When she dared look up, Marion saw that they all gaped, mouths hanging open in their handsome faces until the earl spoke again. “Congratulations, my dear.”
Overcome with sudden shyness, Marion looked down at her lap. “I did not want to wed him, but he thought it best, to save me from my uncle.”
“But it was a true wedding, before a priest?” Campion asked.
Marion nodded.
“And it was consummated?”
Lifting her startled wide eyes to the earl’s, Marion blushed scarlet and nodded painfully. If he only knew of the beddings that took placebeforethe ceremony…
The smile that slowly eased across Campion’s face made her realize just how attractive the earl was, despite his years, and where his sons had come by their own rough charm. He looked positively wicked as he rose and clapped her on the back. “Well, then, welcome to the family!”
* * *
Dunstan stared into the darkness, concentrating intently, and identified the sound with a groan. Dripping. Dripping water. It must be raining, and when it rained heavily, the dungeons flooded. Tilting his head back, he prayed for sunshine, though he would not see it where he sat, trapped in a bare stone cage little better than a hole.
Of course, he had planned to completely dig out the lower levels and rid himself of the flooding problem when he had the funds, but, like so much at Wessex, it had gone wanting for lack of monies. And now he was reaping the harvest of his delay, for he was locked in his own dungeon, a place so cold and dark and dank and fetid that he would loath use it for animals, let alone a human being.
The dripping grew louder now that Dunstan was aware of it, and he shut out the noise the only way he knew how: he closed his eyes and thought of Marion. His wife. Of kissing her, touching her and claiming her as his own. And he cursed himself for being so driven to return to Wessex that he had reined in his passion those last few days with her, instead of riding her often and well.
Now, he had only the imaginings. But Dunstan took what he could from them, dreaming of how he would pleasure her until she screamed in that high, breathless way of hers, and how she would wring him dry, as no woman ever had before. And then he thought of simply holding her, warm and soft against him, and her fragrance, like wildflowers, weaving round him. Her smile. Those dimples.
He slept.
* * *
Dunstan had lost all track of time. After Walter had tossed him in the dungeon, he had remained there, forgotten, for what seemed like a day or two, growing light-headed from the lack of food or drink. Then, finally they had come for him, dragging him before Fitzhugh—in chains, no less. He had felt like an animal, but remembering his blood, he stood tall, in his father’s image.
A small, thin man of indeterminate years, Fitzhugh preened like a peacock, trying to look distinguished in his elegant finery. He was not pleased by Dunstan’s show of dignity, and ordered Walter to beat the “de Burgh arrogance” from his hide. And so Dunstan had been clubbed, right there in his own hall, the frightened eyes of his former people peering from the shadows to watch.
When Walter struck him with a gauntleted fist, Dunstan held firm against the taste of his own blood on his lips—and the frustrated need to fight back. He took the blows to his arms and legs without flinching, too, though he wondered just how far Walter would go. A broken bone or misplaced joint could mean a long, painful death…. And then Dunstan was hit in the gut, and he doubled over, sucking air desperately into his starved lungs, unable to rise.
Finally satisfied, Fitzhugh had laughed and clapped his bony hands—and had sent Dunstan back to his black hole. That had been yesterday or the day before, Dunstan was not sure exactly, and now he lay in the dark again, his body screaming its protest. He marked the time, waiting to be dragged above for his next performance, eating the scraps of food that were tossed his way, and listening to the water creep up below.
Except right now there was another noise, a clanging that signaled the arrival of someone from above. Dunstan opened his eyes, poised, as always, to take whatever opportunity might present itself. Although chained to the wall and drained of his strength, he still had his wits about him.
“Dunstan?”
The furtive whisper brought his head up swiftly. Who was there, one of his men? Dunstan had thought them all killed, captured or sworn to Fitzhugh. A light bobbed in the darkness, and he called out softly.
“Here.”
“Dunstan! Thank God!” At the sound of that voice, Dunstan jerked away from the wall, clanking his bindings in strained disbelief. Surely, it could not be…and yet the figure that appeared before him was his brother Geoffrey. Or was it? Ever wary, Dunstan wondered if he were lost in some hazy vision brought on by pain and deprivation, or worse, some trickery of Fitzhugh’s. But, if so, why Geoffrey?
“Geoff?”
“Dunstan! Mother of God!” Upon seeing him, Geoffrey’s face washed white in the torch’s flame, and Dunstan realized that he must look like death, lying there locked to the wall, bruised and bloody and stained with filth. Geoffrey’s shocked gasp rang out in the stony space, and then he fumbled for a key. “Hang on, brother, I have the key.”
“Geoff?”
“Aye. ‘Tis me, Dunstan,” he murmured, his features strained as he removed the shackles. Groaning with relief, Dunstan rubbed his wrists and let his brother help him to his feet, but he found standing nearly more than he could manage and swayed precariously.
“Hang on to me,” Geoffrey urged. And Dunstan did, slinging an arm around his younger brother’s wide shoulders. When had scholarly Geoffrey filled out to become strong and broad enough to carry his weight? Dunstan shook his head, as if to clear it, still uncertain whether he moved in a dream or reality.
In the low, dank corridor, they were met by others, and a whispered conference ensued. Although he did not hear all of it, Dunstan’s ears pricked up when Geoffrey said, “Let me take him back out the passage. He is in no condition—”
“Halt there, Geoff,” Dunstan broke in. Just because he was not up to his usual self, he was not about to let his intellectual brother coddle him like a babe. “This is my castle.”
