“You are to be commended, Goodson. No doubt you have saved my life, for I could not have gone on much longer, alone and afraid, prey to all manner of beast and ruffian,” she said, lowering her head in a submissive pose. “I am sure my uncle will reward you greatly.”
Peeking up at him from under her lashes, Marion caught the flash of Goodson’s ugly smile. Her words had the desired effect, for he lost all interest in his surroundings, puffed out his chest and barked an order to his men. Perhaps he had not been sent to kill her after all, Marion mused, for why then would he be so pleased to take her home?
Marion had no time to pursue the thought, for she was soon riding pillion behind a surly-looking fellow who smelled of the strong drink that her uncle’s men favored. The stench, so unlike Dunstan’s appealing scent, made her dizzy, and she struggled for the rigid control she had learned so well in her uncle’s household.
She found it deep within herself, and, staring straight ahead at the foul guard in front of her, did not blink as the horses wheeled around and struck for the road to Baddersly. Her uncle and, surely, her death waited ahead, but she did not flinch.
She did not even glance back at the small hut that held all that she loved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Something woke him. Dunstan tensed and eased his eyes open, alert for danger, but nothing threatened. He was alone in an empty hut with a cold fire and the fading scent of woman lingering in the air. Marion! Jerking upright, Dunstan leaped from the cot, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Day of God, the wench had bolted again! Dunstan reached for his clothes, the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth. The knowledge that she had fled, after all that had passed between them, came perilously close to hurting him. Thrusting that odd ache firmly aside, Dunstan nurtured his anger instead. This time, by faith, he would throttle her. He would beat her soundly. Nay, he would strangle her with his bare hands!
Dunstan had yanked on his braies and his tunic before he noticed that Marion’s cloak still hung by the fire. Turning swiftly, he saw her pouch lying on the floor where she had left it, and unease traveled up his spine as he rushed toward it. He pulled out a soggy blanket and clothing, some personal items and a small bag that held…jewels. Surely, the wren would not leave without these?
His anxiety increasing, Dunstan surveyed the rest of the tiny space. The bucket, too, was missing, so he told himself she was probably only fetching some water. But no sounds came from outside and he could not shake the feeling that something was not right.
When he was mailed and armed, Dunstan slipped out of the hut into the golden glow of late-afternoon sun. The area outside was deserted, the well standing alone, and something akin to panic jerked at his insides. Fighting it, Dunstan forced himself to look carefully for any signs of Marion’s passing.
He had nearly reached the old structure when he saw the hoofprints. Feeling as though someone had just kicked him in the gut, Dunstan dropped to one knee to examine them closely. Horses, several of them, had been here.
Who? And why had they taken Marion? One answer came all too quickly as the memory of her stretched out between her two attackers struck him like a blow. “No!” he growled. Fear for her, along with something else—something deep and vulnerable—assailed him for a moment before he could school himself. He had a job to do, a job entrusted to him by his sire, and by faith, he would not fail.
Pausing only to take up Marion’s meager possessions and his own leather pouch, Dunstan did the only thing that he could do. He gave chase on foot, thankful for the soft, wet earth that gave him an easy trail to follow.
And he blamed himself. As he trotted along the road, Dunstan cursed under his breath, for if he had not been sleeping in the middle of the day, Marion would still be safe. What was the matter with him? Had his soldier’s training deserted him completely because of a satisfying tumble or two?
On second thought, satisfying did not begin to describe what had gone on in the hut. Grim-faced, Dunstan continued on, intent upon his task, but the memory of Marion’s lush body and his response to it haunted him. He had made her tremble and sob and scream, while she…she had wrung him dry, and yet, before long he had been eager as a lad again.
Dunstan’s groin tightened as he recalled the fevered frenzy of their joining. Never before had it been so good for him. Why, he could not say. Perhaps their desperate circumstances gave impetus to their passions, or perhaps the days and nights spent fighting his attraction to her were responsible. Forbidden fruit always seemed to taste sweeter, and, of course, he had no business taking the lady’s maidenhead.
The stab of guilt Dunstan felt was quickly overwhelmed by the heady pride of possession. Whatever her relationship with his brothers, the wren had lain only with him, and that pleased him mightily. She pleased him mightily. Dunstan had thought to put the lure of her to rest by bedding her, but even after having her twice, he could not deny that he still wanted her—now, more than ever.
Luck was with him, for he reached Wisborough within the hour. It was a small village, tucked under a hillside, but it had a manor house and a squire who attended the horses stabled there for his lord. Dunstan ended up with a costly nag that could never keep up with the beasts he was following, enough food to keep him alive for a while and some information.
“A group of riders came this way this day, with a dark-haired lady. Did you see them?”
“Aye,” the man said slowly. He frowned slightly, obviously intimidated by an armed knight, but trying not to show it, so Dunstan tossed a bit of coin in the air as an added incentive. The fellow’s eyes glinted avariciously. “They came through here. Soldiers from Baddersly, they were,” he said, spitting out the words as if they soured his mouth.
Baddersly? Was he that close to Marion’s home? Dunstan realized that he had lost track of time and distance since the attack on his camp. The gnawing suspicion that Marion had deliberately left him, fleeing without her belongings, died a quick and merciful death, for he knew she would never willingly go home. “Baddersly?” he asked aloud. “How far be it, and how might I reach it, good man?”
The fellow frowned as if talk of the castle ill-pleased him, but his eyes followed the coin that jumped in Dunstan’s palm. “The quickest way lies over that rise,” he said, pointing. “Take the old track behind it, and you shall find Baddersly soon enough. It lies a day’s ride to the east, through the hills.”
Dunstan flipped the coin, and the man reached out quickly to grab it, licking his lips with his good fortune. Then he glanced back at his benefactor, his hairy brows drawn together. “Go you there alone, my lord?”
Nodding, Dunstan mounted up, while the man backed away, shaking his head. As Dunstan spurred the horse to a gallop, he thought he heard the fellow yell, “Watch your back,” but he was already riding away, heading toward the rise and on to the castle beyond.
It did not take Dunstan long to wonder why he was going to Baddersly at all. Marion was on her way home, where she belonged, escorted by her uncle’s guards. Why should he trail after them? His own lands and people needed his attention, and he could ill afford more delays.
But Dunstan knew he could not simply abandon her without assuring himself of her safety. After all, he had naught but a lone villager’s word as to the identity of the men who had taken her. And, knowing Marion as well as he did, Dunstan did not trust her to be a docile traveling companion. What if she escaped them? She might, even now, be lost and alone somewhere among these hills, without even a warm cloak to draw around her.
Dunstan felt a sharp pain in his chest at the thought, and fast on the heels of that grim image came another. What if these soldiers became impatient with her escapades and tied her up…or beat her? Ignoring his past vows to strangle her, Dunstan felt a venomous surge of anger for any who would lay a hand to her.
His thoughts wandered to the bruises he had unthinkingly given her, and Dunstan’s jaw clenched tightly. Would that he find her safe, he would never mark her again. But what of her un
cle and his men? Was there any truth to her accusations about Harold Peasely? From the freeman’s expression, Peasely was not well liked, but such fellows were not always the best judge of their betters. Dunstan had a notion to see for himself just what kind of man the uncle was, and he considered staying at Baddersly for a few days, just to relieve his mind.
With a grimace, he rejected the notion. By faith, he had never listened to a woman before, let alone a lying, troublesome wench like Marion Warenne! Dunstan’s eyes narrowed at the knowledge that the wren affected him in a variety of ways, not all of them physical. And yet…
He would stay at Baddersly, but only long enough to assure himself of her welfare. His sire had enjoined him to make sure the lady was safe, and he would do it. It was his duty, and he could not relinquish it in good faith until he saw for himself that Marion was unharmed and ensconced in her home.
And then what? The thought came, unbidden, to tease him, for he could hardly linger long at Baddersly when Wessex and his myriad responsibilities there called to him. What then of the woman who haunted his thoughts and flamed his blood? If he could but bed her one more time, mayhap he could quench his thirst for her, Dunstan decided. Then he forced the wren out of his mind, concentrating instead upon the trail ahead.
He followed it until nightfall, when it disappeared in the darkness. Then he ate some of the provisions he had purchased and rested briefly against a tree, sorely aware of how cold and solitary his bed, compared to the last place he had slept. At dawn, he was off again, cursing the poor beast under him and wishing for his battled-hardened destrier.
Although years of traveling had perfected his patience, Dunstan found that this time the miles dragged by at a frustrating pace. Concern for Marion kept him on edge in an odd way, as if he were fighting a losing war with useless weapons. He was so anxious to find her, he had to curb himself from driving the nag to its death in his impatience.
When the poor beast started puffing and blowing, Dunstan stopped by a small creek to water it. He cupped his hands and drank his fill, then rose to prowl restlessly along the stream’s edge. He pulled out some bread and chewed it absently, but it tasted like dirt in his mouth. By faith, would nothing ease this unfamiliar ache? He sank down on the bank, feeling as though his chest were a bellows from which all the air had been sucked.
He missed her.
It was more than lust, Dunstan admitted. During the past week he had become accustomed to Marion’s presence, and lately, he had grown quite used to touching her often—to keep her from falling, among other things. Her quiet strength, her sometimes foolish, ofttimes clever wit, her gentle pride—all these made up the lady known as Marion. And Dunstan missed them.
When she smiled, revealing those impish dimples, and turned those huge, dark eyes upon him, it seemed as if, somehow, something was right with the world. The knowledge gave him a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach. Telling himself it was hunger, Dunstan finished the rest of his bread with a low growl of annoyance.
But he was in trouble, and he knew it.
* * *
By the time Dunstan reached Baddersly, night had fallen again, and he was weary, not only in body, but in soul. Numberless times in his life, Dunstan had been bone-tired on the road, sick of sleeping in the open, chilled and hungry. This evening, there was something more to it. Anxiety had crept into his blood, tainting his every thought and action.
He told himself that it was only natural to worry about the wren, for she was his charge, entrusted to him by his sire. Once he saw that she was well and truly home, then this almost debilitating concern would ease. After all, it had nothing to do with taking his leave of her, with never seeing her again….
Dunstan’s name got him through the gates and into the great hall, but there was something about the castle that made the hair on the back of his neck rise in warning. From the first words of the surly guard to the atmosphere in the cold, dark building, Dunstan felt danger. It was as if he had walked, unarmed, into his neighbor’s hold.
Grimacing, he told himself that Marion’s deluded ramblings were affecting his perceptions. Harold Peasely could hardly wish him ill, for Dunstan had done naught but perform an errand for the man. Although Marion’s uncle might not have been pleased to discover his niece was roaming the countryside by herself, still she was alive and well, with no harm done to her…except the loss of her maidenhead.
Dunstan had not stopped to think what might be in store for him if Marion related that choice bit of information to her uncle, but he knew that the theft of her virtue was not a killing offense. If worse came to worst, he could always marry the wench. A surprising thought that, but the more Dunstan considered it, the more palatable the idea seemed. After all, it was time he got himself an heir, and Marion would do as well as any other woman in producing one.
Smiling tightly, Dunstan mused upon the possibilities, not the least of which was the opportunity to bed Marion again, and decided to bide his time. First, he would see what her uncle had to say, and then, if need be, he would present his suit. Although he might not be as wealthy as she, Dunstan could not imagine Peasely turning away his proposal. He was a titled, landed knight, and though he usually did not dwell on it, he also stood to inherit the vast holdings of Campion one day.
Secure in his own worth, and with the mighty support of his family and King Edward behind him, Dunstan expected no trouble from Harold Peasely, but still the odd threatening feeling persisted. And Dunstan had lived too long and through too many battles to ignore his instincts. He kept both eyes open and his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Dunstan’s gaze swept the room, and he felt more uneasiness. Peasely’s men were drinking and dicing in one corner, their language foul, their voices loud. It was a far cry from his father’s hall, where warmth and peace reigned. With a sudden pang, Dunstan realized just how much he admired his old home and his family. His own castle seemed cold and lifeless by comparison. What he needed was children of his own, boisterous boys racing through the hall and…
Collaring his errant thoughts, Dunstan concentrated on his surroundings. Now was not the time for woolgathering. He was alone with many long, treacherous miles to go before he reached Wessex. He had planned to ask Peasely for an escort, but from the looks of them, these were coarse, undisciplined men he would not trust at his back. They looked more like outlaws than soldiers, and the hair on Dunstan’s neck rose again as he remembered Marion’s tale of murder and mayhem on the road.
“This way,” said a voice, and Dunstan turned to face an evil-looking fellow who sported a gold ring in his ear. Something nudged at the back of Dunstan’s mind, making him tighten his grip on his hilt, as he followed the man forward for an audience with the master of Baddersly. But his attention was soon focused solely on Harold Peasely.
Marion’s uncle sat in a huge, ornately carved chair on a dais at the end of the hall, just as though he had delusions of royalty, and Dunstan noticed that, like his men, he had been drinking. His face was flushed and puffy, suggesting that he made a habit of it, to his own detriment. Dunstan’s eyes narrowed at the discovery, for too much wine dulled a man’s wits. Before Peasely even spoke, Dunstan found him wanting.
To his surprise, Marion’s uncle seemed to feel the same about him. Fixing Dunstan with a beady glare, Peasely grunted, “Who the devil are you?”
Dunstan’s jaw clenched at the rude greeting. By what right did this…caretaker question him? With deliberate care, he framed his answer. “Dunstan de Burgh, baron of Wessex, son of Campion, earl of Campion.”
To Dunstan’s astonishment, Peasely burst out with a sharp laugh. Was the man so full of drink that he had forgotten Dunstan’s errand? “Perhaps you will recall that I was charged by my father with the task of escorting Lady Warenne from Campion to Baddersly,” Dunstan explained, hanging on to his temper with some effort.
“If that was your errand, then you have failed!” Peasely shouted.
Dunstan bit back a sharp retort and tried to think
of how Geoffrey, the diplomat, would handle such a recalcitrant host. When he spoke again, his voice was level, despite his exasperation. “My train was set upon by assassins, with only myself and the lady escaping. We traveled on foot until—”
“Lies, lies, lies,” Peasely said, his mouth curving into an evil smile. “Hear you this offal?” he cried to several of the rough fellows who stood nearby. When they murmured their agreement, Dunstan suddenly realized how dangerous the situation could become. He was alone in a roomful of hardened men who might turn upon him without a moment’s notice.
As if to confirm Dunstan’s impressions, Peasely lurched to his feet, shouting, “This is an outrage! This arrogant filth claims to be a de Burgh!” He laughed loudly, his men joining in, and Dunstan saw two females, an old woman and a younger one, back away from the dais, obviously anticipating the eruption of violence.
“I am Dunstan de Burgh,” he affirmed, his voice even.
“Then get you back to your papa and tell him that I will have his neck for this! If he does not return my niece at once, I will march upon him,” Peasely said, shaking a fist into the air.
Dunstan’s chest constricted tightly. Marion was not here? The now-familiar panic for her struck him like a blow, and he drew a slow, shallow breath before he could speak. “Are you saying Lady Warenne is not here?”
“Why would you think so?” Peasely asked, sneering. Dunstan’s eyes swept the room, taking in, with heightened unease, the suspended dice game. The drunken soldiers lounged against a wall, watching him insolently, and Dunstan looked behind Peasely for another exit, should he need one.
A movement in the shadows there caught his attention, and he saw the old woman he had noticed before. She stared at him, her eyes hollows in her white face, her mouth working soundlessly. And Dunstan knew in that moment that Peasely was lying. “She is here, and I wish to speak to her myself,” he said with certainty.
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