Taming the Wolf

by Deborah Simmons

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Dunstan awoke, it was to sharp pain. He opened his eyes to see an old servant cleansing a wound upon his chest. He was in his bed at Wessex and, for a moment, wondered groggily what had happened. Every muscle in his body ached, his face throbbed, and his throat was dry and sore. Had he been in some battle?

  Glancing blearily around the room, Dunstan saw his brothers Geoffrey and Simon…at Wessex? He shut his eyes in an effort to concentrate, and suddenly the past day came rushing back to him, along with a sense of peace. Fitzhugh was dead, his castle was his own, and he could now turn his attention to putting it to rights. All was well again, and yet…something was missing.

  Marion. Day of God, where was his wife? Dunstan’s mouth seemed inordinately dry and his lips slow to work, but he finally croaked out her name. “Marion.”

  “What?” Geoffrey stepped closer, his voice heavy with concern.

  “Marion,” Dunstan whispered.

  “Marion? Oh, Marion! She is well. We left her at Campion,” Geoffrey said.

  Relief spilled through him like sunlight. The wren was all right! But why was she at his father’s house? Dunstan frowned. “Have someone fetch her here.” He wanted her with him. She was his wife, whether she would or no, and her place was at his side. He scowled more deeply as the old woman probed his injuries, and then he grunted aloud, his eyes flying open to glare at her.

  “Is that rib broken, my lord?” she asked him, a pensive look on her aged face.

  “No,” Dunstan barked, rising onto his elbows. His brothers must have carried him upstairs and stripped him of his clothes, for now he lay in bed, like a babe, and it pleased him not. He growled out a protest, but it came out more like a cat’s mew than the angry cry of a wolf. “Cease your poking, woman. I am fit,” he managed to snarl.

  “You were beaten most severely, my lord,” she argued. “‘Twas terrible. I saw it all.” She opened her mouth as if to expound upon the episode to his brothers, but Dunstan grabbed her wrist, proving he still had strength enough to quiet her, should the need arise. Catching his warning glance, she paused before speaking again in a more positive tone. “Food and water, that is what he needs most. Here, my lord, have a drink.”

  The water revived him, and Dunstan sat up, surveying the room while he sipped some obnoxious gruel obviously meant for someone frail and weak. Nicholas was watching him with wide-eyed admiration, Geoffrey’s brows were drawn together in worry, and Simon paced the floor impatiently, unhappy to be in the sickroom. Dunstan’s lips curved into a reluctant smile. How long had it been since he had spent time with his brothers? In his single-minded quest to prove himself, he had missed something important—getting to know the men they had become.

  “I believe I owe you my thanks, brothers,” he said.

  Nicholas beamed happily at his words, while Geoffrey seemed to relax, and Simon swung around with a stiff nod of acknowledgment. By faith, they were dear to him, Dunstan realized with some surprise. What had kept him from sharing his life with them?

  “We were happy to help you,” Geoffrey said. “Now, you must rest. You gave me some gray hairs, Dunstan, when I saw you take on Fitzhugh, alone and in your condition.”

  Dunstan snorted, but in an affectionate way. “‘Twas but little, compared to my brothers’ contributions to my cause,” he said. “And I am well enough to hear the state of my castle, if you please, Simon.”

  Simon smiled grimly, eager to impart the details of the battle, the casualties, the number of Dunstan’s men who had been freed, and how many of Fitzhugh’s soldiers were willing to pledge their lives to Wessex.

  “And what of my former vassal, Walter Avery?” Dunstan asked roughly. The pain of that betrayal still stung, making the meat he swallowed go down hard. Perhaps a man was wise to trust none but his own brothers….

  “Escaped,” Simon said tersely. “He and a few went out the gates before we could close them, and I could not spare the men to give chase. He is probably halfway to Fitzhugh’s manor by now.” Simon’s face was taut with anger and disgust.

  Dunstan recognized the frustration Simon was feeling, for he had wasted plenty of his own energies in the futile exercise of hindsight. “You did well, Simon,” he said. “None would fault you.”

  The sharp, quick glance Simon sent him showed surprise, disbelief and, finally, greedy acceptance of his praise. It stunned Dunstan to realize just how much worth his brothers placed upon his words.

  “Perhaps,” Simon said with a brief nod, “but now we are in a precarious position, with only a small force to protect Wessex. Although I would gladly go after this Avery, I have no idea what might await at Fitzhugh’s holding. Frankly, I think we have too few men to make any showing of ourselves.” Simon paced the room in front of the bed. “With your permission, I would return to Campion and hand-pick some others to fill the ranks. I know Father will insist upon giving you men.”

  Dunstan was dubious. “Are you sure?”

  Whipping around swiftly, Simon shot him a look that questioned his sense. “Of course! Campion has men to spare, as you should remember.”

  Of course. Dunstan smiled grimly. Perhaps Marion had been right and if he had swallowed his pride and simply asked, he would have had help long before now. He nodded and put his trencher aside. “You take care of it, Simon,” he said. Suddenly weary, Dunstan closed his eyes and missed his brother’s startled look of pleasure at the charge.

  Eager for the blessed comfort of sleep in his own bed, Dunstan relaxed against the pillows. He heard the movements of his brothers as they headed toward the door, then suddenly he opened his eyes wide, shocked to have momentarily forgotten something so vital.

  “And bring Marion back with you,” he said tersely.

  * * *

  In a few days, Dunstan was back to his old self, the healing wound on his chest the only reminder of his ordeal. His aches were gone, his belly full of food and drink, and he was whole again but for one minor thing. His wife was still gone.

  Dunstan did not feel quite…complete without her. He swung between irritation at the odd sensation of need and exaltation at the thought of her return. It was ridiculous, but he wanted her here beside him. Now.

  During their long, forced time together, Dunstan had grown accustomed to her presence, and he would have it back. It was as simple as that. He missed that smile of hers with its dimples peeping out brazenly. He missed her graceful movements, her silly patter and the air of innocence that clung to her, despite her hot passions. He missed the way she argued with him, poking her tiny finger into his great chest when she was particularly riled.

  And he missed the way she fussed over him, full of worry for him. Dunstan paused to savor that memory. He liked being the subject of her concern. He especially liked it when she turned those huge eyes on him and they shone with an inner brilliance, just as if she adored him….

  Of course, she did not. All that nonsense about loving him Dunstan knew as so much fiddle-faddle, and yet if she wanted to believe herself enamored of him, who was he to argue? He enjoyed being the object of her affections—the only object of her affections.

  Dunstan scowled. He found he did not like the thought of Marion surrounded by his brothers here at Wessex. Would her doe eyes look upon them with the same sweetness? Dunstan resisted an urge to slam his fist into the table in front of him. He would not care for that at all.

  Marion was his, by law, by right and by possession. He tried not to think of her back at Campion, greeting Simon, the returning hero. He tried not to think of her giving his brothers the gift of her smile and receiving their proprietary glances. He tried not to think of her at all.

  He cursed loudly.

  “What is it, Dunstan?” Geoffrey asked, looking up from the papers spread before him. They sat at the table in the great hall, while Geoffrey went over Dunstan’s accounts with an eye both to reduce expenses and increase income.

  “Nothing,” Dunstan muttered. “I look for Simon’s return, ‘tis
all.”

  Geoffrey smiled. It was not the first time Dunstan had suddenly burst out with an oath for no good reason. Something, or rather someone, was preying on the Wolf’s mind. Geoffrey leaned back, twirled the quill in his hand and wondered if Dunstan would bring up the topic of Marion again.

  Although Dunstan had mentioned his wife several times, as if he could not help himself, he had been hesitant to discuss her, leaving Geoffrey mightily curious. Geoff never would have thought Dunstan, the toughest loner of all the de Burghs, would be struck by Cupid’s arrow, and yet the Wolf showed indisputable signs of being smitten by dear little Marion.

  Having heard Marion claim the marriage was not her idea, Geoffrey was interested to see how the couple would deal together. Although she had pleaded Dunstan’s case to his family in a heart-wrenching manner, that did not mean Marion loved him. Yet Geoffrey suspected that Dunstan was very much in love with her. It was an intriguing puzzle, and Geoffrey had seen enough of his eldest brother’s stubborn arrogance over the years to admit he was going to enjoy watching Dunstan squirm.

  “What is it like, being married?” Geoffrey asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

  “‘Tis sorely aggrieving!” Dunstan answered, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Geoffrey smiled. “That bad?”

  As if suddenly aware of what he had said, Dunstan scowled. “I would have her here, that is all. ‘Tis where she belongs. She is mine,” Dunstan said, adding a threatening look to cap off his words.

  “Ho, brother. No need to take that fierce tone with me,” Geoffrey said. “We all came to care for Marion as a sister, but none of us desired to marry her. Remember?”

  Dunstan’s eyes narrowed, and Geoffrey realized that now might not have been the time to remind Dunstan that his siblings had rejected the hand of his wife. “Yes, I remember,” Dunstan growled. “Why? Why would no one have her?”

  Oh-oh. Now the Wolf was insulted. Although Dunstan had warmed considerably toward his brothers, he was still not a man to rile. Geoffrey paused to choose his words very carefully, then he simply shrugged and stated the obvious. “None of us were in love with her.”

  Dunstan snorted. “Love! You spout the same prattle as Marion. ‘Tis all foolishness.”

  Oh. Geoffrey drew in a deep breath. Not only was the Wolf in love, but he refused to believe it. And, obviously, he and Marion had already had words on the subject. Unwilling to be drawn into an endless argument, Geoffrey asked his brother baldly, “Why did you marry her?”

  Dunstan leaned back in his chair with a smug look, as if the answer was obvious. “‘Twas for the best, to protect her from her uncle.”

  “I see,” Geoffrey said softly. He laid down his quill and tented his fingers together, eyeing Dunstan carefully. “So you feel nothing for her but a sense of responsibility?”

  Dunstan scowled blackly. “Of course, I feel something for her. She is my wife. She will serve me well and give me an heir….”

  Suddenly Dunstan went quiet, then he rose from his chair as if his hose were alight. Geoffrey bit his cheeks to keep from howling with laughter. So the Wolf was hot for his wife, was he?

  “Enough of her! I have work to do,” Dunstan growled, stalking off with an odd gait.

  Clearing his throat, Geoffrey turned his attention back to the columns of figures in front of him. This was too entertaining. By faith, he could not wait to see what happened when Marion returned!

  * * *

  Marion’s heart pounded so loudly that she was sure Simon would turn around and tell her to quiet it. Well pleased with his new role as Dunstan’s military arm, he was less than thrilled with the duty of escorting her back to Wessex. He had been tense and short with her, but she was used to adapting to the de Burghs and their moods, and, in truth, Simon concerned her little. It was Dunstan who had her in a turmoil.

  When Simon had returned and told her in that stony way of his that “of course” Dunstan was all right, Marion had wept with relief. Now, as they approached Wessex, she was unsure of her feelings. Part of her worried still, and she was anxious to see for herself that Dunstan was well. From what Simon said, he had been imprisoned and wounded. Marion knew a desperate need to reassure herself that he was as he should be.

  Beyond that, she did not know what lay ahead. If not for Dunstan’s condition, Marion would have balked at joining him at Wessex. She would rather have stayed at Campion, surrounded by a family that loved her, than go to a man who did not to face an uncertain future. Despite her eagerness to see Dunstan, all her doubts about their marriage came rushing back.

  By the time they entered the gates, Marion was still and silent with strain. Having soon forgotten her, Simon went off with the new soldiers to see to quartering them, and Marion was left to stand alone before the doors of the old, square keep. She eyed it critically before deciding that she rather liked it. Actually, after the rambling Baddersly and the awe-inspiring Campion, Wessex was rather cozy. Marion smiled. It would be easy to fill this small hall with laughing children….

  She stepped inside just in time to hear the Wolf growl angrily. “Where is she?” Dunstan shouted, striding across the rushes with his usual grace and in all his great, handsome glory. Marion blinked rapidly as her love rose and burst forth, sweet and aching in its intensity.

  “Marion.”

  He saw her. For a moment, she thought he would run to her, but then he seemed to catch himself. Hesitating briefly, he took long, easy steps to stand before her, a huge, dear, looming presence. Tall and broad as an oak, he looked hale and hearty, and Marion knew a swift, sharp relief. She studied his face, but he was difficult to read, and she was unsure whether he was even pleased to see her.

  “Marion?” Dunstan seemed to invest the single word with a million questions, but Marion did not know how to answer. Finally, unable to help herself, she lifted a palm to his cheek, to touch him, to prove to herself that he was alive and well. He was warm and firm, the stubble of his beard rough beneath her fingers. “Thank God you are well,” she said softly.

  Dunstan crushed her to him so tightly that all her breath escaped. He was not wearing his mail, so she could feel the hard muscles of his chest through her clothing, a delightful warm pressure. As she struggled for breath, he whispered her name over and over in a low voice that awakened all her bodily humors and sent them catapulting through her with dizzying heat.

  The bustling hall was forgotten as the magic between them sparked and flamed, and Marion gasped as he swept her off her feet and into his arms. He carried her lightly across the rushes, past servants awaiting an introduction to their new lady, past a startled Geoffrey and up the stairs.

  “Dunstan!” she scolded. Paying her no heed, he swung through the doors of his chamber as if the hounds of hell pursued him.

  As soon as he closed the door behind him, he was upon her, devouring her with his mouth and ravishing her with his hands. His kiss was hot and rough, a mark of possession, but Marion reveled in it and met his tongue with her own, her body burning where he touched her.

  He walked to the bed, groaning as he laid her down upon it and spread her hair out about her. His fingers thrust into her bodice, baring her breasts, and then he just stood over her, drinking in the sight of her with green eyes dark and glazed.

  Marion licked her swollen lips as she gazed up at him. His great chest was rising and falling rapidly, his breath quick and harsh, and his hands fallen to his sides…. The Wolf’s hands were trembling. She felt dizzy with the force of that knowledge.

  “Day of God, Marion, I have to have you now,” he growled. Giving a weak nod of permission, Marion watched as he fumbled with his clothes, freeing his thick, hard length. Then he pushed up her skirts and pulled her to the edge of the bed, burying himself to the root in a primitive claiming that made her cry out her pleasure.

  A smug smile appeared briefly on his handsome face, tense with strain, as he muttered, “These walls are thick, Marion. Yell as loud as you are wont.” And she did.

  *
* *

  Dunstan stared down the table with a scowl, his mood black as he contemplated the brothers he had but recently clasped to his bosom. Now, he eyed them with the same suspicious distaste he would feel upon viewing a nest of vipers.

  It was all her fault.

  He had been of a mind to keep Marion abed in their chamber for the rest of the day—and night—but she had insisted upon coming down to meet his people and greet his brothers. He should have kept her locked in the room forever, chained to his bed, as he had once imagined.

  Instead, she was presiding over the table, conversing sweetly with all of them, giving them her smiles and her concern, and he would be damned but that jealousy burned hot within his chest. He had never been the sort to covet a female, having seen them as fairly interchangeable, until now. And Dunstan liked not the feeling.

  He knew that she had not lain with any of his brothers. He knew that they had all refused to marry her and that they all supposedly saw her as a sister. And yet he knew that the first man who looked upon her with the slightest interest would suffer his wrath.

  Seeing her reach over to touch Geoffrey’s sleeve, Dunstan felt as if his very blood boiled. He pushed aside his trencher, knowing full well that he acted the part of a spoiled child, but unable to help himself. She was his, by faith, and he liked not sharing her with anyone—even his siblings.

  Replete with food and drink and flush with victory and the coming of new soldiers, his brothers seemed oblivious to his foul humor. Fighting for Marion’s attention like a pack of favored dogs, they began boasting of their parts in the recapture of Wessex. Watching silently, Dunstan was prepared to brood, but he was soon brought out of his mood by his astonishment at Marion’s skillful handling of the de Burghs.

  Even master politician Geoffrey’s abilities paled before her deft maneuvering. When fights broke out, she knew just what to say to ease the tensions. If someone became too full of himself, she burst his bubble with a teasing gibe. If Stephen’s tongue grew too sharp, she reproved him gently, and the black sheep of the family actually acceded to her wishes! Dunstan was stunned.