But she did, and she did not cringe. There was nowhere to hide, and nothing to drape over herself, for she knew all her things were soaking wet. If Dunstan wished to see her, there was naught she could do about it. Painfully aware of all her faults, Marion suspected that the Wolf would soon tire of his view, anyway.
In the meantime, Marion became absurdly concerned with her hair drying in its unruly waves. She lifted a hand to her head, but the sharp hiss of the Wolf’s indrawn breath made her drop it back to her side.
He was gazing at her with an fierceness that was nearly frightening. His eyes had darkened in that manner she had come to associate with desire, but Marion sensed it was something stronger than that. He looked…hungry. Uneasiness trickled up her spine, along with a budding excitement. She rubbed her arms warily.
“Day of God, wren. You are beautiful.” The words rushed from his wonderful mouth in a soft torrent, stunning her, for Dunstan spoke little. And Dunstan never lied. “Are you cold?”
Dazed by the compliment, Marion just stared at him. When she did not answer, he put aside her shift and moved toward his leather pouch. To her amazement, he pulled out a cover and threw it across her shoulders.
Released from her trance, Marion found her voice and used it. “Dunstan de Burgh! You had a dry blanket, and you made me stand here with nothing on!” Outraged, she balled a hand into a fist and thumped his chest. It was hard as stone.
Smiling wickedly, Dunstan caught her hand. “In truth, ‘tis only a loan, for we must use it on the bed,” he said with a nod toward the straw mattress. “I would not vouch for the cleanliness of our nest.”
Marion stilled, stunned by the notion that Dunstan planned to take the blanket from her—and by his reference to “our nest.” Were they to share the bed? Surely he did not want to sleep now. Although the hut was dim because of the storm that howled around it, she judged it to be morning still. “But ‘tis broad day!” she protested.
Although Dunstan did not reply, his lips turned up at the corners, and his eyes gleamed like a deep forest, lush and welcoming. Glancing nervously at the narrow bed, Marion stepped back, but he followed, his fingers tightening upon her wrist. She bumped into the hut, and the blanket slipped, exposing her shoulders.
Dunstan stared at them. “I care not for the time,” he said roughly. Even though Marion could move no farther, he came closer, stopping only when his huge body nearly touched her own. Putting a hand to the wall beside her head, he leaned forward and bent his head, that de Burgh hair, darker and richer than sable, falling forward.
“‘Tis time for our reckoning, Marion,” he whispered. He loomed over her, so big, so beautiful and so assured that she could only stare up at him wide-eyed. “I have wanted you ever since you fell out of that tree into my arms. You have bewitched me, wren, just as surely as you did my brothers, and I can resist you no more. Enchantress…”
Alarmed by his speech, Marion felt compelled to protest. “I am no enchantress, Dunstan!” she said. “I am but a simple female—short, rather plain and past marriageable age.”
“Tell that to my brothers,” Dunstan replied with sudden ferocity, his eyes glinting brightly.
“Your brothers think upon me as a sister!” Marion cried.
Smiling in a manner that told her that, as usual, he did not quite believe her, Dunstan released her wrist and lifted his hand to her shoulder. Extending one finger, he ran it slowly along the edge of the blanket, across her arm and over the uppermost curve of her chest. The blanket drifted slightly, and Marion drew in a breath, then watched in fascination as his dark skin slid across hers again. His finger made its way over the swelling of one breast, then the other, before it slipped underneath the fabric.
Marion shivered.
“Ah, yes. Tremble for me, wren,” Dunstan said, his face suddenly dark with passion. “I want you trembling beneath me as I fill you.” His eyes took on a feral gleam, his lips parting slightly as if he could already taste his prey, and Marion realized that whatever he wanted, she could not gainsay him.
Whether a convent or death or exile awaited her, what use to keep her maiden’s virtue? She loved Dunstan de Burgh with every breath of her body, and whether sinful or no, she would take this chance to know him as a woman. Any moment now she might wake up to find this all a dream, a frenzied fantasy brought on by the long, wet march and her love for the man before her. Why not glory in it?
Marion was disinclined to let go of this vision without savoring each moment. Gathering her courage, she reached out and laid her palm against the soft matting of hair upon his chest.
The Wolf growled a low sound of encouragement as his hand moved into her hair to drag her face to his. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deep and hot, in a kiss that acknowledged her surrender. Between them, the blanket slipped from her lifeless fingers, and their naked bodies came together.
It was incredible. The same wild, drowning sensation that Dunstan had conjured out in the rain, rushed through her, and Marion welcomed it. She lifted her arms and circled his neck, enjoying the strange feel of her bare breasts pressing into his hard chest. His hands ran down her back, closed over her buttocks and then lifted her to meet him.
Marion felt the floor drop away and the dizzying pressure of his manhood as he fitted her to him at the same time that he deepened his kiss, his mouth hot and open upon hers, devouring her. She had no idea how long she clung to him breathlessly, adrift in a maelstrom of passion, but eventually she became aware that Dunstan was lifting her legs to his hips. Then, he slid an arm around her and bent, with amazing ease, to pick up the blanket.
Still holding her, Dunstan tossed the material over the straw and fell onto the mattress. With a gasp, Marion took some of his great weight before he settled himself over her. Then he was upon her, his heat torching her skin, his callused palms running over her as his lips reclaimed hers. He cupped her breasts, kneading and lifting, rubbing the nipples with his thumbs until Marion whimpered and shivered.
“Ah, wren. Ah, yes,” Dunstan muttered before his hand moved lower, caressing her thighs and closing tightly around her buttocks. Blinking up at him, Marion saw that his handsome face looked dark and fierce in the dim glow of the fire. It gleamed off a lock of drying hair that fell across his cheek, and her blood sang in her ears at the sight of him, beautiful and untamed.
When he touched her between her legs, Marion flinched at the contact, but he murmured a rough assurance in her ear. “Yes, wren, I must… Ah, God, you are already wet.” And it was true, though where the moisture came from, Marion had no idea. It was there, and he was spreading it on her, stroking her with his great, callused hand. Who would ever have imagined such a thing? As if of their own accord, Marion’s hips lifted to his questing touch, and then one of his large, long fingers slipped inside her.
Marion gasped at the bizarre intimacy. He probed her, and she let him, but just as she was becoming accustomed to the foreign presence, Dunstan removed it and settled himself between her thighs. With a shock, she realized that he was guiding himself into her now, and she was dizzy with a mixture of shock and forbidden pleasure.
To think of Dunstan de Burgh inside her body. It was as startling as it was seductive, and then he was entering her, huge and hard, and Marion felt too full of him. She cried out, and he stopped his uncomfortable progress. His breath was a harsh rhythm above her, his face taut, his eyes closed. Had she done something wrong? She had no idea how to ease this increasingly painful union.
“Ah, Marion, Marion,” he said, his voice catching oddly. “You are a maid.”
“Of course,” she murmured, confused by his words.
“Ah, God, I did not…” Dunstan sucked in air in a low hiss. “I must go deeper, wren,” he muttered, and she realized that he was gritting his teeth, as if he, too, were suffering.
