Heaving a great sigh of regret, Marion finally wiggled free of his embrace. She sat up on their makeshift bed and looked down at him, still deep in slumber, and her heart swelled with yearning. Without his perpetual scowl, his handsome face was softer, his lips gently curved in repose. His dark lashes were long and thick, a perfect compliment to the dark de Burgh hair that fell across his forehead.
If only she could stay.
Perhaps she would remain just long enough to eat, Marion considered. After all, there was no sense in running off into the wilds and starving to death. And she was thirsty, too. Climbing out of the cozy bower where Dunstan de Burgh had taught her the meaning of passion, she looked around the small, dim hut.
She needed a bath. Standing, Marion realized how sticky and sore she was. Mayhap she would stay long enough to wash. With a slow smile she remembered the well, and dressing in her dry clothes, she grabbed up a bucket by the fireplace and opened the door.
The afternoon was as sparkling and bright as a newly minted coin, and Marion blinked in the sunlight. All around her the wet grass gleamed, and the air itself smelled fresh and clean. Was it only a coincidence that the gloominess of the past few days had vanished in the sweet consummation of her love? With a giddiness she had not known since girlhood, Marion ran across the shining green carpet to her destination.
She was busy trying to lower the bucket when the sound of hoofbeats froze her in her spot. She stood silently, her hand upon the rope while she glanced around, realizing all too quickly that there was no place to hide. The hut was set in what had obviously been a clearing, and both it and the nearest grove of trees were too far away for her to reach running.
Letting the bucket fall, Marion slowly turned, memories of mounted marauders flashing vividly in her mind. Should she scream? Would Dunstan hear her? Counting six riders, she clamped her mouth shut, for even the Wolf could do nothing against that many men. Her fear shifted its focus to Dunstan then, and Marion silently willed him to continue his slumber, for worse than anything that might happen to her was the thought that he might be cut down, like the Miller boys, before her eyes.
It never crossed her mind that the riders could be harmless or lost or fellow travelers; Marion had learned to expect the worst. And as if to confirm her beliefs, the worst appeared in front of her as she spotted the black and gold colors that marked the riders as her uncle’s men.
They had come for her at last. Panic nearly blinded her, but Marion sucked in deep breaths, trying to think, to scheme, to lose the dazed contentment that had clouded her sharp mind.
Bryan Goodson, the head of her uncle’s guard, rode at the lead, and when Marion recognized him, her very heart stilled. Half-formed plans to brazen out the meeting by posing as a peasant wench died a quick death, for Goodson would know her, even dressed as she was in wrinkled and stained clothing, her hair loose and tangled.
She was lost.
Perhaps it was best this way, Marion thought a bit wildly. She would not have to suffer any sad goodbyes or strained words with Dunstan; she would take only the glory of the past few hours with her. She sought it out, clutching it tightly as she turned to face them and retreated deep within herself.
“Lady Warenne!” She heard the shocked surprise in Goodson’s voice and saw the thinly veiled disdain for her appearance. How well her uncle had turned them all against her! “What are you about? How came you here?”
“My escort was slain,” Marion said, her eyes narrowing. Or do you know that only too well, Goodson? Did you kill them all? she wondered, her throat tightening as she choked back the unformed words.
Marion waited, wondering if he intended to finish his bloody job right now and murder her where she stood. A small part of her longed for a swift end, but that tenacious flame that had begun burning inside her at Campion would not go out. It urged her to practice deceit and regain her freedom. “And how is it that you are here on this road, heading toward Baddersly?” she asked.
“We were sent out to meet your party, but finding the carnage back there, we feared you were…dead, and turned around,” Goodson said slowly. “How did you escape the slaughter? Are you alone?” he asked, his sharp glance raking the area and lighting upon the hut.
Marion’s heart stopped in her chest. Dunstan! She could not trust her uncle’s men with the life of the Wolf. Her own fate abruptly faded in significance at the thought of her love cut down, the heat stolen from his great, beautiful body.
“Yes. I am alone,” she lied, looking Goodson directly in the eye. “I was attending to myself in the woods when the attack came, and I hid myself away until it was long over. Everyone was dead. Even the horses were gone. So I began walking. What else could I do?” She waved a hand in the air. “I took shelter here from the storm.”
Staring up at the head of the guard, Marion read no guilt in his face, and for the first time since regaining her memory, she knew some doubt. Goodson did not look like a man who had but recently missed finding her corpse. But, if her uncle was not responsible for the raid upon Dunstan’s camp, then who was? And for what purpose?
Marion knew she had no time to waste in such contemplation. At any moment, Dunstan might waken and charge out of the hut to be killed by her uncle’s men. Perhaps they would not attack him, but she could not take that chance. She was familiar with Goodson and his ilk; they knew no honor, no rules but their own. She had heard dark rumors of torture and innocent blood spilled by their hands. Marion would not risk the Wolf.
“You are to be commended, Goodson. No doubt you have saved my life, for I could not have gone on much longer, alone and afraid, prey to all manner of beast and ruffian,” she said, lowering her head in a submissive pose. “I am sure my uncle will reward you greatly.”
Peeking up at him from under her lashes, Marion caught the flash of Goodson’s ugly smile. Her words had the desired effect, for he lost all interest in his surroundings, puffed out his chest and barked an order to his men. Perhaps he had not been sent to kill her after all, Marion mused, for why then would he be so pleased to take her home?
Marion had no time to pursue the thought, for she was soon riding pillion behind a surly-looking fellow who smelled of the strong drink that her uncle’s men favored. The stench, so unlike Dunstan’s appealing scent, made her dizzy, and she struggled for the rigid control she had learned so well in her uncle’s household.
She found it deep within herself, and, staring straight ahead at the foul guard in front of her, did not blink as the horses wheeled around and struck for the road to Baddersly. Her uncle and, surely, her death waited ahead, but she did not flinch.
She did not even glance back at the small hut that held all that she loved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Something woke him. Dunstan tensed and eased his eyes open, alert for danger, but nothing threatened. He was alone in an empty hut with a cold fire and the fading scent of woman lingering in the air. Marion! Jerking upright, Dunstan leaped from the cot, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Day of God, the wench had bolted again! Dunstan reached for his clothes, the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth. The knowledge that she had fled, after all that had passed between them, came perilously close to hurting him. Thrusting that odd ache firmly aside, Dunstan nurtured his anger instead. This time, by faith, he would throttle her. He would beat her soundly. Nay, he would strangle her with his bare hands!
Dunstan had yanked on his braies and his tunic before he noticed that Marion’s cloak still hung by the fire. Turning swiftly, he saw her pouch lying on the floor where she had left it, and unease traveled up his spine as he rushed toward it. He pulled out a soggy blanket and clothing, some personal items and a small bag that held…jewels. Surely, the wren would not leave without these?
His anxiety increasing, Dunstan surveyed the rest of the tiny space. The bucket, too, was missing, so he told himself she was probably only fetching some water. But no sounds came from outside and he could not shake the feeling that something was not right.
