Words did not come easily to him, and knowing that, Marion was well pleased with his speech. She smiled at him, her love for the Wolf threatening to spill out of her, for he was, indeed, a different beast than he once had been. “Thank you,” she said.
“Thankyou,my wife,” he said gruffly. Marion began to wonder if she had earned his respect at last. How ironic that she should prove herself in what had begun as an attempt to escape him. Praise God that Dunstan would never know that small truth! He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him, and she saw something in his face for a fleeting moment that stole her breath. “It seems that I am well served in our marriage,” he said.
Then it was gone, and he rose to put out the fire, leaving Marion to gape after him, uncertain how to respond. Was he being sarcastic or serious? Did he make reference to her own discontent, which, she knew, tried him sorely? Or was he, truly, satisfied?
Too confused to reply, Marion said nothing, and when it became apparent that Dunstan was not going to elaborate, she rose and washed her hands in the nearby stream. When she returned, Dunstan was seated, his back against a tree, his knees bent before him. His concentration was focused on an arrow that he held between his hands, and he turned it slowly while he studied it.
As she watched, Marion realized it was not any shaft, but the one he had taken from the sentry’s body at their ill-fated camp. Having carried it south to Baddersly, he kept it still. Marion made some noise at the discovery, and he looked up at her, a question on his handsome features. Seeing her distress, he said simply, “We know not who came upon us last night.”
“No,” Marion agreed, after a brief hesitation. She had related the overheard conversation to him already, and though she assumed the men under their window to have been sent by her uncle, nothing in their speech had given away their identity. She sighed softly. “Mayhap everyone in the world is out to do us murder.”
Dunstan smiled grimly. “It seems that way, does it not, wren?” He gazed down at the missile, running it through his fingers and examining the fletch. Then, as if suddenly seized by an idea, he leaned forward and sniffed it. His eyes narrowed, and his features grew taut and troubled at the scent, but before Marion could ask him what that meant, he put it to his mouth and tasted it. She stared, astonished, as Dunstan’s jaw clenched and his handsome face became more hard and set than she had ever seen it.
“What is it?” she managed to squeak.
Glancing up at her, Dunstan appeared strangely distant for a moment, as though he did not know her. Then he hefted the weapon in his hand. “This arrow was made with hide glue, not a fish-based substance,” he explained. At her blank look, he added, “‘Tis more expensive and not widely employed, but I know someone who uses naught else.”
“Who?” Marion asked, half fearful of the answer.
“My neighbor, Fitzhugh.” He hissed the name like an obscenity, and Marion blanched. She had heard Dunstan speak of the man before, as an enemy of Wessex, but why would Fitzhugh slaughter their train? Dunstan had been on an errand for Campion, escorting a woman south to her home. What business would Fitzhugh have with them?
“But surely our camp was too far from your holdings to attract this man’s attention,” Marion protested. “Why would Fitzhugh follow you so far?”
Even she was startled by the black hatred that passed over the Wolf’s face, reminding her what a ferocious warrior he would be when roused.
“Why?” he asked, in a tone heavy with bitterness. His eyes met hers over the tip of the arrow he now clutched in a death hold. “I would give you an answer in one word, Marion—murder.”
Marion drew in a sharp breath at his reply. He had spoken of Fitzhugh as harrying his people and his lands, but cold-blooded murder? “Why?” she asked again.
Dunstan laughed, a harsh, sickening sound. “Because he covets Wessex. Because it meets his own property, he has thought of it as his own for many a year. I have heard that he was enraged when Edward awarded it to me. Yet he knows that he has no true claim to it, so he cannot obtain it through legal means.”
Marion went still as his meaning dawned on her. “He thinks to gain it by killing you?”
“Greed drives a man to many things, wren,” he said. His tone gentled when he added, “As your uncle has proved.”
“Yes,” Marion admitted. She frowned, a pale copy of Dunstan’s own scowl. “‘Tis the same thing, is it not? He would murder me for what I have, as Fitzhugh would you.”
“Yes,” Dunstan agreed, his mouth a grim line. “‘Twould seem we have too many enemies, my wife, and too few friends.”
Marion lifted her head, taking umbrage at that. “No. That is not true. We have your father, a powerful earl, and your six brothers, good men all, to aid us. Methinks they are worth more than any friends.”
Dunstan’s hard lips softened a bit. “Perhaps, wren, but we must reach them first.”
“We go to Campion, then?” Although Marion could not contain her pleasure at the thought of seeing the earl and his sons again, she immediately regretted it, for Dunstan shot her a strange look, fraught with possessive fire.
“No. We go to Wessex.” He spoke in a challenging tone, as if he expected her to argue, but Marion did not. She hid her disappointment smoothly, unwilling to rouse the Wolf further.
“To Wessex, then,” she agreed, though she longed for familiar faces.
“Yes, let us go to Wessex,” Dunstan said, his face suddenly pensive. “But let us go warily, wren. Warily.”
* * *
Warily was the watchword, for they stayed away from the roads and wound their way through woods and countryside until Marion had no idea where they might be. The long days of travel were tiring, and when at night they fell asleep, they were often too weary even to join together on their haphazard beds.
Although some part of Marion missed that hot passion, another was glad for the respite. She could not think clearly when Dunstan touched her, setting ablaze whatever raged between them, and she refused to let lust rule her mind. She had temporarily set aside her discontent, and his temper seemed to have eased, but a constraint still existed in their marriage. Underneath the surface of their polite behavior were the same conflicts, untended and unresolved.
Marion was of a mind that these concerns could wait until they were safely somewhere—at Campion or Wessex or even Baddersly, if her uncle be routed. Then, she would address them and decide upon a course for her future. It was a determination she did not mind putting off for the moment.
