She felt his huge palm against her cheek, gently turning her toward him, and she saw something pass across his features, easing the lines of strain there. Apparently, she had soothed the Wolf’s sore temper, though she was not sure how.
“Do not fret so, wren. I am well satisfied with my decision,” he said gruffly. He ran a thumb down her cheek, causing her to shiver, and then he smiled—a smug, infuriating, male gesture.
“Come along, before you tempt me to prove my satisfaction,” he growled. Then he rose in one swift, graceful motion and pulled her with him. And Marion had no choice but to follow.
* * *
Dunstan strode along in the tall grass by the river’s edge, intent upon any sign of danger, but the woman at his side intruded in his thoughts more often than not. Why would she refuse him? He was titled and landed and no pauper. He had saved her life more than once, and he had brought her pleasure such that she screamed out in ecstasy. By faith, she had given him her virginity, why not her hand in marriage?
He grunted in annoyance. Why must anything involving the wren be fraught with complications and complexities? He liked them not. And she was the most perverse of females! Why could she not tell him the truth? Instead, she gave him an explanation that he knew to be a lie.
Of course, her opinion mattered little. They would be wed, Dunstan thought grimly. It was the most sensible solution to the threat posed by her uncle. Legally, Peasely was still her guardian, and the swiftest, simplest way to remove him from that position would be to get her a husband. Since she had no suitors or otherwise eligible parties to choose from, he was the logical choice. And since she had given him her maidenhead, he was the only choice.
As far as Dunstan was concerned, she would do as well as any other for his wife. He had been thinking of setting up his household anyway. It was high time that he got himself an heir, and Marion was not too old to provide him with one. In some areas, most notably in the bedchamber, she would do even better than most. By faith, after sampling the passion that flared between them, Dunstan knew he would never be satisfied with anyone else.
She would suit him admirably, especially when she was installed at Wessex. Then he would no longer be bound to her day and night, but could go about his own business without her vexing interference, and return home to her heated embrace. Dunstan knew he would gladly look forward to such a routine, if he could only put up with the foolishness that she exhibited other times, such as now….
Dunstan clenched his jaw. Her reluctance to marry him made him feel oddly vulnerable, something distasteful in the extreme to a battle-hardened warrior. That left him bitter enough, but to make matters worse, she had tried to escape again! Dunstan’s rage surged back at what seemed to him a betrayal, especially after the way she had come to him last night, all sweet and hot and eager.
By faith, he would never understand her! One minute she was staring at him, those huge eyes filled with adoration, and the next she had the look of a wounded fawn, her lip trembling as if he had beaten her! And in the interim, he had done nothing! Grunting, Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck, sorely aggrieved.
She was lagging behind, and he turned swiftly to flash a scowl at her. If she thought she was going to escape again, she was even more senseless than he imagined. Let her dare it, and he would tether her to himself, just like a mule. And when he reached Wessex, he would chain her to his bed!
While there was something tantalizing about that idea, Dunstan did not pursue it. Instead, frustration filled him. What was she about? Although she acted silly enough at times, he knew there was a clever brain in that pretty head of hers. What was going on in it?
With a low oath, Dunstan told himself it mattered not. They would reach Stile soon enough and there the business would be finished. Despite any protestations to the contrary, Marion Warenne was going to be his wife, and despite his own ill humor, Dunstan took a certain grim satisfaction in it.
* * *
He was in one of his moods again, grunting and growling at her like a baited bear, and Marion was too distraught herself to find it at all amusing or endearing. Although she hurried beside him, her thoughts were directed toward leaving Dunstan de Burgh, her plans for escape only momentarily thwarted by the tight grip of his hand upon her arm.
Stile was a town, not a village, and when she saw the crowded marketplace, Marion hoped to disappear among the stalls. Dunstan seemed to read her mind, however, for the minute they came to the busy streets, he took hold of her. Although she knew that he was being careful not to bruise her, his grasp was firm, and she could hardly fight the strength of the Wolf of Wessex.
He had asked after a horse market, and now here they were, Dunstan striding back and forth, dragging her with him, as he viewed the mares and foals, palfreys and chargers. He halted before the largest beast there, eyeing it up and down, and although it was not as huge as his old destrier, Dunstan seemed well pleased.
Marion was tugged along while he investigated the horse further, and then, apparently satisfied, haggled with the seller. Plotting her escape, she listened but absently to their conversation. Perhaps tonight, after he fell asleep… Even the Wolf of Wessex could not stay awake forever, and it would be so easy to vanish among all these buildings in the darkness.
When Dunstan lowered his voice, Marion turned her attention back to him. Tall and threatening-looking, the Wolf was asking the man where he got his stock and if he had seen any horses put up for sale in the past week. Surprised, Marion realized Dunstan was describing his destrier and the mounts that had served his men. A waste of time to look for them here, she thought dismally, when they were, no doubt, filling up her uncle’s stables.
A saddle, which Dunstan claimed was a sad piece of workmanship, was found and the purchase completed. Then Dunstan mounted and lifted her up before him. Marion had barely settled in against his chest when he turned the beast away from the market to head down the street.
“Wait! Where is my horse?” Marion asked, straining to turn toward him.
“This is it, wren. Under the circumstances, I thought it best if we share,” he said, giving her a tight, hard smile. His features were set in a scowl, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. Marion whirled back around. Obviously, he was beginning to know her too well. He expected her to bolt, and he was not happy about it.
Well, let the Wolf grunt and growl. She cared not! His boorish behavior only made her more eager to be rid of him forever! Pressing a hand to her skirts, Marion smoothed the material and stared straight ahead.
She spoke not another word, so they traveled in silence until Dunstan reined the horse to a halt in front of a stone building. He deftly slid to the ground and then pulled her down beside him. Did she imagine it, or did his hands linger at her waist, his breath caressing her hair intimately?
Marion glanced up at him to see his face taut above hers, his eyes glittering and dark. Despite his foul temper, he wanted her, and she knew it. Her fingers dug into the huge muscles of his upper arms even as her heart swelled…and her stomach protested loudly.
He smiled, flashing his white teeth in a way that made her knees wobble. “Behave inside and I will feed you, wren,” he promised.
Marion found her voice, with difficulty. “Where are we going now?”
“We have one more bit of business to take care of, and then we shall find an inn and fill your belly.” Dunstan’s mouth curled up at that, as if he saw some private amusement in the words, then he hurried her inside.
It took Marion’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, but all too soon, she realized where they were. A church! Rage sparked in her, surprising in its intensity, for she had never felt such anger before, even toward her uncle.
For a moment, she tried to check it, but it only flared higher, driven by weeks of ill usage. By faith, ever since she met him, Dunstan de Burgh had dragged her this way and that, according to his male whims, while ignoring her wishes and her feelings. It was going to stop now.
“No.” Wren
ching herself from his grasp, Marion turned and folded her arms in front of her, her legs spread in an echo of the Wolf’s own unyielding stance. “You cannot force me to marry you, Dunstan.”
Glaring at her, he swore a low string of foul curses, and then swung away, as if he would put a fist through one of the wooden settles.
“Watch your tongue! Have you no respect for the Lord’s house?”
At her reprimand, Dunstan growled out his displeasure. In one swift, graceful movement, he whirled around, put his hands upon his hips, and stared down at her, his face implacable. Out of the corner of her eye, Marion saw a priest approach them, only to take one look at Dunstan, turn tail and scurry back into the shadows.
But Marion did not retreat. She simply stared right back at the man towering over her, and she realized, suddenly, how very silly she must appear, one tiny female standing up to this huge, dangerous knight. She realized, too, that neither one of them saw anything odd in their confrontation.
The Wolf, it seemed, had become used to her arguments. He did not use his great strength to subdue her, nor did he threaten her with it. He was furious, and yet he waited, determined to sway her by sheer force of his will. He was not tamed, by any means, but he had changed….
“Why, Marion?” he finally said, in an oddly strained voice. “Give me one good reason why you deny me. Give me one good reason, and perhaps I shall reconsider my course.”
Marion looked up at the face that meant so much to her, and her anger dwindled away. Her refusal had stung his pride. The evidence was there in his green eyes, fierce and bright, as they sought her own. He was truly baffled, and yes, perhaps even hurt, by her rejection.
Suddenly, Marion wanted nothing more than to reassure him, to soothe his wounded dignity, to lift her hands to his face and kiss his wonderful mouth, proving to him just how much she would like to marry him—if only things were different. Instead, her gaze slid away from his piercing one. “Because you do not love me,” she whispered.
Dunstan snorted loudly, and she saw him throw back his head as if he would laugh, but noting her horrified expression, he restrained himself. He frowned at her instead. “Of all the ridiculous notions!”
Marion reached down to smooth her gown, as though by that gentle motion, she might ease her aching heart. What use to tell him the truth, for he only scoffed, as she should have known he would? Obviously, the Wolf had not changed very much, after all. She looked down at her hands and then clasped them neatly together before her.
Although she said nothing, Marion could feel his eyes upon her, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, as if he sensed her distress. Still, his exasperation showed in his tone and in his question. “We are talking about life and death, here, Marion, of protecting you from your uncle, and you are worried about love?”
When she glanced up at him, Marion realized that he had on his long-suffering face, the one he wore whenever he thought her foolish. He stepped closer, his speech measured in an apparent attempt to appeal to her better sense. “Marion, love is naught but some silliness concocted by the troubadours. ‘Tis not something known to real men and women, to husbands and wives.”
Marion felt a pang at his words, along with a deep sadness for him—and for herself. How could she convince him? Arguing with the Wolf was a useless enterprise, and yet she had to try. She held her fingers tightly before her, drawing strength and composure from the familiar pose. “Yes, it is, Dunstan, for I know my parents loved each other,” she said, her head bent, her throat thick. “And do not tell me that your father did not love his wives.”
Dunstan hesitated, obviously caught unawares by her statement, and Marion felt emboldened as long as she did not look at him. She went on, recklessly taking the final step, baring her soul in one heedless moment. “I know love exists, Dunstan, because I feel it myself…for you.”
Marion heard his harsh hiss of surprise, and then he was silent for so long that she yearned to take back her confession. When she finally dared peek up at him, she saw something pass across his face, as if he were involved in some inner struggle with himself, before it was gone, subdued by his supreme discipline. His handsome features revealed nothing as he took her hands gently. “All the more reason to marry me, then,” he said, his lips curving in the most pathetic excuse for a smile she had ever seen.
Marion drew back at his attempt to humor her. She had tried to pierce that thick hide of his and failed. Obviously, the Wolf felt nothing for her, and her wrenching admission had won her naught but his contempt. It was no more than she had expected, yet it pained her still. She smoothed out her gown, ostensibly concerned only with each rumple and crease.
“Marion…”
“No,” she said softly.
“Wren…” He whirled away, and in that moment, Marion’s fragile determination shattered. Had he argued further, she would have remained steadfast; had he growled and cursed, she would have been unmoved. But whatever he felt, he did not want her to see it. Perhaps he did not want to see it himself.
Placing his hands upon the back of a settle, he leaned upon it, his great shoulders sagging and his dark head lowered in a pose of defeat she had never expected to see the Wolf assume.
Marion was lost.
Blinking back the tears that threatened, she knew then just how much she loved him—enough to concede her hard-won freedom for now. Perhaps forever.
“All right, Dunstan,” she said.
* * *
True to his word, Dunstan fed her. They stopped at a tavern for hot stew cradled in loaves of bread and then left, taking it with them, for Dunstan had no wish to stay inside for the meal. As a lone knight and a lovely woman, they were conspicuous, and without his men, Dunstan felt too vulnerable to linger, especially when Peasely might still be looking for them.
The stealth did not sit well with Dunstan, a man used to open warfare and honest dealings. He felt naked without his knights, and frustrated, but he could do nothing more to protect Marion and he had no wish to spend his wedding night on the road. Still, he chose a room at a quiet inn near the edge of town, in case a quick departure became necessary. Although he was fairly certain that Peasely would not be searching this far east, he would not gamble his life upon it, or the life of his wife.
His wife. There was something strangely satisfying in the knowledge that he possessed the wren. She was his, now and forever, to warm his bed every night, to nurture him in that motherly way of hers, to bestow upon him the light of that smile, complete with dimples….
Dunstan scowled. There had been little enough smiling of late. Although the wren had capitulated, she bore no resemblance to a beaming bride. On the contrary, she had about her an indefinable air of sadness that made her seem even more fragile and small. It was like a mantle of grief, appropriate if he had killed her horse or some such despicable deed, but hardly justified by his noble gesture of marriage.
Her manner pricked at his pride and made him surly, and with each grimace and growl, Dunstan felt her slipping farther away. By faith! Where was the Marion who had pressed him down upon the bank of the stream, pleasuring him with her touch and her mouth? This doe-eyed creature was but a shadow of that woman, and if this was love, he could well live without it!
Dunstan snorted in disgust at the thought. Female foolishness! Courtly songs and poems celebrating this fanciful emotion did naught but make a married woman unhappy with her lot and set her to dreaming of some pasty-faced bard who dripped honeyed phrases over her hand, but could not hold a sword. What good were sweet words? A woman should be content with a decent home, a life free from want and toil and a strong man to protect her.
That was just what he could provide for Marion. Why then was she not happy? Why were women so wretchedly perverse?
Grunting in bafflement, Dunstan glanced toward her. After having eaten in silence and prepared for the night like a doomed woman receiving her last food and rest, Marion lay in the big bed, covers up to her chin, just as though she were a virgin looking forw
ard to a night of ill usage.
Well, he knew better, and so did she, by faith! Dunstan let his mail fall to the floor loudly. She did not flinch, but remained still and silent, in her composed pose, which annoyed him further. He wanted her to smile at him, dimples and all, to beckon to him in her own innocently alluring way, to show some small measure of contentment in their marriage.
She did not. Blowing out the candle, Dunstan quickly shed his garments in the darkness and stepped to the bed. “Have you no welcome for your husband?” he asked. Although her manner sorely plagued him, his body was already responding to the thought of her naked beneath the sheets. His wife. He climbed in beside her and stretched out.
“Yes, I welcome you, Dunstan.” Her voice was soft and sad, irritating him further. He moved atop her, bracing his arms at her sides and sliding his fingers into hers, as if by his own strength, he could bend her to his will.
“I have no honeyed words for you, wife,” he ground out harshly.
“I know that, Dunstan.” Her voice broke, and he thought she might be crying. Day of God, what a wedding night! He felt like rolling from her, but he was already painfully hard. Her soft breasts pressed up into his chest, and he could smell the earthy scent of her hair, like flowers and fresh fields. He wanted her. He had an insidious suspicion that he always would.
“I would give you my protection, and a home and children,” he rasped, his breath coming faster.
“I know.”
“Then what is it?” Dunstan growled, impatient with her mood.
“You will not give me love or respect or freedom of will.”
Dunstan snorted. More female foolishness. Perhaps it was her flux time. He pressed her wrists into the mattress. “But I will give you pleasure, wren,” he whispered before he took her mouth with his own and silenced all debate.
He was hungry for her. The morning’s joining in the stream seemed years ago, and he had to have her, like a man possessed. He was grateful that she was, indeed, no virgin, for he did not have the restraint he had shown in the shepherd’s hut. Not tonight. Not when she was well and truly his, and he must needs possess her.
Taming the Wolf Page 18