew in a breath, then watched in fascination as his dark skin slid across hers again. His finger made its way over the swelling of one breast, then the other, before it slipped underneath the fabric.

  Marion shivered.

  “Ah, yes. Tremble for me, wren,” Dunstan said, his face suddenly dark with passion. “I want you trembling beneath me as I fill you.” His eyes took on a feral gleam, his lips parting slightly as if he could already taste his prey, and Marion realized that whatever he wanted, she could not gainsay him.