Thunder reverberated with a ferocity that seemed to shake the very earth, and Marion looked up at the Wolf’s handsome face. His jaw was clenched, his features set with an intensity she had never seen, and she wondered if the warring elements were but a pale echo of what raged between the two of them. She fought back a shudder of anxiety.
The hut looked deserted, and the plot of land beside it overgrown. Marion caught a glimpse of an old well, and then she was whisked inside, where a rotting stack of wood stood in a corner near a blackened fireplace, promising warmth, and a straw bed took up half of the space. Although it smelled dank and musty, the place was relatively clean, and, more important, it was dry. At one time, Marion might have protested such a tiny, dusty and smelly abode, but right now, anything with a roof seemed like heaven.
“Abandoned,” Dunstan muttered. Then he flashed her a genuine, one-of-a-kind smile that made her grateful that he still carried her. Otherwise, she was certain her bones would have dissolved at the sight of those fine, white teeth, displayed so wickedly. He let her down slowly, sliding her against his body in an exotic motion that threatened her ability to stand, but when she tested her legs, she was astounded to find that they could support her.
Leaving her with a burning look, Dunstan knelt to make a fire, and, suddenly cold without him, Marion rubbed her arms futilely as water dripped from her to the thirsty packed earth below.
“You had better get out of those wet clothes,” he said over his shoulder. “We will lay them out as best we can here to dry.” He was right, of course; the sodden material was already chilling her. And yet the idea of removing her gown in the presence of Dunstan de Burgh was dismaying, to say the least, especially in the closeness of the hut. Even the new Marion could not do it.
With a sigh, she struggled out of her clinging cloak and hung it on a rough spot in the wall. Although she immediately felt lighter, her gown was still hanging on her heavily, its damp folds pressing into her and making the drafts in the croft bite more sharply.
Hearing the welcome hiss of wood catching, Marion turned toward the promise of a blaze. Instead of greeting it readily, however, she froze where she stood, a small shocked noise escaping her tightened throat.
Apparently, Dunstan moved much faster than she, for he had already hung up his cloak and his tunic. His sword and his mail were set aside, and as Marion watched in stunned surprise, he calmly removed his braies.
The sight of the his broad back, gleaming with moisture, and his buttocks below, narrow and steely, made her sway on her feet. Pressing hands to her scalded cheeks, she gasped in alarm when he turned to face her, and the sound became a strangled moan as the Wolf of Wessex stood before her totally, utterly naked.
For long moments, Marion could only stare at his gigantic male body. She had never seen so much skin in her life. It stretched taut over bulging muscles, glistened with the remnants of the downpour and puckered in places where fiendish-looking scars marked him. His shoulders alone were massive, his chest, too. It was incredibly wide and covered with dark hair that trailed down to his groin, where his man part lay in a thicket.
As Marion gaped, astonished, it rose up, growing before her eyes, as if gifted with a life of its own, until it was huge and erect. Mercy! Her gaze flew to his face, and she saw that smile that was not quite a smile, lifting the corners of Dunstan’s mouth while his eyes darkened ominously.
No little afraid of the look in those eyes, and of the bare form of the man who possessed them, Marion backed away until she was pressed against the side of the hut and leaned into it, grateful for support. With difficulty, she found her voice.
“Dunstan! What are you about?” she squeaked.
“I was about getting myself warm and dry,” he answered in a low, rough voice, “until you distracted me, wren.” Totally unashamed of his nudity, Dunstan put his hands on his narrow hips and assessed her slowly, his gaze glinting hotly over every inch of her in a way that made her burn with an answering fire.
“And I guess I shall have to take you in hand so that you may do the same.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marion found herself staring at the moist whorl of hair on Dunstan’s massive chest, which led downward, inexorably, to the dark thatch at his thighs and the huge member that was rooted there. Breathless and weak, she wrenched her gaze up to his face, only to find his eyes gleaming with a feral light, his lips curved in a wicked smile.
He reminded her forcibly of a wolf contemplating its prey.
He took a step forward. Shaking her head, Marion tried to back away but she felt the rough wall of the hut behind her. “I cannot undress here…with you,” she choked.
“Then I shall have to do it for you,” he said, grinning at her in that smug de Burgh manner that she had come to know so well from his brothers. He took another step, moving perilously close in the small confines of the hut.
“No!” Marion shifted aside. She looked around frantically, knowing that there was nowhere to go, nowhere on earth that the Wolf could not find her, and then she felt a strange sense of resignation. To run was ridiculous, to argue futile. Dunstan had stripped her of choices; she did not wish him to take her clothes, as well. “I shall do it.”
“Good,” he said simply. As if to give her the strength to begin, he turned away and knelt to feed the budding fire. Marion noticed how the glow cast his smooth, muscled body in gold and she was forced to admit that he was more beautiful than any man had the right to be. Although Marion knew she had no business admiring him, she could not help it. Her mind told her to glance away; her body had other ideas.
It leaned forward as if reaching for him of its own accord. Her breasts grew taut, her nipples hard as they strained against the wet linen of her shift. The sodden heaviness of her clothes, a miserable nuisance only moments before, now seemed an exotic weight, rubbing and clinging to her flesh. Abruptly she wondered how it would feel to run her fingers down the contours of his back. A sound escaped her, of shame or torment or desire, she was not quite sure. His eyes flicked up to her.
“Well?” The word held a wealth of impatience, and Marion hurried to keep the Wolf at bay. Turning around, she fumbled clumsily with her bodice, fingers shaking. She pulled at her gown, tugging at the wet material helplessly until it was whisked over her head with sudden ease. Whirling, she found Dunstan standing only a handbreadth from her, his eyes alive with green fire, his mouth wearing that smile that was not a smile, his chest so close she could reach out and touch it—if she dared.
“Dunstan…please…” she whispered, uncomfortable with the proximity of his naked body, yet, paradoxically, wanting him nearer.
“Do you need more help?” he asked, his normally husky voice even deeper and rougher than usual. Although Marion shook her head slowly, he knelt before her and put his hand on her leg.
Mercy! When his fingers brushed against the bare flesh at the top of her hose, Marion nearly jumped. Although she was astonished by his boldness, Dunstan bent to his task as if it were not a shocking intimacy. After rolling down the wet material, his callused hands slid down her calf, lifted her foot and ran over her toes.
It was such a simple thing really, a kindly service that one person would perform for another, Marion told herself, and yet she found her knees growing weak. Although Dunstan’s movements were measured and controlled, she sensed the intensity in him. It was there, just below the civilized surface…waiting. Dizzily, Marion wondered if he would again unleash the beast that she had seen outside, fierce and plundering. And if he did, would she recoil or rejoice?
Just when Marion thought she might collapse from the heady thrill of his touch, Dunstan straightened slowly, his hands skimming to the hem of her shift. “No! Not that, too!” she cried. In embarrassed panic, Marion struggled to hold on to it, but her paltry efforts were useless. In an instant, her arms were lifted over her head and her only covering was gone. She was naked, and Dunstan, clutching her undergarment in his hand, was staring at her.
It was not so much the lack of clothing that disturbed her, for she was used to sleeping nude, as was the norm. However, it was one thing to crawl between the sheets in this state; it was quite another to stand before a man in nothing but her flesh.
