And, most astonishing of all, she managed to draw out silent Reynold. Everyone was singled out for her praise, even Nicholas, who, she pointed out, was the only one who had known of the secret passage into Wessex. Without him, there would have been no rescue.
Nicholas, beaming with satisfaction, made Dunstan proud when he mentioned that none of them would even be here were it not for Marion. Six pairs of eyes turned toward her then, bright with admiration and affection, and Dunstan felt something inside himself give way grudgingly. They all cared for her, their faces said as much, but Geoffrey was right. They did not lust after her.
The fiery pain of jealousy dwindled to a manageable ache as he watched his brothers all stand and cheer his wife. To his surprise, Dunstan felt a kinship with them that not all the battles in the world could have created. It was born of caring for the same woman—in different ways.
Dunstan rose, too, then, though he said nothing. He simply stared at Marion, his own feelings for her growing within him. Looking at her seated there, small and dainty and dimpling prettily, one would never have guessed that this woman had ridden for days, alone and unarmed, through unfamiliar countryside in order to save his life.
She was truly amazing. All those times she had sought to escape him, Dunstan had thought her foolish and doomed, and yet, she had done it. She had managed. She had gone off all by herself. With a sudden jolt, Dunstan realized that she did not need him.
The knowledge was rather frightening, for if Marion did not want protection, why should she stay with him? Dunstan sat down again with his brothers, in response to Marion’s modest disclaimers, but his attention was no longer on the present.
How would he hold her to him? The lovemaking was one way, for Marion definitely enjoyed her pleasures, and quick on the heels of that thought was the notion of an heir. Yes! He would get her with child quickly, and that would bind her to him more strongly.
Dunstan tamped down the fluttering edges of panic that had him nearly trembling and told himself that she was his, now and always, and yet…Deep inside, he wondered if anything could ever tie to him enough to satisfy him.
“Our sister, Marion!” The de Burghs were calling out endearments to her, along with demands for more ale, Dunstan realized. His own mouth felt dry, but he wanted no more drink. He wanted to take his wife to bed and claim her as his own. Now. He moved closer and tried to catch her eye.
When he did, she leaned close, but instead of whispering something provocative, Marion nodded toward one of his brothers. “See how Simon is whirling his cup between his hands.”
With a lift of his brows, Dunstan showed her just how little Simon’s habits interested him, and she frowned reprovingly. “It means he has something on his mind,” she explained. Dunstan’s next glance expressed his opinion of that notion, and Marion’s frown grew, her expressive mouth curving downward in a lovely imitation of his own scowl. “Ask him,” she said, nudging his side with her elbow.
Suspecting that he would have no peace until he did her bidding, Dunstan sat back and fixed his eyes on his brother, who was, indeed, playing absently with his cup. “So, Simon, what is on your mind?”
“What?” Simon’s face lost its intent cast to startlement. “Oh, I was thinking of…that is, with your permission…” He straightened, his features closed and somber once more. “I would like to take a force to Fitzhugh’s holding and see the state of things there.”
Dunstan stared, stunned by his wife’s perception. By faith, did she truly know his brothers better than he did himself? It would appear so, for she was smiling happily at his surprise. “‘Tis sound thinking. What say you, Dunstan?” she prompted.
Dunstan grimaced. With Fitzhugh dead, he did not think there would be any more trouble from that quarter, but Walter might pose a problem. He could be long gone from the area, or he could be holed up somewhere, preparing to harry the outlying lands just as his master had done.
“It would leave the castle poorly defended, even taking into account the new men our father sent,” Geoffrey pointed out.
Simon glared across the table at his brother. “But what if this Walter should raise a force of his own? And what of Fitzhugh’s daughter? She is well-known for her foul temperament. Will she continue her sire’s war upon us? I would know what goes on outside our borders.” Simon’s hand closed into a fist, and Dunstan realized his younger brother was eager for battle.
“But while you are away, Wessex lies open to attack. Even discounting the threat from Fitzhugh’s brat or his allies, what of Harold Peasely?” Geoffrey asked.
“Peasely?” Dunstan snorted at that. “He has no claim to Marion now.”
“No, but he has known her riches too long to give them up easily. And did he not try to have you murdered? I would not discount him,” Geoffrey argued.
Dunstan weighed his brother’s words carefully. Of them all, Geoffrey was most like their father, strong, but gentle and wise. With rueful candor, Dunstan had to admit that Geoff definitely had received the lion’s share of the de Burgh intelligence, and it would behoove him to listen when sound advice was tendered. Although he did not really think Peasely would attack, he had also been unprepared for Fitzhugh’s cunning. Better to send out a few men than leave the castle unattended.
“Perhaps only a small force should go, enough to scout out the situation,” Dunstan mused. “Even with all the men, we would not have enough to take Fitzhugh’s home, so the size of any group going there would matter little. We will go in peace, in the guise of giving word to the daughter of her father’s death.”
Several brave men flinched at the mention of the Fitzhugh witch, and Dunstan hid his amusement. “I will leave on the morrow,” he concluded.
“But, I—” Simon sputtered, looking both stunned and angry, and Dunstan glanced across the table in surprise, before Marion’s hand closed in soft restraint upon his arm.
“Simon is bored here, Dunstan,” she said. “He has proved that he is a more than capable leader. And did you not say that you were heartily sick of traveling?”
Dunstan scowled. For as long as he could remember, he had done for himself, by himself. It was not easy to relinquish his authority and his responsibility. What if something should go wrong? It went against his nature to let someone else do his job.
He opened his mouth to speak, but he felt the gentle pressure of Marion’s fingers on his arm and closed it. What of his wife? Dunstan thought of leaving her here, surrounded by his brothers, and his chest ached anew. He thought of nights spent without her, on the road again with the fields for a bed, and his will wavered.
“Simon does seem the logical choice, Dunstan,” Geoffrey noted. “Your place is here at Wessex.”
Perhaps Geoffrey was right, Dunstan thought. How much time had he actually spent in residence at his own holding? Too little. He glanced at Marion’s great doe eyes, pleading his brother’s cause, and he grunted.
“Very well. Simon, I like not letting another man take on a task for me, but you are far more eager for this one than I am. I give you the charge.”
Simon’s head came up, and his eyes lit with a fierce glow that seemed to burn right out of his soul. He smiled, a rare and heartfelt gesture, and Dunstan felt himself grinning in response as he realized the pleasure to be had in giving to one of his own.
Dunstan was doubly rewarded when he glanced at Marion and saw, for the first time since her arrival, that soft, shining look of adoration in her eyes. He felt the warmth of that approving gaze down to his bones. Then she smiled, her dimples peeping out happily, and Dunstan relaxed back against his chair, feeling very well satisfied with himself.
Let poor Simon tramp the countryside mailed and armed and eager for a fight! He would much rather stay right here in the comfort of his own hall and get his wife with child.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Geoffrey?” The sound of Marion’s voice brought Geoffrey’s head out of the accounts, and he saw her standing near the doors with Nicholas, who was awkward
ly clutching a huge, empty basket. Dressed in a rose gown that complemented her dark hair, Marion looked even prettier than usual, and Geoffrey had to admit that marriage to the Wolf had certainly added color in her cheeks.
“Would you like to walk with us?” she asked. “I need to gather a supply of healing plants, and Nicholas is kind enough to come along,” she explained, with one of those sunny smiles of hers that encouraged a like response.
“Where is Dunstan?” Geoffrey asked, aware that the Wolf rarely let Marion out of his sight.
“With Reynold and Stephen in the yard, training,” Nicholas said, his wistful expression telling Geoffrey that he would much rather be with his brothers.
Geoffrey hid his amusement and stood. “I see. Well, I think I will join you. I have not walked beyond Wessex’s walls since we arrived.” Stopping only to put on his scabbard, he followed them through the doors of the hall into a day blazing with summer sunshine.
Although he was not especially anxious to watch Marion pick flowers, Geoffrey thought it best to accompany the two on their trek. The Wolf was a bit possessive of his bride, to put it mildly, and might growl and howl if he thought her off alone with one of his brothers, even the youngest of them.
Geoffrey smiled to himself at the change in Dunstan. Once, he could have sworn that his oldest brother had little interest in females, but for the occasional toss. Now, he was rarely separated from his bride, and when he was, he seemed distracted, as if his mind were with her, rather than on his surroundings.
It was vastly entertaining to the de Burghs, who whispered about it among themselves, but dared not tease the object of their amusement. Blood was thick among them, but none had a death wish. And Geoffrey had an idea that taunts to the Wolf about his newfound domesticity would be met with snarling violence.
At the very least, they could put to rest any questions Campion might have about the validity of the wedding; it was obvious that Dunstan’s marriage was a true one. By faith, even Geoffrey had been shocked at the way Dunstan had whisked his bride off to their chamber as soon as she arrived.
They had returned several hours later, looking flushed and sated, only to excuse themselves again not long after the evening meal. Although Dunstan’s claim that his wife must rest after her travels was transparent to everyone present, Marion acquiesced, and if she was embarrassed by her husband’s eagerness, she did not show it.
Since then, the two of them had been going at it like rabbits. From what Geoffrey could gather, the Wolf seemed determined to swive his wife to death. Privately, Geoffrey wondered if that was the only way Dunstan knew to show his affection. The thought worried Geoffrey, for he wanted Marion to be happy, and despite all that lovemaking, she did not seem totally at ease at Wessex.
Obviously, she loved Dunstan. It shone in those huge, soulful eyes of hers, filled to brimming with emotion. Yet Geoffrey sensed that something was not right. There was a constraint between the two, and at times Geoffrey would catch Marion’s face reflecting a sadness that she had never shown at Campion. And Dunstan looked far too frustrated and surly for a man who was spending so much time in bed.
It was puzzling. Geoffrey was struck by the difficulties inherent even in the most caring relationships. When he saw the way Marion looked at Dunstan, he felt a pang, a foolish yearning to know such emotion himself, and yet it seemed that even the best of marriages faced problems that he could not even begin to comprehend.
With a sigh for the vagaries of the human heart, Geoffrey lengthened his stride and followed the others up one of the gentle slopes not far from Wessex’s walls.
The afternoon passed quickly, the three of them talking amiably while Marion searched for plants. Sometimes, she cajoled Geoffrey and Nicholas into helping, often she let them lie in the tall grass along the hills to soak up the heat of the day. The countryside had a wilder look than at Campion, where so much land had been cleared for farming, but Geoffrey liked it. All was quiet, but for the buzzing of bees and the wind in the trees. It was infinitely peaceful.
Until Dunstan arrived.
“Oh—oh,” Nicholas said suddenly, and the tone in his voice made Geoffrey rise on one elbow to look below. He had been chewing on a stalk of grass, and it fell abruptly from his lips when he saw just what had prompted Nicholas’s words.
Dunstan was striding up the hill, his hands fisted at his sides, his face black with fury and his jaw clenched so hard it looked as though it might pop. In an instant, Geoffrey leaped to his feet and the years fell away, making him feel like a boy once more caught in some mischief by his older brother.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” Dunstan growled, just as if they were guilty of some vile transgression. Geoffrey was at a loss to answer, however, for as far as he knew, they had done nothing to rouse Dunstan’s rage. He and Nicholas simply remained stiffly at attention, staring at their brother.
“Dunstan, what a surprise! Have you come to help us?” Marion asked sweetly, and Geoffrey shot a quick glance at her. She was still blithely collecting plants, just as if the Wolf of Wessex were not breathing down their throats with murder in his eyes.
“No,” Dunstan answered, his voice low and menacing. He stood with his feet apart, his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed and a ferocious scowl upon his features. “What do you think you are doing?”
Something in his tone stopped her, and Marion turned toward him, as if finally noticing his mood—a mood that kept Geoffrey and Nicholas warily silent. “Whatever is the matter?”
“The matter! You leave the safety of my walls to dally over the countryside with naught but these two as protection?” Although Geoffrey took umbrage at the implied insult in Dunstan’s words, he said nothing. Past experience had taught him that it was useless to argue with the Wolf.
Dunstan stepped forward, gripping Marion’s arms tightly. “Have you no sense at all? You could have been killed, you little fool! Walter, Peasely and God knows who else would love to catch you out here alone. Have you not seen enough bloodshed to have a care for yourself?”
Geoffrey liked not the way Dunstan grasped Marion, as if ready to shake her forcibly, and, despite his apprehension, he stepped forward. No matter what, he would not let Marion be hurt—even by her husband.
He need not have worried. With a jerk, Marion threw off Dunstan’s hold, proving to Geoffrey that it could not have been as fierce as it looked. Then she pointed a tiny finger at the Wolf’s massive chest. “Do not speak to me in that fashion, Dunstan de Burgh! I will not tolerate it!” she snapped, her face flushed.
“I needed to gather a stock of plants for cooking and healing, since you have none, and your brothers were kind enough to come with me.” She poked her digit more firmly into his tunic. “If I am to be a prisoner here, as I was at Baddersly, you will have to tell me. My uncle, you see, made his rules very plain.” Her voice broke then, but with a dignity that awed Geoffrey, she stalked past the Wolf without a backward glance.
“Nicholas, assist me, please,” she called over her shoulder. For a moment, all three de Burghs stood gaping after her, then Nicholas took off, racing to catch up with her.
Uneasy with the volatile situation, Geoffrey was glad that Marion had taken Nicholas with her, but none too pleased to be stuck there himself—alone with a ferocious Wolf. Geoffrey was no coward, however, and he stood where he was, watching Dunstan’s reaction. It was not pretty. Rage contorted the Wolf’s face, drawing his mouth into a dreadful grimace, but it was soon followed by something else, something far more painful to see.
Was it regret or despair? Geoffrey eyed his brother in stunned surprise at the depth of the emotion passing across those familiar features. Marion must truly have changed him, for Geoffrey had never seen Dunstan so affected by anything or anyone. If he had not witnessed it himself, Geoffrey never would have believed that the Wolf had backed down from an argument. And not only that, he had acceded to a woman—and looked positively wretched over the entire dispute.
As if suddenly aware o
f his brother’s presence, Dunstan turned, his face quickly becoming guarded once more. He glanced at the ground, seeming reluctant to look at Geoffrey, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was so worried about her,” he admitted ruefully. “When I could not find her, and someone said she had gone outside the walls, I just… Jesu, Geoff, if you only knew how many times she has been in danger, how many times I thought I had lost her…”
At the sound of Dunstan’s mournful words, Geoffrey felt a rush of sympathy for this great, fearless sibling, who had never bowed to anyone, but was now brought low by his affection for his wife. The Wolf loved Marion, that was obvious, but he had a poor way of showing it.
“You did not handle it well,” Geoffrey commented.
“No. I…” Dunstan whirled away to look out over his lands. “It is difficult. I am consumed by her, Geoffrey,” he said, laughing weakly in an effort to make light of his admission. “It is a strange feeling. It makes me vulnerable. I am not sure that I like it.”
Geoffrey said nothing, his own opinion of the joys of married life plummeting swiftly.
“I want her to be happy, but she wants…” Dunstan shook his head. “She wants me to love her. And, Geoff, I do not think I have it in me. I do not think I can.”
“Nonsense,” Geoff said. “It is obvious that you love her.”
Dunstan snorted and turned back around, his face a study in skepticism. “I have never even believed in that sort of thing.”
“I know,” Geoff said. “But whether you will it or not, you are in love, and you must tell her so.”
Dunstan looked doubtful, but there was a hint of determination in his eyes.
“And, if I were you, I would go after her and apologize for growling at her in front of her brothers. Profusely. You may have to grovel, even,” Geoffrey said with a smile.
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