A muscle in Walter’s cheek jumped at the implied reprimand, but Dunstan paid it no heed. He stared off into the trees, trying to decide what to do. He ought to abandon the foolish chit to her fate, but the thought of the wren alone out there did something to his chest, making it constrict painfully.
“But the lady! Surely, you cannot mean to let her run away,” Walter argued. “What will your father say?”
Something in Walter’s voice made Dunstan lift his head and look closely at his vassal. Was that scorn he heard? Contempt? Walter’s face showed nothing but taut lines of concentration in the vanishing light.
Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck. On top of everything else, he was imagining things. Perhaps he was hearing taunts where there were none because of his own sense of frustration and helplessness. What was he to do? “I will go alone,” he said finally. “And I will find her.” Or what is left of her, he thought grimly.
In truth, he had not considered his father’s reaction should he fail in his mission or, worse yet, if the woman his family adored came up dead or missing when in his charge. Campion’s disapproval or Simon’s scorn suddenly seemed a lot less important than they once might have. Right now, Dunstan just wanted to find her alive.
Then he would kill her himself.
Stopping only to grab up his pack, Dunstan headed toward the woods. Cedric begged to come along, but knowing the boy would slow him down, Dunstan bade him stay. He wanted no distractions as he sought her trail in the dusk. He spared a moment to consider the workings of her mind, but decided that was beyond any sane man. Instead, he simply took the most likely route away from the camp toward the cover of the trees.
Dunstan trod softly, taking the easiest way and hoping she did not veer off in her cleverness. If she hoped no one would discover her missing until morning, she was probably putting as much distance between herself and the camp as possible. Dunstan suspected that was her course, but the knowledge gave him no comfort, for moving as swiftly as he could to catch up, he might never find her in the blackness.
It was full dark under the trees, the moon casting its light but faintly through the branches overhead. Dunstan stepped more carefully, afraid that he might miss her form huddled off the track he had discovered. It twisted and turned over fallen logs and slippery ditches, which made him wonder if she would break her neck in some gully.
Actually, that was the least of the possible fates that disturbed him. There were so many other dangers, so many threats to a woman alone in a strange forest in the dark, that Dunstan could not even consider them. He concentrated solely on following her—on a muddy footprint, glimpsed in an open glade, or a bush, visibly disturbed—while he tried to ignore the weight that pressed down upon him, making him feel powerless for the first time in many long years.
Although Dunstan was not a superstitious man, what finally kept him going was a blind faith that she was ahead of him. And with no other clues to guide him, Dunstan did not stop to question whence the alien feeling sprung. He simply heeded it, moving forward with increasing urgency.
He went swiftly because something was not right. He could feel it as surely as a man sensed a coming battle—or an ambush. The woods were too quiet, the normal noises of night animals stilled, and even the air hushed with danger. Dunstan paused to listen, his very soul reaching out into the blackness.
And through the silence, she spoke to him, though it would not have been the call that he desired. The sound that rent the night was a scream that made his blood run cold, for it was a woman’s scream of terror and pain and it belonged to Marion. His body flew to life in response.
Afterward, Dunstan cursed himself as ten times a fool for charging off like a madman, but at the time he could do nothing else. He saw red, his own blood seeming to burst through his brain to cloud his vision. All his soldier’s training and years of caution went by the wayside as he rushed toward her.
Another scream was cut off, muffled somehow, but the first still rang in his ears, driving him onward, and, unsheathing his sword, Dunstan burst into a clearing. In less than a second, his mind took in the scene before him, lit by a small fire: Marion stretched out between two men, one holding her arms, while the other bent over her, pushing up her skirts. In less than a second, Dunstan had raised his blade, overwhelmed by a blood lust such as he had never known, and bellowed his rage.
The one between her legs looked up, his face registering a startled expression before Dunstan severed his head from his body in one blow. Blood showered through the air, making the other man shriek and fall back, fumbling for a weapon. But Dunstan was too fast. Leaping over Marion’s body, Dunstan sliced the man’s arm where it reached for a sword and then ran him through.
For a long moment Dunstan stood there, breathing heavily, his heart thundering, his body still tense, his eyes raking the area for more enemies. But the clearing was empty. Nothing moved but the flickering flames of the low fire, and the only sound was the bubble of life’s blood leaving the fallen.
Dunstan drew in a deep, shaky breath as he tried to bring himself back to normalcy. It was not easy. He had fought fiercer battles many times, had been in more danger more often than he could count and had even been wounded several times, as his body’s scars could attest. But never had he known such killing lust—unreasoning, overwhelming and still unappeased. When he realized that he longed to hack the corpses to pieces, Dunstan let the air out of his lungs in a low hiss and turned.
Spattered with blood, Marion was lying in the dirt with her gown bunched around her hips and one pale limb resting against the headless body of one of her attackers. Her beautiful dark hair was spread out around her face in wild disarray, framing delicate features that were as white and still as death. Dunstan fell to his knees beside her and forced himself to speak evenly.
His voice came out a ragged whisper. “Wren! Wren…are you hurt?” Now that the threat to her was vanquished, Dunstan felt at a loss. What if she was injured? He knew naught of healing and even less of succoring the wounded. “Marion, ‘tis I, Dunstan,” he said louder.
When she did not respond, he removed his gauntlets slowly, afraid to startle her, and put a hand to her forehead. Her long lashes fluttered open. “Dunstan…” She murmured his name like a caress.
The pain in his chest eased a little, and he held out a hand toward her. She took it, rising to a sitting position, and he arranged her skirts to cover shapely legs made visible in the firelight. When he had finished, she was looking up at him with an expression he had never seen before. Something akin to dazed wonder shone out of those huge brown eyes, and then she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in the warm curve of his throat above his mail coat and wept.
Dunstan grudgingly embraced her, hugging her close as he had not held another human being since Nicholas was a babe. He felt ridiculously ill-equipped to give comfort. What did he know of it? His years as a soldier had taught him to disdain such things, and women who took him to their beds knew better than to ask for more than a friendly tumble. But the wren needed him.
Awkwardly, Dunstan put a palm to the tangled softness of her hair, glad to feel the life pulsing beneath it. She was all right. By God’s good grace, she was all right. Dunstan felt a shudder and told himself that Marion was reacting normally to all that had happened. It was certainly not his own body that was trembling like a newly weaned babe at the sight of a little blood. Thank God that it was not her blood….
Dunstan’s fingers drifted through curls silky and rich as the finest cloth. And thick! By faith, he could feel the weight of the mass tumbling over his fist. A man could bury his hand in hair like that, anchoring himself, he thought, before removing his own hand abruptly and laying it gingerly upon her shoulder.
He told himself she had nearly been raped. He told himself that she was frightened out of her mind and clinging to him for solace. He told himself that she was a troublesome piece of baggage who was here because of her own recklessness and that he had no liking for her.
But no matter what he told himself, Dunstan was becoming all too aware of the woman in his arms. The tears she had shed upon his neck were caught by a breeze, cooling the surface of his skin in a tantalizing sensation. Her breath was soft and warm upon his throat, and she carried some elusive scent of rich earth and fertile flowers. Her lush breasts were nestled against his chest, and her hips were nearly touching his own. Cursing himself for a fiend, Dunstan felt himself spring to life.
As if sensing his perfidy, she lifted her head, but her heart-shaped face held no accusation. Those great brown eyes of hers looked at him as no one had ever looked at him before—that strange sort of wonder mixed with something else. Could it be desire? Dunstan felt the spark between them ignite, heating the air, burning away all else. His hands went to her shoulders. She parted her lips. Shuddering with need, he leaned closer—and swore softly.
Pushing her away, Dunstan got to his feet before he took her himself, making him little better than the corpses that surrounded them. After a brush with death, a man often craved life, or the best use he could make of it, but that was no excuse. The wren was no whore, and they were not safely ensconced in any camp. With another low curse, Dunstan whirled around, half-expecting to see himself surrounded. What kind of a randy, witless fool was he to lie about as if they were on a pleasure outing?
From the looks of the camp, the two dead men had not been alone, and their companions might return at any moment. “We must go,” Dunstan snapped without regard to Marion’s sensibilities. His brain was working quickly now, and he was cursing himself for his vainglorious charge into the clearing. Why had he not left one of the men alive, at least long enough to discover who they were and what they were about?
