“Going somewhere, wren?”
Marion jumped a good foot at the question, which emanated from the base of the tree where Dunstan lounged in the blackness. “I was…just thirsty,” she said. “Where did you put the flagon of water?”
“‘Tis beside you,” he snapped, and Marion noted the underlying anger in his tone. Obviously, he did not believe her. She rooted noisily for the vessel, wondering how she was ever going to get away from him when he seemed never to sleep or let her out of his sight. Taking a long swallow, she put the drink away, and glared at him across the darkness. The man was infuriating.
“Remember, Marion—you have made your last escape from me,” Dunstan said suddenly, his voice harsh with warning.
It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but she had no desire to be trussed up and hauled back to Baddersly on the Wolf’s shoulder. And she would put nothing past Dunstan when he was in one of his moods. Let him think that she heeded him well; then she would do as she pleased.
“Yes, Dunstan,” she said meekly.
He grunted, incredulity evident in the sound, and Marion fought a smile. Apparently, he accepted her agreement, however, for when he spoke again his tone was gentler. “I shall judge myself just what kind of man this uncle of yours may be. You have no need to fear, wren, for I will not let anyone kill you.”
The gruff assurance was a small concession, but Marion’s heart swelled. She loved him so much that she was surprised he could not see it, rising up to overflow her and wash over him in the night. If only he would believe her… If only things were different…
“Now, come. Lie with me,” Dunstan said softly, extending his hand.
Taking his words at face value, Marion made a small sound of startlement as her body responded with a dizzying assent. Although she had only vague ideas of what went on between a man and a woman, she felt helpless to deny such an invitation. The Wolf of Wessex wanted her? Marion leaned forward eagerly, her love for him overriding her modesty, her caution and her good sense.
The hiss of Dunstan’s surprise rang out loudly in the stillness. “Make your bed here beside me, wren, and get some sleep,” he ordered harshly. Disappointment flooded Marion as she realized her mistake. He did not want her to lie with him; he wanted her to lie near him—probably so he could prevent any further escapes. For some reason, the knowledge made the backs of her eyelids prick with pressure.
Of all the foolishness! She had seen enough death and destruction this day to last her a lifetime, and yet she would weep because Dunstan de Burgh was not going to kiss her? Marion smiled crookedly, glad that he could not see her features. It was too dark for that, but she could still make out his arm, reaching toward her.
Gathering up her blanket obediently, Marion inched forward, then hesitated. His hand was still outstretched, waiting, and without a thought about it, Marion stripped off her glove and placed her bare hand in his.
It was wonderful. His fingers were so warm and strong. She had known that, of course, but she could never have guessed at the way his skin would feel against her own—delightfully rough and different, firm but gentle. She wanted to rub her palm against his in a soft caress.
He growled her name, so low and impatiently that it startled her, and Marion lifted her head, trying to see his face in the blackness. He said nothing more, but she could hear his breath, rapid as her own tripping heartbeat. A long minute passed by, and then another.
“Go to sleep,” Dunstan finally ordered gruffly. He released her, and Marion knew a moment’s regret, but she felt good, too. She had touched him, really touched him, her skin to his, and now she could take the memory of it with her when she left. Nestling down beside him as he leaned against the tree, Marion pulled the cover over her and closed her eyes.
Dunstan’s heat reached out to her, and she fought the urge to doze once again in the warm shelter of his body, for she was still determined to escape. After all, the man had to sleep sometime, and when he did, she wanted to be ready. Stifling a great yawn, Marion told herself to stay awake, but before she knew it, her mind was drifting, the image of the Wolf’s hand appearing before her eyes.
Was it only yesterday when she had been shocked at spending the night alone with him? Now, she would willingly go into his arms, if he would but ask her. Smiling, Marion dreamed of kissing the dark hairs that were scattered across his skin, the long fingers that held such strength and the roughened palm that had touched her own.
* * *
The rain woke her. It began dripping down through the leaves around dawn, striking her face until she opened her eyes. Still groggy with sleep, Marion took a few minutes to realize where she was, but when she glanced around, Dunstan was already up, hurriedly preparing for another march. Marion felt like groaning aloud—or throwing something at him.
The prospect of another day of walking filled her with loathing. Her body ached, her feet were blistered, and she longed for nothing more than a soft bed where she could lay her head. Instead, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with the Wolf of Wessex, who, from the looks of him, was even grumpier than usual.
A steady drizzle continued, obscuring the line of the road and forcing them to leave the cover of the trees, which ill suited Dunstan. After a string of low oaths, he said they should reach Wisborough soon, but as every new hill rose and fell before them, Marion began to wonder. And even the promise of approaching a village could not raise her spirits, for each step took them closer to Baddersly.
Although she had not surrendered her hopes for escape, Marion did not know how to get away in the mess that the world had become. She could barely keep her footing on the slick grass and muddy hollows. As the morning wore on, she was soaked to the bone, wet through cloak and gown and shift and skin—wet, tired and miserable.
Knight that he was, Dunstan plodded on as though oblivious to the conditions that tortured her, and his stoic silence added to her frustration. The only time he even acknowledged her existence was when she slipped. Then a strong arm would shoot out to steady her, but gradually those gestures began to resemble impatient tugs rather than chivalrous assistance.
The temper that Marion had only recently discovered in herself began to make itself known, urging her to stomp along in an ungainly manner that could not match the Wolf’s long, graceful strides. Naturally, she slid again, prevented from a tumble into a puddle only by a swift, bone-crunching grip on her elbow.
She shook it off, stopped still right where she was and let the rain pelt her sodden cloak. For a long moment, she stood watching as Dunstan trudged on ahead. Then, suddenly, he turned around to glare at her, a question in his shadowed eyes. Her first thought was that the insufferable man still looked as handsome as ever, even with water matting his dark hair to his head and dripping down his broad cheekbones past that incredible mouth.
Marion’s anger dimmed somewhat as helpless, hopeless love for him welled up in her, but she tried on one of his infamous grimaces and held her ground. “I am surprised, Dunstan de Burgh, that you do not pull out a length of rope, tie me to you and drag me along like chattel.”
His positively blank look told her that he was oblivious to his less than tender treatment of her. Against her will, Marion’s heart melted some more. She had to force her lips into a scowl. “Dunstan, I am a mass of bruises from your rough handling! Despite what you may think of me, I am a woman, and I am not made of leather and stone.”
A long silence followed in which his forest eyes seemed to burn into her. “Believe me, wren,” he finally said, his voice low and rough. “I am well aware that you are a woman.”
His tone made Marion catch her breath, but she told herself not to read anything into it. How often had she imagined that Dunstan de Burgh was noticing her? More times than she could count, and naught, so far, had come from it. She steeled herself against the darkening of his gaze. “Then quit grabbing me!”
