Marion reached down to smooth her gown, as though by that gentle motion, she might ease her aching heart. What use to tell him the truth, for he only scoffed, as she should have known he would? Obviously, the Wolf had not changed very much, after all. She looked down at her hands and then clasped them neatly together before her.
Although she said nothing, Marion could feel his eyes upon her, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, as if he sensed her distress. Still, his exasperation showed in his tone and in his question. “We are talking about life and death, here, Marion, of protecting you from your uncle, and you are worried about love?”
When she glanced up at him, Marion realized that he had on his long-suffering face, the one he wore whenever he thought her foolish. He stepped closer, his speech measured in an apparent attempt to appeal to her better sense. “Marion, love is naught but some silliness concocted by the troubadours. ‘Tis not something known to real men and women, to husbands and wives.”
Marion felt a pang at his words, along with a deep sadness for him—and for herself. How could she convince him? Arguing with the Wolf was a useless enterprise, and yet she had to try. She held her fingers tightly before her, drawing strength and composure from the familiar pose. “Yes, it is, Dunstan, for I know my parents loved each other,” she said, her head bent, her throat thick. “And do not tell me that your father did not love his wives.”
Dunstan hesitated, obviously caught unawares by her statement, and Marion felt emboldened as long as she did not look at him. She went on, recklessly taking the final step, baring her soul in one heedless moment. “I know love exists, Dunstan, because I feel it myself…for you.”
Marion heard his harsh hiss of surprise, and then he was silent for so long that she yearned to take back her confession. When she finally dared peek up at him, she saw something pass across his face, as if he were involved in some inner struggle with himself, before it was gone, subdued by his supreme discipline. His handsome features revealed nothing as he took her hands gently. “All the more reason to marry me, then,” he said, his lips curving in the most pathetic excuse for a smile she had ever seen.
Marion drew back at his attempt to humor her. She had tried to pierce that thick hide of his and failed. Obviously, the Wolf felt nothing for her, and her wrenching admission had won her naught but his contempt. It was no more than she had expected, yet it pained her still. She smoothed out her gown, ostensibly concerned only with each rumple and crease.
“Marion…”
“No,” she said softly.
“Wren…” He whirled away, and in that moment, Marion’s fragile determination shattered. Had he argued further, she would have remained steadfast; had he growled and cursed, she would have been unmoved. But whatever he felt, he did not want her to see it. Perhaps he did not want to see it himself.
Placing his hands upon the back of a settle, he leaned upon it, his great shoulders sagging and his dark head lowered in a pose of defeat she had never expected to see the Wolf assume.
Marion was lost.
Blinking back the tears that threatened, she knew then just how much she loved him—enough to concede her hard-won freedom for now. Perhaps forever.
“All right, Dunstan,” she said.
* * *
True to his word, Dunstan fed her. They stopped at a tavern for hot stew cradled in loaves of bread and then left, taking it with them, for Dunstan had no wish to stay inside for the meal. As a lone knight and a lovely woman, they were conspicuous, and without his men, Dunstan felt too vulnerable to linger, especially when Peasely might still be looking for them.
The stealth did not sit well with Dunstan, a man used to open warfare and honest dealings. He felt naked without his knights, and frustrated, but he could do nothing more to protect Marion and he had no wish to spend his wedding night on the road. Still, he chose a room at a quiet inn near the edge of town, in case a quick departure became necessary. Although he was fairly certain that Peasely would not be searching this far east, he would not gamble his life upon it, or the life of his wife.
Hiswife.There was something strangely satisfying in the knowledge that he possessed the wren. She was his, now and forever, to warm his bed every night, to nurture him in that motherly way of hers, to bestow upon him the light of that smile, complete with dimples….
Dunstan scowled. There had been little enough smiling of late. Although the wren had capitulated, she bore no resemblance to a beaming bride. On the contrary, she had about her an indefinable air of sadness that made her seem even more fragile and small. It was like a mantle of grief, appropriate if he had killed her horse or some such despicable deed, but hardly justified by his noble gesture of marriage.
Her manner pricked at his pride and made him surly, and with each grimace and growl, Dunstan felt her slipping farther away. By faith! Where was the Marion who had pressed him down upon the bank of the stream, pleasuring him with her touch and her mouth? This doe-eyed creature was but a shadow of that woman, and if this was love, he could well live without it!
Dunstan snorted in disgust at the thought. Female foolishness! Courtly songs and poems celebrating this fanciful emotion did naught but make a married woman unhappy with her lot and set her to dreaming of some pasty-faced bard who dripped honeyed phrases over her hand, but could not hold a sword. What good were sweet words? A woman should be content with a decent home, a life free from want and toil and a strong man to protect her.
That was just what he could provide for Marion. Why then was she not happy? Why were women so wretchedly perverse?
Grunting in bafflement, Dunstan glanced toward her. After having eaten in silence and prepared for the night like a doomed woman receiving her last food and rest, Marion lay in the big bed, covers up to her chin, just as though she were a virgin looking forward to a night of ill usage.
Well, he knew better, and so did she, by faith! Dunstan let his mail fall to the floor loudly. She did not flinch, but remained still and silent, in her composed pose, which annoyed him further. He wanted her to smile at him, dimples and all, to beckon to him in her own innocently alluring way, to show some small measure of contentment in their marriage.
She did not. Blowing out the candle, Dunstan quickly shed his garments in the darkness and stepped to the bed. “Have you no welcome for your husband?” he asked. Although her manner sorely plagued him, his body was already responding to the thought of her naked beneath the sheets.His wife.He climbed in beside her and stretched out.
“Yes, I welcome you, Dunstan.” Her voice was soft and sad, irritating him further. He moved atop her, bracing his arms at her sides and sliding his fingers into hers, as if by his own strength, he could bend her to his will.
“I have no honeyed words for you, wife,” he ground out harshly.
“I know that, Dunstan.” Her voice broke, and he thought she might be crying. Day of God, what a wedding night! He felt like rolling from her, but he was already painfully hard. Her soft breasts pressed up into his chest, and he could smell the earthy scent of her hair, like flowers and fresh fields. He wanted her. He had an insidious suspicion that he always would.
“I would give you my protection, and a home and children,” he rasped, his breath coming faster.
“I know.”
