Even master politician Geoffrey’s abilities paled before her deft maneuvering. When fights broke out, she knew just what to say to ease the tensions. If someone became too full of himself, she burst his bubble with a teasing gibe. If Stephen’s tongue grew too sharp, she reproved him gently, and the black sheep of the family actually acceded to her wishes! Dunstan was stunned.
And, most astonishing of all, she managed to draw out silent Reynold. Everyone was singled out for her praise, even Nicholas, who, she pointed out, was the only one who had known of the secret passage into Wessex. Without him, there would have been no rescue.
Nicholas, beaming with satisfaction, made Dunstan proud when he mentioned that none of them would even be here were it not for Marion. Six pairs of eyes turned toward her then, bright with admiration and affection, and Dunstan felt something inside himself give way grudgingly. They all cared for her, their faces said as much, but Geoffrey was right. They did not lust after her.
The fiery pain of jealousy dwindled to a manageable ache as he watched his brothers all stand and cheer his wife. To his surprise, Dunstan felt a kinship with them that not all the battles in the world could have created. It was born of caring for the same woman—in different ways.
Dunstan rose, too, then, though he said nothing. He simply stared at Marion, his own feelings for her growing within him. Looking at her seated there, small and dainty and dimpling prettily, one would never have guessed that this woman had ridden for days, alone and unarmed, through unfamiliar countryside in order to save his life.
She was truly amazing. All those times she had sought to escape him, Dunstan had thought her foolish and doomed, and yet, she had done it. She had managed. She had gone off all by herself. With a sudden jolt, Dunstan realized that she did not need him.
The knowledge was rather frightening, for if Marion did not want protection, why should she stay with him? Dunstan sat down again with his brothers, in response to Marion’s modest disclaimers, but his attention was no longer on the present.
How would he hold her to him? The lovemaking was one way, for Marion definitely enjoyed her pleasures, and quick on the heels of that thought was the notion of an heir. Yes! He would get her with child quickly, and that would bind her to him more strongly.
Dunstan tamped down the fluttering edges of panic that had him nearly trembling and told himself that she was his, now and always, and yet…Deep inside, he wondered if anything could ever tie to him enough to satisfy him.
“Our sister, Marion!” The de Burghs were calling out endearments to her, along with demands for more ale, Dunstan realized. His own mouth felt dry, but he wanted no more drink. He wanted to take his wife to bed and claim her as his own. Now. He moved closer and tried to catch her eye.
When he did, she leaned close, but instead of whispering something provocative, Marion nodded toward one of his brothers. “See how Simon is whirling his cup between his hands.”
With a lift of his brows, Dunstan showed her just how little Simon’s habits interested him, and she frowned reprovingly. “It means he has something on his mind,” she explained. Dunstan’s next glance expressed his opinion of that notion, and Marion’s frown grew, her expressive mouth curving downward in a lovely imitation of his own scowl. “Ask him,” she said, nudging his side with her elbow.
Suspecting that he would have no peace until he did her bidding, Dunstan sat back and fixed his eyes on his brother, who was, indeed, playing absently with his cup. “So, Simon, what is on your mind?”
“What?” Simon’s face lost its intent cast to startlement. “Oh, I was thinking of…that is, with your permission…” He straightened, his features closed and somber once more. “I would like to take a force to Fitzhugh’s holding and see the state of things there.”
Dunstan stared, stunned by his wife’s perception. By faith, did she truly know his brothers better than he did himself? It would appear so, for she was smiling happily at his surprise. “‘Tis sound thinking. What say you, Dunstan?” she prompted.
Dunstan grimaced. With Fitzhugh dead, he did not think there would be any more trouble from that quarter, but Walter might pose a problem. He could be long gone from the area, or he could be holed up somewhere, preparing to harry the outlying lands just as his master had done.
“It would leave the castle poorly defended, even taking into account the new men our father sent,” Geoffrey pointed out.
Simon glared across the table at his brother. “But what if this Walter should raise a force of his own? And what of Fitzhugh’s daughter? She is well-known for her foul temperament. Will she continue her sire’s war upon us? I would know what goes on outside our borders.” Simon’s hand closed into a fist, and Dunstan realized his younger brother was eager for battle.
“But while you are away, Wessex lies open to attack. Even discounting the threat from Fitzhugh’s brat or his allies, what of Harold Peasely?” Geoffrey asked.
“Peasely?” Dunstan snorted at that. “He has no claim to Marion now.”
“No, but he has known her riches too long to give them up easily. And did he not try to have you murdered? I would not discount him,” Geoffrey argued.
Dunstan weighed his brother’s words carefully. Of them all, Geoffrey was most like their father, strong, but gentle and wise. With rueful candor, Dunstan had to admit that Geoff definitely had received the lion’s share of the de Burgh intelligence, and it would behoove him to listen when sound advice was tendered. Although he did not really think Peasely would attack, he had also been unprepared for Fitzhugh’s cunning. Better to send out a few men than leave the castle unattended.
“Perhaps only a small force should go, enough to scout out the situation,” Dunstan mused. “Even with all the men, we would not have enough to take Fitzhugh’s home, so the size of any group going there would matter little. We will go in peace, in the guise of giving word to the daughter of her father’s death.”
Several brave men flinched at the mention of the Fitzhugh witch, and Dunstan hid his amusement. “I will leave on the morrow,” he concluded.
“But, I—” Simon sputtered, looking both stunned and angry, and Dunstan glanced across the table in surprise, before Marion’s hand closed in soft restraint upon his arm.
“Simon is bored here, Dunstan,” she said. “He has proved that he is a more than capable leader. And did you not say that you were heartily sick of traveling?”
Dunstan scowled. For as long as he could remember, he had done for himself, by himself. It was not easy to relinquish his authority and his responsibility. What if something should go wrong? It went against his nature to let someone else do his job.
He opened his mouth to speak, but he felt the gentle pressure of Marion’s fingers on his arm and closed it. What of his wife? Dunstan thought of leaving her here, surrounded by his brothers, and his chest ached anew. He thought of nights spent without her, on the road again with the fields for a bed, and his will wavered.
“Simon does seem the logical choice, Dunstan,” Geoffrey noted. “Your place is here at Wessex.”
Perhaps Geoffrey was right, Dunstan thought. How much time had he actually spent in residence at his own holding? Too little. He glanced at Marion’s great doe eyes, pleading his brother’s cause, and he grunted.
