“Where is she?” he hissed, without preliminaries.
“Hush, my lord.” The woman’s voice was strained with fear, her eyes darting like a cornered hare’s. “She is locked in her room in the south tower, the second window up.” Dunstan glanced around, picking the tower out of the night, but before he could ask how the devil he was supposed to breach it, the old woman had disappeared, seeming to fade into the very stones.
Biting back an oath, Dunstan surveyed the bailey. It was quiet but for the occasional bark of a dog or tramp of a sentry. Then, suddenly, the hall door opened, spilling light out around the entrance, and Dunstan flattened himself against the wall.
Two men stepped forward, one tall and lean, the other shorter and burlier, and Dunstan recognized both of them as Peasely’s. “Where is he?” asked the tall one in a hushed, angry voice.
“Halfway to Campion, if he’s smart,” answered the shorter fellow in a low drawl, thick with drink. Dunstan’s eyes narrowed as he realized they discussed him, and his instincts screamed afoul. Were it not for the old woman, he would have been headed toward the gate. What mischief would these two plan behind his back?
“Be still!” the tall one ordered. “Where is Aylmer?”
“Asleep. He has watch later.”
“Good. At least he will be sober. Wake him. Take Aylmer and find our guest,” the tall one said. “And make sure he never reaches his father.”
Dunstan heard the guttural laugh of the burly fellow. “And how shall we do that, Goodson?”
Although he could see naught but figures from where he hid, Dunstan could swear he heard a smile in the tall one’s voice. “The roads can be so treacherous at night, especially for one lone man. Brigands and the like would find our visitor easy prey,” he answered. “See that they do.”
The door closed, taking the light with it, and Dunstan loosed a low breath, harsh with fury. So they meant to murder him, did they? Perhaps they would find him not such an easy mark. He had half a mind to lie in wait for them and slit their throats, but he had more important business waiting. With the speed and silence of a battle-hardened warrior, Dunstan moved among the shadows until he stood below a square tower at the southern end of the building.
Was this where Marion was being held? He glanced upward, discerning the darker outline of a window, and higher, another. Although it was narrow, Dunstan suspected he could fit himself through, if only he could reach it. Clenching his jaw in frustration, he looked about him and then back to the hall. Most of Peasely’s men seemed to be drinking and dicing, oblivious to a stranger in their midst, but just how lax were they? Stealthily, Dunstan moved toward the next building, intending to find out for himself.
* * *
Marion sat hugging herself in the darkness, wondering just how much time she had. All during the long ride home she had tried to think of a way to escape, but Goodson and his men kept a close watch upon her. He was her uncle’s minion, hard and lean and cold as driving sleet, and he knew, more than Dunstan had ever dreamed, just how much she did not want to return to Baddersly.
There had been no opportunity on the way home, nor had there been a chance since her arrival, for her uncle had taken one look at her and had her locked away. How long would he keep her here? Marion froze in horror when she considered that he could starve her to death. But no. She would find a way out before then. She had escaped before, and she would do it again.
If only she were not so tired; she could barely think properly. The old fears that had been so much a part of her life at Baddersly crept back insidiously, and a keening grief at the loss of Dunstan waited to overwhelm her if she would but let it.
Just when her mind threatened to break, a silent and stiff Fenella brought her bathwater and some food, and Marion bathed and dressed in clean clothes. That small luxury revived her, and hunger forced her to eat, even though she wondered if each bite was laced with poison.
When no summons came from her uncle, Marion lay down upon the bed, fully dressed, intending to form a plan of escape, but her mind was soon crowded with thoughts of her long dead parents, the de Burgh brothers and Dunstan. At least he was alive and away from here, safe and well, she thought, taking her only comfort in that before she drifted into a restless slumber.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Disturbed by a noise, Marion awoke with a start, fear coursing through her as she remembered who she was and where she slept. Her first thought was that her uncle was at the door, ready to slip in and murder her in her bed, but then she heard it again, the rasping of metal against stone. She froze, her body immobile but for wide eyes that turned in the direction of the grating sound. In the utter darkness of her room, she found the lighter midnight of her window. Was something hanging over the sill?
Although she wanted to close her eyes and remain where she was, Marion knew that she could hardly lie prone, waiting for a possible attack. Forcing herself to move, she rose as silently as a wraith and crept along the wall toward the opening. Her heart thudded in her ears, threatening to deafen her when she realized that a pickax was slung through the open shutters. As Marion watched, it jerked, embedding itself more firmly, and she saw that a rope was tied securely around it, taut and swaying as if…
Marion stifled a gasp as a huge shape filled the window. Stiff with horror, she frantically glanced about for something to use against the intruder. Whoever managed to scale the smooth side of the tower could only mean to do her ill, she knew, and yet when she looked into the shadowed face of her assassin, she felt dizzy and uncertain.
“Marion?” The sound of that voice, calling her as if from her dreams, made her tremble so violently that her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, convinced that she had finally lost her mind. For how couldhebe here?
“Marion!” A soft thump announced that he was inside her room, and then he was kneeling before her, his deep tones husky with concern. Mad she might be, but she flung herself into his embrace in the hope that he was real.
“Dunstan!” Wrapping her arms around his neck, Marion buried her face against his throat. Warm and throbbing with his pulse beat, it proclaimed that he was no vision, but a living, breathing man. His scent, familiar and potent, surrounded her, along with his terrific heat, and she pressed her lips to his skin, tasting the salt there. He made an incoherent sound, took her face in his huge hands and kissed the very soul from her.
The Wolf was devouring her again, and Marion welcomed it, meeting his thrusting tongue with her own and twining her fingers in his long locks to tug him closer. Love for him surged through her, driving away all else—her heartache, her fear and whatever modesty she still possessed.
In some inner recess of her mind, Marion realized that she would happily mate with him upon the cold stone floor, so glad was she to see him again. She had thought never to look upon his beloved face, and yet here he was, bursting into her room and her world, a huge, vital presence, greater than ever.
When he broke the kiss, Marion clung to him so that he took her up with him as he rose to his feet. “Come, wren,” he murmured, setting her forcibly from him. “We do not have much time. Your uncle’s men are looking for me.”
Why was he here? Where was he taking her? Endless questions leaped to her tongue, but Marion bit them back, for now was not the time to talk. As she watched in amazement, Dunstan slung a leg through the window in one graceful movement, gripped the rope that hung from the ax and lowered himself outside.
He beckoned her from his airy perch, but Marion remained where she was, her feet firmly planted on the floor. Although the bailey was lost in blackness below, she knew just how far up they were, and the knowledge was not comforting.
