“I see,” Geoffrey said softly. He laid down his quill and tented his fingers together, eyeing Dunstan carefully. “So you feel nothing for her but a sense of responsibility?”
Dunstan scowled blackly. “Of course, I feel something for her. She is my wife. She will serve me well and give me an heir….”
Suddenly Dunstan went quiet, then he rose from his chair as if his hose were alight. Geoffrey bit his cheeks to keep from howling with laughter. So the Wolf was hot for his wife, was he?
“Enough of her! I have work to do,” Dunstan growled, stalking off with an odd gait.
Clearing his throat, Geoffrey turned his attention back to the columns of figures in front of him. This was too entertaining. By faith, he could not wait to see what happened when Marion returned!
* * *
Marion’s heart pounded so loudly that she was sure Simon would turn around and tell her to quiet it. Well pleased with his new role as Dunstan’s military arm, he was less than thrilled with the duty of escorting her back to Wessex. He had been tense and short with her, but she was used to adapting to the de Burghs and their moods, and, in truth, Simon concerned her little. It was Dunstan who had her in a turmoil.
When Simon had returned and told her in that stony way of his that “of course” Dunstan was all right, Marion had wept with relief. Now, as they approached Wessex, she was unsure of her feelings. Part of her worried still, and she was anxious to see for herself that Dunstan was well. From what Simon said, he had been imprisoned and wounded. Marion knew a desperate need to reassure herself that he was as he should be.
Beyond that, she did not know what lay ahead. If not for Dunstan’s condition, Marion would have balked at joining him at Wessex. She would rather have stayed at Campion, surrounded by a family that loved her, than go to a man who did not to face an uncertain future. Despite her eagerness to see Dunstan, all her doubts about their marriage came rushing back.
By the time they entered the gates, Marion was still and silent with strain. Having soon forgotten her, Simon went off with the new soldiers to see to quartering them, and Marion was left to stand alone before the doors of the old, square keep. She eyed it critically before deciding that she rather liked it. Actually, after the rambling Baddersly and the awe-inspiring Campion, Wessex was rather cozy. Marion smiled. It would be easy to fill this small hall with laughing children….
She stepped inside just in time to hear the Wolf growl angrily. “Where is she?” Dunstan shouted, striding across the rushes with his usual grace and in all his great, handsome glory. Marion blinked rapidly as her love rose and burst forth, sweet and aching in its intensity.
“Marion.”
He saw her. For a moment, she thought he would run to her, but then he seemed to catch himself. Hesitating briefly, he took long, easy steps to stand before her, a huge, dear, looming presence. Tall and broad as an oak, he looked hale and hearty, and Marion knew a swift, sharp relief. She studied his face, but he was difficult to read, and she was unsure whether he was even pleased to see her.
“Marion?” Dunstan seemed to invest the single word with a million questions, but Marion did not know how to answer. Finally, unable to help herself, she lifted a palm to his cheek, to touch him, to prove to herself that he was alive and well. He was warm and firm, the stubble of his beard rough beneath her fingers. “Thank God you are well,” she said softly.
Dunstan crushed her to him so tightly that all her breath escaped. He was not wearing his mail, so she could feel the hard muscles of his chest through her clothing, a delightful warm pressure. As she struggled for breath, he whispered her name over and over in a low voice that awakened all her bodily humors and sent them catapulting through her with dizzying heat.
The bustling hall was forgotten as the magic between them sparked and flamed, and Marion gasped as he swept her off her feet and into his arms. He carried her lightly across the rushes, past servants awaiting an introduction to their new lady, past a startled Geoffrey and up the stairs.
“Dunstan!” she scolded. Paying her no heed, he swung through the doors of his chamber as if the hounds of hell pursued him.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he was upon her, devouring her with his mouth and ravishing her with his hands. His kiss was hot and rough, a mark of possession, but Marion reveled in it and met his tongue with her own, her body burning where he touched her.
He walked to the bed, groaning as he laid her down upon it and spread her hair out about her. His fingers thrust into her bodice, baring her breasts, and then he just stood over her, drinking in the sight of her with green eyes dark and glazed.
Marion licked her swollen lips as she gazed up at him. His great chest was rising and falling rapidly, his breath quick and harsh, and his hands fallen to his sides…. The Wolf’s hands were trembling. She felt dizzy with the force of that knowledge.
“Day of God, Marion, I have to have you now,” he growled. Giving a weak nod of permission, Marion watched as he fumbled with his clothes, freeing his thick, hard length. Then he pushed up her skirts and pulled her to the edge of the bed, burying himself to the root in a primitive claiming that made her cry out her pleasure.
A smug smile appeared briefly on his handsome face, tense with strain, as he muttered, “These walls are thick, Marion. Yell as loud as you are wont.” And she did.
* * *
Dunstan stared down the table with a scowl, his mood black as he contemplated the brothers he had but recently clasped to his bosom. Now, he eyed them with the same suspicious distaste he would feel upon viewing a nest of vipers.
It was allherfault.
He had been of a mind to keep Marion abed in their chamber for the rest of the day—and night—but she had insisted upon coming down to meet his people and greet his brothers. He should have kept her locked in the room forever, chained to his bed, as he had once imagined.
Instead, she was presiding over the table, conversing sweetly with all of them, giving them her smiles and her concern, and he would be damned but that jealousy burned hot within his chest. He had never been the sort to covet a female, having seen them as fairly interchangeable, until now. And Dunstan liked not the feeling.
He knew that she had not lain with any of his brothers. He knew that they had all refused to marry her and that they all supposedly saw her as a sister. And yet he knew that the first man who looked upon her with the slightest interest would suffer his wrath.
Seeing her reach over to touch Geoffrey’s sleeve, Dunstan felt as if his very blood boiled. He pushed aside his trencher, knowing full well that he acted the part of a spoiled child, but unable to help himself. She washis,by faith, and he liked not sharing her with anyone—even his siblings.
Replete with food and drink and flush with victory and the coming of new soldiers, his brothers seemed oblivious to his foul humor. Fighting for Marion’s attention like a pack of favored dogs, they began boasting of their parts in the recapture of Wessex. Watching silently, Dunstan was prepared to brood, but he was soon brought out of his mood by his astonishment at Marion’s skillful handling of the de Burghs.
