“Perhaps,” Marion answered when they stopped. She gazed up at his bloody forehead dubiously. “But even scratches fester. Why, think, Dunstan, what would happen if it should putrefy! It might even swell your brain,” she warned ominously. “And then your poor brothers would be saddled with a great witless man to take care of. Surely, you would not wish that upon them.”
Did the wren have the audacity to toy with him? Dunstan eyed her sharply, but she simply stared directly at him with those huge brown eyes, innocence plastered all over her heart-shaped face. Something tugged at the edges of his mind, out of reach. By faith! He did not believe that a small head wound could lead to madness, but he was rapidly becoming convinced that Marion Warenne could drive a man to the brink.
“Get to your mount,” he said through gritted teeth. Then he turned on his heel and strode away from her as rapidly as possible.
Walter sidled up to him immediately. “A little rude, are we not? ‘Tis not like you, Dunstan!” his vassal teased.
“That woman is a menace!” Dunstan growled, lifting a hand to his throbbing head.
Walter laughed. “Because she wants to see to your wounds? I wish that I were menaced so terribly!”
Dunstan snorted and gave his vassal a threatening look. “Perhaps I shall set you to watch her then.”
Walter smiled and shrugged. “‘Twould suit me well enough.”
Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. Somehow the idea of his vassal fawning over Marion did not sit well with him. Walter had been with him for years before rising to his right hand; he was a good soldier and a friend. However, the wren’s property was rich enough to tempt a saint, let alone a landless knight. With a grimace, Dunstan pictured Walter seducing the heiress and presenting himself to her uncle as the father of her child.
“No,” Dunstan said, finally. “‘Tis bad enough that we must all serve as errand boys for my father. I will not have my best man act as nursemaid to the parcel. Let Cedric do it.”
The boy was at his side, stammering apologies in an instant. “Enough,” Dunstan said, cutting him off. “I will give you another chance, Cedric, but do not fail me this time. Keep watch upon the lady at all times. If she wants to attend to herself, as before, make sure that you keep a part of her in sight, and do not let her stick her cloak upon a bush and leave you staring at it!” Dunstan advised. “Make sure you see the top of her head and her hair. We are dealing with a very clever lady here.”
Cedric listened, his face a study of surprise and awe. Obviously, the youth was not accustomed to hearing a woman described in such terms, and Dunstan realized that he had never used them. But the wren was something altogether different. “Have Benedict spell you,” Dunstan ordered, glancing toward an elderly knight whom he trusted to keep his hands off Marion.
“Yes, my lord,” Cedric said, and he rushed after his charge, his face somber and alert.
Dunstan turned away and strode toward his waiting horse. He did not fault Cedric for being fooled. Day of God! She had tricked them all—twice now! But once stung, a wise man would beware the bee. Dunstan decided he had better keep an eye on Marion, too. He had no intention of letting her flee again or of seeing her work her wiles upon his men to their detriment.
And, keeping wiles in mind, Dunstan judged that it might be well to post an extra watch this night, just in case her uncle really did present a threat. Of course, the woman spouted nothing but nonsense, yet it could not hurt to be more vigilant.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Dunstan sighed. The simple errand his father had entrusted to him was becoming more complicated than he could ever have imagined.
* * *
“Back again, are you?” Agnes cackled with glee when Marion mounted her palfrey. “What did the Wolf do to you this time?”
Despite all that had happened between Dunstan and herself in the past hour, Marion’s mind, directed perhaps by Agnes’s chortling, dredged up only one image. Her face flooded with color as she remembered, all too vividly, when Dunstan had held her in his arms. Warmth and strength had surrounded her, and his face had been so close to her own that she could see the darkening of his eyes—as deep and green as the thickest forest. For a moment, he had seemed to devour her with his gaze, and Marion could have sworn that he took a hungry glance at her lips. But then he had practically dropped her to the ground in his haste to be rid of her!
Marion sighed at her own foolishness. Surely, it was only her imagination that had Dunstan looking as if he might kiss her, for why would the Wolf of Wessex be interested in her? The great, handsome brute probably had his pick of lovely ladies….
As if in answer to her unspoken question, Agnes chuckled beside her. “You have captured his attention, lady. There is no doubt of that,” she said, grinning crookedly to display several missing teeth. “You are a puzzle to him, and he has not known the like before. It makes you prey on his mind—more than any other female, I will warrant.”
Agnes nodded sagely before continuing. “Yes, you are getting under his skin. The question is—what will he do when the itch strikes him? Will he scratch it?” Just as though she had made some hearty jest, Agnes threw back her head and let out a coarse peal of laughter, which Marion tried hard to ignore.
Although she had been listening with only half an ear to the old woman’s rambling, Marion decided she did not care to know what would happen when she got under the Wolf’s skin. Although he had not hurt her, she suspected that he was nearly at the end of his tether, and she would not like his temper loosed upon her.
He was such a surly, bullying wretch! All he ever did was shout and grunt and growl at her like some great wild beast. At one point, she had even thought he might strike her, but she should have known better. Even Dunstan, with all his faults, would not do that, for Campion would not raise a son to violence.
Marion was wary, though. When he had lifted his fist something inside her made her seek to protect herself—even from a de Burgh. What that something was, Marion did not care to examine, but she had an eerie feeling that the answer lay in the veiled mystery of her past.
And that was another thing, she thought, suddenly fuming. Dunstan did not even have the courtesy to hear her out about her uncle; he made it plain that he did not believe a word she told him of Baddersly. Of course, his reaction was no surprise to her, for she had seen enough of his behavior to know it well. The man constantly treated her like a child who had no life of her own, and no thoughts, no hopes, no dreams worth considering.
Well, she would show him! What had once existed only as a tiny spark inside of her was now a small blaze, fed by Dunstan’s scorn, and Marion felt it—and herself—growing stronger each day. Twice now she had nearly outwitted the Wolf of Wessex. Today he must truly have sniffed her out like the beast that he was, but in the future she would cover her tracks more thoroughly. The third time was often the charm, Marion told herself.
If he would not save her, she must save herself. No matter what smug Dunstan de Burgh might think, Marionknewthat her life was in danger, and she refused to be led to her death like some lamb to slaughter.
She had only to make a new plan for escape and leave the Wolf behind. Forever.
CHAPTER SIX
