She ran to him, weaving her way among the dead and scattering the carrion birds that had returned to feed upon them. And when she reached him, Marion flung herself heedlessly at him, throwing her arms around him. For once, he did not snarl at her or turn away, but pulled her to him, crushing her against his mail and lifting her from the ground.
“Ah…wren,” he whispered brokenly, and in his voice, Marion heard the pain, the aching, crushing pain that he was carrying around inside.
His people had been slaughtered. Some he had known for years; some, surely, were his friends, but the Wolf of Wessex could not fall to the ground and cry like a maid. He was a knight, and he had to get them to safety. He was holding all that rage and hurt inside of his great body, and Marion wanted to weep anew—for him.
Slowly, he let her slide back down to the ground. “Without horses, it will be a difficult journey, but there is a town within a day’s walk, I think. We shall get new mounts there.” He glanced up at the sky, his eyes narrowing, and Marion followed his gaze. After so much clear weather, they were due for rain, and from the looks of the darkening clouds overhead, it would come soon. With a low oath, he led her into the woods.
They stayed among the trees near the edge of the forest, close enough to the road to keep their bearings, but under cover of the oaks and beeches. They walked along in silence, each brooding over what had happened, each grieving for their dead as they picked their way among the heavy undergrowth.
They had gone perhaps a mile before Marion’s numbness finally wore off. One moment she was moving along, following Dunstan’s long strides with her own smaller steps, and then suddenly, she was on her hands and knees in the dirt, retching.
Of course, there was naught that could rise from her empty stomach, but still she knelt there, heaving and crying until Dunstan crouched beside her. The touch of his hand, awkwardly stroking her brow, made her weep more piteously, for she knew that if not for her, he would not be suffering so.
“My fault,” she gasped. “‘Tis all my fault.”
“Nay.” His voice was low and gruff.
“Yes! They are all dead because of me.”
“Nay,” Dunstan countered, more insistent now, but Marion would not be comforted.
“You do not understand,” she said. “My uncle did it. He killed them all.”
“Stop it!” Dunstan’s hands grasped her shoulders, and she lifted her head to look at the handsome features that were now twisted into a fierce grimace. “Stop this nonsense about your uncle. I know not who murdered my men, but your uncle would have no reason to do the deed. As far as I know, he has done nothing, to you or anyone else. And until you can prove aught else, give me no woman’s prattle about vague dreads!”
“You do not understand,” Marion said softly. She raised her hands to her face, burying her swollen eyes in her palms, trying desperately to regain control of herself. When she finally lifted her head, he was still there, his green eyes intent upon her, his mouth a tight line.
Nothing showed in his face, and yet, she could sense his concern for her. She knew, without seeing it, that something blazed inside of Dunstan de Burgh, something besides grief and anger and frustration. Hope, like some long-forgotten strain of music, threaded its way into her heart. Perhaps, if she told him…
“I remember now,” she said brokenly. “I remember everything.”
* * *
Why should he believe her?
Dunstan had listened to the wren as she sat with head bent, her eyes trained upon the hands folded neatly in her lap while she recounted the miraculous return of her missing memory. And he could not countenance it. By faith, the woman had lied to him time and time again. Why should this new, fantastic tale be any different? And yet something in her calm delivery made him more inclined to trust her—this time.
By faith, he did not need this nonsense! Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck, but the tension there seemed to have moved to his head, making it difficult to concentrate. And concentrate he must, for their very lives depended upon it. For the millionth time, he cursed this wretched errand and the woman he must escort home. His men were murdered, and he could not pursue the killers because he was burdened with a maddening female!
They were alone and defenseless in the middle of nowhere, without even mounts to make an escape. And since his train had been slaughtered by no ordinary robbers, Dunstan had to face the possibility that whoever had done it could be out for more blood. He looked over his shoulder, knowing full well that they might be followed, even now. Although he had a fairly good idea of where they were, he was not certain how far away Wisborough lay. The wren was doing her best, but they were not making good time, and if the rain started…
Dunstan closed his eyes against the throbbing in his temple. He needed to get her safely delivered to Baddersly as soon as possible so that he could go back to Wessex and avenge the deaths of his people. Now, more than ever, he worried about his absence from his holdings. And now, more than ever, he needed to be up and on the move instead of listening to fanciful stories from a troublesome piece of baggage.
“You do not believe me.” The husky tone of her accusation pricked him, and he grunted.
“I will speak to your uncle myself, as soon as we arrive,” he said, neither confirming nor denying her statement.
She rose angrily to her feet, that beautiful mane of dark curls flying about her, and Dunstan was pleased to see the fire in her spark to life again. He did not like it when she knelt upon the ground, weeping and retching. It bothered him at some level that he did not care to explore. And he had enough problems right now without feeling someone else’s pain more acutely than his own.
“You do not understand, Dunstan,” she said, pointing a dainty finger at him. “The man slaughtered my train, and now he has done the same to yours! If you take me there, he will kill me!”
“Show me the proof!” Dunstan growled, resting his hands upon his hips. “What evidence have you that he is responsible for what happened at the camp? Tell me what his arrows look like. I have the one that killed a sentry in my pack, and we shall see whether it matches.”
Marion frowned, her lovely mouth tipping downward, and Dunstan realized he would much rather draw a smile from her than argue. But he had a mission to accomplish and murder to investigate, and he could hardly credit the charges of one foolish female, however appealing she might be.
She poked his mailed chest with her finger. “You are being as stupid and stubborn as the king when faced with your claims about your neighbor. You should know better than any that an enemy may take many guises.”
Dunstan scowled at the mention of the bastard who harried him, and something niggled at his mind, just out of reach. He had no time for further disagreements, however. Reaching out, he grasped her arms tightly and opened his mouth to tell her to cease her prattle, but as soon as he touched her, the words failed him. She was flushed with anger, her cheeks rosy, her dark eyes wide, and her lips were parted slightly. Suddenly, he wanted her so badly that he could taste it.
