Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck. Never, since learning the rules of combat at his father’s knee, had he been so rash. The blood lust that had seized him now seemed a disturbing thing, robbing him of his senses and taking control of his body. With a low oath, Dunstan glanced down at the corpse, wishing, too late, that the dead could speak. Unfortunately, this fellow would tell him nothing, so Dunstan turned on his heel to go. But something made him swing back around to look more closely at the wretch at his feet.
The man was dressed poorly in plain rough wool, and yet he carried a sword. Unusual, that. Something niggled at the back of Dunstan’s mind. Something familiar. Leaning down, he searched the body, but found nothing except a purse with a few coins. If the man was a robber, he had yet to win his gold—or be paid. Dunstan’s eyes narrowed.
“Wh-what are you doing?” The wren’s shaky voice brought him upright.
“Nothing,” Dunstan answered abruptly. “Can you walk?”
She looked up at him, her great eyes awash with confusion, reminding him of nothing so much as a little lost fawn. He felt like cursing. He did not want to hurt her, but he had wasted enough time coddling her. Danger was in the air. He could almost smell it.
“Can you walk?” he asked again. She nodded dully, and he reached out a hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come then. We must be off.” He glanced around the site and decided to let the low fire burn itself out. If it served as a beacon for other outlaws, he did not want to draw their attention by extinguishing it.
“What of…them?” Marion asked. Her voice was shaky, and he looked down to see her hugging herself tightly as she stared at the bodies. Anger pulsed through him—anger at the men who had reduced his little wren to this, and anger at himself for not reaching her sooner, for not being able to give her what she needed, and for not having his own wits about him.
“Leave them for carrion,” Dunstan answered gruffly. He strode swiftly toward the trees, taking note of the footprints that marked the passage of more than those two. He stifled a curse. They needed to get away from the clearing and the path and find a resting place. Others, obviously, were abroad this night, and few men roamed the dark woods with good intentions.
“Dunstan.” She was tugging on his sleeve, and when he turned to her, she let her hand slide down to his, apparently taking some comfort from his touch. Awkwardly, he squeezed her fingers. Then he strode from the clearing, one hand pulling her along with him, the other resting on his sword hilt.
Once under the trees, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the blackness, then he pushed on, far enough from the path to be out of the way of any travelers. When he finally paused, Dunstan stood looking up at several tall oaks, assessing them as well as he could in the dark. Moving to a large one with a split trunk, he said, “We shall bed down here.”
Marion’s small palm jerked in his. “Can we not go back to the train?”
“No. Others are abroad this night, and in this light, I can little judge what they are about. We know that some of them, at least, are not above attacking a woman.”
She clutched his hand tighter, and the answering squeeze he gave hers came more naturally now. “Since you sleep like a babe in a tree, this spot should suit you perfectly,” he noted wryly.
“But—but…” Marion stammered, and Dunstan’s lips curved upward. Then he put his hands about her waist and lifted her up, setting her in the crook of the giant tree. She was still sputtering when he climbed up beside her and leaned back against the sturdy trunk.
“But what?” Dunstan asked easily. Despite having found her hiding in a large oak after her first escape, he assumed that she would object to spending the night on a branch. After all, he could imagine few ladies finding a comfortable berth up here.
“But…you do not really expect me to sleep here, do you?”
“Why not?” Dunstan asked. Although he had one ear tuned to the forest, he was beginning to enjoy himself. The wren was recovered enough to endure some teasing. He could not wait to hear her admit that her story about falling asleep in the tree had been a fantastic lie. Perhaps then he could get some other truths from her, as well. He listened, suddenly eager to hear her confession, but when she spoke, it was not to complain about the bed, but the company.
“Why, ‘twould not be seemly to stay here alone with you,” she protested.
Dunstan threw back his head and guffawed before he caught himself. “Do not make me laugh. We must be quiet. Now hush, and try to rest.” He could make out the dark shape of her form and smiled.
By faith, what kind of woman thought nothing of running into the woods alone, but felt threatened by spending the night with him? A bit of moonlight danced through the leaves, illuminating Marion’s face, and Dunstan caught a glimpse of her licking her lips before she was again cast in shadow.
In that instant, his smile died. Perhaps Marion was right, he thought grimly. She might be in more danger than either of them suspected.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marion glared at the great dark form that disappeared into the blackness of the tree trunk, and did not know what to think. When she had first seen him, when he had held out his hand to her, dragging her back from the horror that had gripped her, Marion had been so happy that she had wept with relief.
When he had held her, comforting her in his own awkward way, she had felt something for Dunstan de Burgh that she had never known before, a welling of emotion so profound that she hardly dared trust her own senses. When he had stroked her hair and that odd look came over his handsome face, she had been breathless with anticipation—and wanting.
Marion blushed to admit it even to herself. And yet, for just a moment, it had seemed as if nothing existed but Dunstan and herself. There were no filthy hands pawing at her, no death cries, no blood and no flights into the woods. There was not even a Baddersly, waiting like a giant, loathsome spider, ready to draw her into its web. There was only Dunstan and the way he made her body tingle and her heart trip over itself eagerly.
But, all too soon, that brief interlude was over, and Dunstan was back to his old, surly self, grunting and dragging her along as if she were naught but unwanted baggage. And now he had tossed her up in a tree and laughed at her. The man was impossible! Marion moved restlessly, the bark digging into her back. How could anyone actually sleep here?
Her gown had ridden up, and Marion tugged at the hem, bringing it down. Although the weather had been pleasant, the setting sun had brought a chill to the woods. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her head on her knees and her eyes upon the black shape opposite.
And, as soon as she did, it came again—that sweet rush of emotion. Was it only because he had rescued her? Would she have greeted any savior with the depth of feeling that swelled now in her breast? Marion stared at his dark figure and knew not with certainty, but she suspected that whatever she felt was reserved for Dunstan de Burgh, pigheaded, sullen and handsome devil that he was. Closing her eyes to call up his visage, she smiled—because it was scowling.
At least he had not scolded her. Marion would not have been surprised if he had launched into a long lecture about her foolishness. Grudgingly, she admitted that he had the right, for his warning had been all too true; the forest was full of desperate men. With disconcerting haste, the image of Dunstan was replaced by others, with faces and hands that held her down and something worse. It was there at the edge of her mind, taunting her tonight, that great well of her memories, threatening to overwhelm her. And Marion wanted no part of them. She opened her eyes wide.
“It is there, so close I can almost feel it,” she whispered.
