When he was mailed and armed, Dunstan slipped out of the hut into the golden glow of late-afternoon sun. The area outside was deserted, the well standing alone, and something akin to panic jerked at his insides. Fighting it, Dunstan forced himself to look carefully for any signs of Marion’s passing.
He had nearly reached the old structure when he saw the hoofprints. Feeling as though someone had just kicked him in the gut, Dunstan dropped to one knee to examine them closely. Horses, several of them, had been here.
Who? And why had they taken Marion? One answer came all too quickly as the memory of her stretched out between her two attackers struck him like a blow. “No!” he growled. Fear for her, along with something else—something deep and vulnerable—assailed him for a moment before he could school himself. He had a job to do, a job entrusted to him by his sire, and by faith, he would not fail.
Pausing only to take up Marion’s meager possessions and his own leather pouch, Dunstan did the only thing that he could do. He gave chase on foot, thankful for the soft, wet earth that gave him an easy trail to follow.
And he blamed himself. As he trotted along the road, Dunstan cursed under his breath, for if he had not been sleeping in the middle of the day, Marion would still be safe. What was the matter with him? Had his soldier’s training deserted him completely because of a satisfying tumble or two?
On second thought, satisfying did not begin to describe what had gone on in the hut. Grim-faced, Dunstan continued on, intent upon his task, but the memory of Marion’s lush body and his response to it haunted him. He had made her tremble and sob and scream, while she…she had wrung him dry, and yet, before long he had been eager as a lad again.
Dunstan’s groin tightened as he recalled the fevered frenzy of their joining. Never before had it been so good for him. Why, he could not say. Perhaps their desperate circumstances gave impetus to their passions, or perhaps the days and nights spent fighting his attraction to her were responsible. Forbidden fruit always seemed to taste sweeter, and, of course, he had no business taking the lady’s maidenhead.
The stab of guilt Dunstan felt was quickly overwhelmed by the heady pride of possession. Whatever her relationship with his brothers, the wren had lain only with him, and that pleased him mightily.Shepleased him mightily. Dunstan had thought to put the lure of her to rest by bedding her, but even after having her twice, he could not deny that he still wanted her—now, more than ever.
Luck was with him, for he reached Wisborough within the hour. It was a small village, tucked under a hillside, but it had a manor house and a squire who attended the horses stabled there for his lord. Dunstan ended up with a costly nag that could never keep up with the beasts he was following, enough food to keep him alive for a while and some information.
“A group of riders came this way this day, with a dark-haired lady. Did you see them?”
“Aye,” the man said slowly. He frowned slightly, obviously intimidated by an armed knight, but trying not to show it, so Dunstan tossed a bit of coin in the air as an added incentive. The fellow’s eyes glinted avariciously. “They came through here. Soldiers from Baddersly, they were,” he said, spitting out the words as if they soured his mouth.
Baddersly? Was he that close to Marion’s home? Dunstan realized that he had lost track of time and distance since the attack on his camp. The gnawing suspicion that Marion had deliberately left him, fleeing without her belongings, died a quick and merciful death, for he knew she would never willingly go home. “Baddersly?” he asked aloud. “How far be it, and how might I reach it, good man?”
The fellow frowned as if talk of the castle ill-pleased him, but his eyes followed the coin that jumped in Dunstan’s palm. “The quickest way lies over that rise,” he said, pointing. “Take the old track behind it, and you shall find Baddersly soon enough. It lies a day’s ride to the east, through the hills.”
Dunstan flipped the coin, and the man reached out quickly to grab it, licking his lips with his good fortune. Then he glanced back at his benefactor, his hairy brows drawn together. “Go you there alone, my lord?”
Nodding, Dunstan mounted up, while the man backed away, shaking his head. As Dunstan spurred the horse to a gallop, he thought he heard the fellow yell, “Watch your back,” but he was already riding away, heading toward the rise and on to the castle beyond.
It did not take Dunstan long to wonder why he was going to Baddersly at all. Marion was on her way home, where she belonged, escorted by her uncle’s guards. Why should he trail after them? His own lands and people needed his attention, and he could ill afford more delays.
But Dunstan knew he could not simply abandon her without assuring himself of her safety. After all, he had naught but a lone villager’s word as to the identity of the men who had taken her. And, knowing Marion as well as he did, Dunstan did not trust her to be a docile traveling companion. What if she escaped them? She might, even now, be lost and alone somewhere among these hills, without even a warm cloak to draw around her.
Dunstan felt a sharp pain in his chest at the thought, and fast on the heels of that grim image came another. What if these soldiers became impatient with her escapades and tied her up…or beat her? Ignoring his past vows to strangle her, Dunstan felt a venomous surge of anger for any who would lay a hand to her.
His thoughts wandered to the bruises he had unthinkingly given her, and Dunstan’s jaw clenched tightly. Would that he find her safe, he would never mark her again. But what of her uncle and his men? Was there any truth to her accusations about Harold Peasely? From the freeman’s expression, Peasely was not well liked, but such fellows were not always the best judge of their betters. Dunstan had a notion to see for himself just what kind of man the uncle was, and he considered staying at Baddersly for a few days, just to relieve his mind.
With a grimace, he rejected the notion. By faith, he had never listened to a woman before, let alone a lying, troublesome wench like Marion Warenne! Dunstan’s eyes narrowed at the knowledge that the wren affected him in a variety of ways, not all of them physical. And yet…
He would stay at Baddersly, but only long enough to assure himself of her welfare. His sire had enjoined him to make sure the lady was safe, and he would do it. It was his duty, and he could not relinquish it in good faith until he saw for himself that Marion was unharmed and ensconced in her home.
And then what? The thought came, unbidden, to tease him, for he could hardly linger long at Baddersly when Wessex and his myriad responsibilities there called to him. What then of the woman who haunted his thoughts and flamed his blood? If he could but bed her one more time, mayhap he could quench his thirst for her, Dunstan decided. Then he forced the wren out of his mind, concentrating instead upon the trail ahead.
He followed it until nightfall, when it disappeared in the darkness. Then he ate some of the provisions he had purchased and rested briefly against a tree, sorely aware of how cold and solitary his bed, compared to the last place he had slept. At dawn, he was off again, cursing the poor beast under him and wishing for his battled-hardened destrier.
Although years of traveling had perfected his patience, Dunstan found that this time the miles dragged by at a frustrating pace. Concern for Marion kept him on edge in an odd way, as if he were fighting a losing war with useless weapons. He was so anxious to find her, he had to curb himself from driving the nag to its death in his impatience.
When the poor beast started puffing and blowing, Dunstan stopped by a small creek to water it. He cupped his hands and drank his fill, then rose to prowl restlessly along the stream’s edge. He pulled out some bread and chewed it absently, but it tasted like dirt in his mouth. By faith, would nothing ease this unfamiliar ache? He sank down on the bank, feeling as though his chest were a bellows from which all the air had been sucked.
He missed her.
It was more than lust, Dunstan admitted. During the past week he had become accustomed to Marion’s presence, and lately, he had grown quite used to touching her often—to keep her from falling, among other things. Her quiet strength, her sometimes foolish, ofttimes clever wit, her gentle pride—all these made up the lady known as Marion. And Dunstan missed them.
When she smiled, revealing those impish dimples, and turned those huge, dark eyes upon him, it seemed as if, somehow, something was right with the world. The knowledge gave him a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach. Telling himself it was hunger, Dunstan finished the rest of his bread with a low growl of annoyance.
But he was in trouble, and he knew it.
* * *
