Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  “She is not here! Toss this peasant out upon his ear!” Peasely screamed. “You have not the look of even the lowest knight, let alone a baron, about you. Methinks you are naught but a common knave trying to stir up trouble. Begone with you!”

  Dunstan could hardly contain his rage, but a look at the approaching group of soldiers told him that he had better keep it in check. If he could get his hands around Peasely’s neck, by faith, he would wring the truth from the bastard! He took a step forward and halted. “If you hurt her, I will kill you,” Dunstan warned evenly.

  “Begone!” Peasely shrieked.

  Turning on his heel, Dunstan strode across the hall, followed by Peasely’s men, who rained taunts upon his head that made him clench his jaw in frustration. At the doorway he swung around, hand on his sword and fire in his eyes, and they stepped back, spitting and cursing, though none was brave enough to make good his threats.

  Flushed with that small victory, Dunstan stepped outside into the bailey, blinked in the darkness and wondered what the devil he was going to do next.

  “Pssst. My lord. My lord, here.”

  Turning toward the whisper, Dunstan saw a white hand beckoning him from the shadows. It was the old woman from the hall, and Dunstan was at her side swiftly, merging with the blackness himself.

  “Where is she?” he hissed, without preliminaries.

  “Hush, my lord.” The woman’s voice was strained with fear, her eyes darting like a cornered hare’s. “She is locked in her room in the south tower, the second window up.” Dunstan glanced around, picking the tower out of the night, but before he could ask how the devil he was supposed to breach it, the old woman had disappeared, seeming to fade into the very stones.

  Biting back an oath, Dunstan surveyed the bailey. It was quiet but for the occasional bark of a dog or tramp of a sentry. Then, suddenly, the hall door opened, spilling light out around the entrance, and Dunstan flattened himself against the wall.

  Two men stepped forward, one tall and lean, the other shorter and burlier, and Dunstan recognized both of them as Peasely’s. “Where is he?” asked the tall one in a hushed, angry voice.

  “Halfway to Campion, if he’s smart,” answered the shorter fellow in a low drawl, thick with drink. Dunstan’s eyes narrowed as he realized they discussed him, and his instincts screamed afoul. Were it not for the old woman, he would have been headed toward the gate. What mischief would these two plan behind his back?

  “Be still!” the tall one ordered. “Where is Aylmer?”

  “Asleep. He has watch later.”

  “Good. At least he will be sober. Wake him. Take Aylmer and find our guest,” the tall one said. “And make sure he never reaches his father.”

  Dunstan heard the guttural laugh of the burly fellow. “And how shall we do that, Goodson?”

  Although he could see naught but figures from where he hid, Dunstan could swear he heard a smile in the tall one’s voice. “The roads can be so treacherous at night, especially for one lone man. Brigands and the like would find our visitor easy prey,” he answered. “See that they do.”

  The door closed, taking the light with it, and Dunstan loosed a low breath, harsh with fury. So they meant to murder him, did they? Perhaps they would find him not such an easy mark. He had half a mind to lie in wait for them and slit their throats, but he had more important business waiting. With the speed and silence of a battle-hardened warrior, Dunstan moved among the shadows until he stood below a square tower at the southern end of the building.

  Was this where Marion was being held? He glanced upward, discerning the darker outline of a window, and higher, another. Although it was narrow, Dunstan suspected he could fit himself through, if only he could reach it. Clenching his jaw in frustration, he looked about him and then back to the hall. Most of Peasely’s men seemed to be drinking and dicing, oblivious to a stranger in their midst, but just how lax were they? Stealthily, Dunstan moved toward the next building, intending to find out for himself.

  * * *

  Marion sat hugging herself in the darkness, wondering just how much time she had. All during the long ride home she had tried to think of a way to escape, but Goodson and his men kept a close watch upon her. He was her uncle’s minion, hard and lean and cold as driving sleet, and he knew, more than Dunstan had ever dreamed, just how much she did not want to return to Baddersly.

  There had been no opportunity on the way home, nor had there been a chance since her arrival, for her uncle had taken one look at her and had her locked away. How long would he keep her here? Marion froze in horror when she considered that he could starve her to death. But no. She would find a way out before then. She had escaped before, and she would do it again.

  If only she were not so tired; she could barely think properly. The old fears that had been so much a part of her life at Baddersly crept back insidiously, and a keening grief at the loss of Dunstan waited to overwhelm her if she would but let it.

  Just when her mind threatened to break, a silent and stiff Fenella brought her bathwater and some food, and Marion bathed and dressed in clean clothes. That small luxury revived her, and hunger forced her to eat, even though she wondered if each bite was laced with poison.

  When no summons came from her uncle, Marion lay down upon the bed, fully dressed, intending to form a plan of escape, but her mind was soon crowded with thoughts of her long dead parents, the de Burgh brothers and Dunstan. At least he was alive and away from here, safe and well, she thought, taking her only comfort in that before she drifted into a restless slumber.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Disturbed by a noise, Marion awoke with a start, fear coursing through her as she remembered who she was and where she slept. Her first thought was that her uncle was at the door, ready to slip in and murder her in her bed, but then she heard it again, the rasping of metal against stone. She froze, her body immobile but for wide eyes that turned in the direction of the grating sound. In the utter darkness of her room, she found the lighter midnight of her window. Was something hanging over the sill?

  Although she wanted to close her eyes and remain where she was, Marion knew that she could hardly lie prone, waiting for a possible attack. Forcing herself to move, she rose as silently as a wraith and crept along the wall toward the opening. Her heart thudded in her ears, threatening to deafen her when she realized that a pickax was slung through the open shutters. As Marion watched, it jerked, embedding itself more firmly, and she saw that a rope was tied securely around it, taut and swaying as if…

  Marion stifled a gasp as a huge shape filled the window. Stiff with horror, she frantically glanced about for something to use against the intruder. Whoever managed to scale the smooth side of the tower could only mean to do her ill, she knew, and yet when she looked into the shadowed face of her assassin, she felt dizzy and uncertain.

  “Marion?” The sound of that voice, calling her as if from her dreams, made her tremble so violently that her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, convinced that she had finally lost her mind. For how could he be here?

  “Marion!” A soft thump announced that he was inside her room, and then he was kneeling before her, his deep tones husky with concern. Mad she might be, but she flung herself into his embrace in the hope that he was real.

  “Dunstan!” Wrapping her arms around his neck, Marion buried her face against his throat. Warm and throbbing with his pulse beat, it proclaimed that he was no vision, but a living, breathing man. His scent, familiar and potent, surrounded her, along with his terrific heat, and she pressed her lips to his skin, tasting the salt there. He made an incoherent sound, took her face in his huge hands and kissed the very soul from her.

  The Wolf was devouring her again, and Marion welcomed it, meeting his thrusting tongue with her own and twining her fingers in his long locks to tug him closer. Love for him surged through her, driving away all else—her heartache, her fear and whatever modesty she still possessed.

  In some inner recess of her mind, Mario
n realized that she would happily mate with him upon the cold stone floor, so glad was she to see him again. She had thought never to look upon his beloved face, and yet here he was, bursting into her room and her world, a huge, vital presence, greater than ever.

  When he broke the kiss, Marion clung to him so that he took her up with him as he rose to his feet. “Come, wren,” he murmured, setting her forcibly from him. “We do not have much time. Your uncle’s men are looking for me.”

  Why was he here? Where was he taking her? Endless questions leaped to her tongue, but Marion bit them back, for now was not the time to talk. As she watched in amazement, Dunstan slung a leg through the window in one graceful movement, gripped the rope that hung from the ax and lowered himself outside.

  He beckoned her from his airy perch, but Marion remained where she was, her feet firmly planted on the floor. Although the bailey was lost in blackness below, she knew just how far up they were, and the knowledge was not comforting.

  “Me?” she whispered. Pointing to her chest, Marion thought that she might have understood his gesture, but unfortunately, Dunstan nodded. He wanted her to climb out there with him. She felt faint.

  “Come, wren. Put your arms around me. I will keep you safe.” His gruff reassurance touched her heart, and drawing a deep breath, the new Marion stepped onto the ledge and locked her hands around his neck. “Put your legs around me, too,” he directed, and somehow she managed to grip him with her thighs. Even through his mail, Marion could feel the heat of him seep into her, and she blushed to recall the last time she had been similarly positioned.

  Then all such thoughts vanished as she hung on for dear life while he took them down the rope, bit by bit, hand over hand, kicking off from the side of the tower at intervals in a way that made her stomach lurch. By the time they reached the lower window, Marion was in awe of his strength. Although she had known that his muscles were massive, she was still amazed that he carried her as if she were naught but a bit of cloth against his chest.

  When they finally dropped to the ground, Marion eased out a sigh of relief, which was stopped by Dunstan’s finger upon her lips, warning her to silence. Although he had freed her from her locked room, they were still inside Baddersly’s walls, at the mercy of her uncle. She stilled, suitably cowed by his reminder, and yet her blood thrummed with the knowledge that the Wolf was here. He had come for her.

  Pulling her into the black entrance of a nearby storage building, Dunstan whispered in her ear. “Shall we brave our way through the gate?” She looked up at his darkened features, uncertain whether he was asking her advice or questioning her courage. Either way, she could give him only one answer.

  “Yes,” she said softly. He had come to take her away.

  A grunt of approval met her response. “From what I have seen, most of the soldiers are drunk and security is lax. I doubt that anyone will question someone leaving the grounds. Know you any different?” Dunstan asked.

  Marion felt a jolt of pleasant surprise. Was Dunstan de Burgh actually consulting with her? “I thought you said my uncle was searching for you,” she whispered.

  “Yes, but they plan to waylay me on the road.”

  “Oh,” Marion said softly, finding little comfort in his words.

  “Come, wren,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “We must hurry before your absence is discovered.” He pulled her along then, flitting from the shadows of one building to the next, stopping only when he heard a sound. They waited, in tense silence, behind one hut, until Marion wondered what was keeping them there. Then he leaned close. “Is this the brewery?”

  “Yes,” Marion answered. She watched in surprise as he flung a leg through the low window and slipped inside. He was back in a moment, a vessel in hand, which he put to his lips. He was thirsty? Stepping back, Marion realized that the man positively reeked of ale. “Did you fall in?” she asked with a sniff.

  She could have sworn she heard the low rumble of laughter in answer. “Nay, wren, but I would douse us both. Wait, cover your finery,” he said, and to Marion’s amazement, he pulled out her old cloak from his pouch. After she had wrapped it about her, he sprinkled her liberally with the brew. “We are naught but two peasants returning home to our cot,” he whispered fiercely.

  For a moment, Marion did not understand, but when Dunstan began weaving drunkenly toward the gate, with her in tow, understanding dawned clearly. He had pulled his own cloak about him to hide his mail, and Marion only hoped that whoever manned the entrance would not look too closely in the darkness.

  Marion’s heart was pounding so loudly that she feared the soldiers would hear, but they barely looked up when Dunstan approached, singing a ribald ditty in a coarse voice. He was slouching in an attempt to hide his size, she realized, and she clung to his side, as if to hold him up when he staggered.

  Each step was perilous, and Marion felt a bone-deep terror that she had never known in her other escape attempts. One swift glance at her companion told her the source of her newfound fear. He was rescuing her. He was risking his life for her. And although she was well used to her own being threatened, she could not bear to imagine anything happening to the Wolf.

  The walk past the walls seemed endless, but Dunstan continued his charade, only lengthening his strides as they moved farther away from Baddersly. The cloud-covered moon lit their way faintly, making the road a dim line, and Marion was watching it closely, trying to keep up with Dunstan’s long legs when he stumbled and fell, dragging her down on top of him with a low oath. Absolute panic knifed through her, along with the certainty that he had just been struck through the back with an arrow. Struggling for her voice, she cried out his name in a broken whisper.

  “Hush,” he warned. “For the benefit of anyone watching, we have just passed out upon the road. We will stay here for a while, then roll into the grass. When I tell you to run, we must go low, crouching, to avoid any chance sighting from a soldier on the battlements. We will head over that hill, bearing west for now to throw them off the scent.”

  Off the scent? Marion froze as the implication of his words became clear. “Think you that my uncle will send his men after us?”

  “I am certain of it,” he answered grimly. “I am sorry that I did not believe you sooner, wren, but I do now. Your uncle is, indeed, a murderer.”

  “How do you know?” Marion asked.

  “Because he is out to kill me.”

  * * *

  After silently walking for what seemed like hours in what to Marion’s mind might as well be circles, they stopped by a river to bed down under the canopy of a overhanging tree. Luckily, the night was balmy and the ground dry, and when Dunstan rolled out the blankets, Marion sank down gratefully. When he handed her the pouch she had left in the shepherd’s hut, she beamed in happy surprise.

  “Dunstan, my things! How wonderful you are! And my…jewels?”

  “Right here,” he said. Flashing her a white-toothed smile, he patted the pouch at his waist.

  Relief soared through her. Suddenly, after all that she had been through, Marion felt tears prick the back of her eyelids. She had not cried for him when she had left him, nor had she wept when locked in the tower, facing the prospect of her death, but now she had to blink several times as if to hold back a flood.

  Love for the Wolf washed over her in waves, making it difficult to speak. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his wonderful mouth. Her hands ached to stroke his skin as they had once before, and Marion felt a sweeping yearning to join with him, here in the stillness of the night under the cloud-covered moon.

  The desire had none of the sharp awareness that came so suddenly upon her when he touched her unexpectedly. It was not that vivid, burning passion that sparked between them like a blaze, but rather a wish to express her love for him the only way she knew how, to give him pleasure such as he had given her….

  Marion watched as he sat down near her, leaning against the tree and stretching his long legs out before him. When h
e tilted his head back in a gesture of weariness that she had never seen before, she realized that the Wolf was not made of iron, but flesh and blood. And in that instant, he revealed a vulnerable side Marion suspected he rarely showed anyone.

  “Here, let me help you with your sword and your mail,” she said when she found her voice. She sensed his eyes upon her in the darkness, questioning her, but Marion only stood and let memories of long-ago teachings help her as she laid aside his heavy war weaponry.

  “Rest,” she advised, kneeling beside him and pushing him back upon the blanket. She heard the sharp hiss of his breath as she placed her hands upon his chest, then she could wait no longer. She leaned over and put her lips to his.

  They were soft and warm. Already, she could feel the heat of him, seeping up through his clothing to envelop her, along with his unique scent, very male and very compelling. Her tongue darted out to run along the seam of his mouth and then inside where it was so hot and moist and…dizzying.

  Twining her hands in his hair to anchor herself, Marion felt a heady sense of power as she knelt over his great knight’s body. She was naught but a portion of his size, and yet she knew she could make him groan and shudder. The knowledge made her bolder, and she thrust her tongue more forcefully over his.

  One of his huge hands came up to grip her long locks and he groaned, making Marion become weak with her own strength. She trailed kisses along his jaw and down his throat as she moved lower and tugged at his tunic, anxious to bare his magnificent body to her questing touch.

  He was so big and strong, a fearsome warrior, and yet he let her have her way, unresisting as she explored him. His acquiescence gave impetus to her passion, for the realization that the Wolf lay prone for her, his wildness momentarily leashed, gave the slow, easy meter of her love a new urgency.

  Pushing up his tunic, Marion spread her palms across his massive chest and felt his heart pounding beneath her hand. It thrummed through her skin and into her blood like a drumbeat, primitive and wanton, urging her to its rhythms. Glancing at his face, she saw his eyes glinting in the faint light, and a rush of blood flooded her cheeks at her brazen behavior before she lowered her face and nuzzled the silky hair that covered him.