“Very well. Simon, I like not letting another man take on a task for me, but you are far more eager for this one than I am. I give you the charge.”
Simon’s head came up, and his eyes lit with a fierce glow that seemed to burn right out of his soul. He smiled, a rare and heartfelt gesture, and Dunstan felt himself grinning in response as he realized the pleasure to be had in giving to one of his own.
Dunstan was doubly rewarded when he glanced at Marion and saw, for the first time since her arrival, that soft, shining look of adoration in her eyes. He felt the warmth of that approving gaze down to his bones. Then she smiled, her dimples peeping out happily, and Dunstan relaxed back against his chair, feeling very well satisfied with himself.
Let poor Simon tramp the countryside mailed and armed and eager for a fight! He would much rather stay right here in the comfort of his own hall and get his wife with child.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Geoffrey?” The sound of Marion’s voice brought Geoffrey’s head out of the accounts, and he saw her standing near the doors with Nicholas, who was awkwardly clutching a huge, empty basket. Dressed in a rose gown that complemented her dark hair, Marion looked even prettier than usual, and Geoffrey had to admit that marriage to the Wolf had certainly added color in her cheeks.
“Would you like to walk with us?” she asked. “I need to gather a supply of healing plants, and Nicholas is kind enough to come along,” she explained, with one of those sunny smiles of hers that encouraged a like response.
“Where is Dunstan?” Geoffrey asked, aware that the Wolf rarely let Marion out of his sight.
“With Reynold and Stephen in the yard, training,” Nicholas said, his wistful expression telling Geoffrey that he would much rather be with his brothers.
Geoffrey hid his amusement and stood. “I see. Well, I think I will join you. I have not walked beyond Wessex’s walls since we arrived.” Stopping only to put on his scabbard, he followed them through the doors of the hall into a day blazing with summer sunshine.
Although he was not especially anxious to watch Marion pick flowers, Geoffrey thought it best to accompany the two on their trek. The Wolf was a bit possessive of his bride, to put it mildly, and might growl and howl if he thought her off alone with one of his brothers, even the youngest of them.
Geoffrey smiled to himself at the change in Dunstan. Once, he could have sworn that his oldest brother had little interest in females, but for the occasional toss. Now, he was rarely separated from his bride, and when he was, he seemed distracted, as if his mind were with her, rather than on his surroundings.
It was vastly entertaining to the de Burghs, who whispered about it among themselves, but dared not tease the object of their amusement. Blood was thick among them, but none had a death wish. And Geoffrey had an idea that taunts to the Wolf about his newfound domesticity would be met with snarling violence.
At the very least, they could put to rest any questions Campion might have about the validity of the wedding; it was obvious that Dunstan’s marriage was a true one. By faith, even Geoffrey had been shocked at the way Dunstan had whisked his bride off to their chamber as soon as she arrived.
They had returned several hours later, looking flushed and sated, only to excuse themselves again not long after the evening meal. Although Dunstan’s claim that his wife must rest after her travels was transparent to everyone present, Marion acquiesced, and if she was embarrassed by her husband’s eagerness, she did not show it.
Since then, the two of them had been going at it like rabbits. From what Geoffrey could gather, the Wolf seemed determined to swive his wife to death. Privately, Geoffrey wondered if that was the only way Dunstan knew to show his affection. The thought worried Geoffrey, for he wanted Marion to be happy, and despite all that lovemaking, she did not seem totally at ease at Wessex.
Obviously, she loved Dunstan. It shone in those huge, soulful eyes of hers, filled to brimming with emotion. Yet Geoffrey sensed that something was not right. There was a constraint between the two, and at times Geoffrey would catch Marion’s face reflecting a sadness that she had never shown at Campion. And Dunstan looked far too frustrated and surly for a man who was spending so much time in bed.
It was puzzling. Geoffrey was struck by the difficulties inherent even in the most caring relationships. When he saw the way Marion looked at Dunstan, he felt a pang, a foolish yearning to know such emotion himself, and yet it seemed that even the best of marriages faced problems that he could not even begin to comprehend.
With a sigh for the vagaries of the human heart, Geoffrey lengthened his stride and followed the others up one of the gentle slopes not far from Wessex’s walls.
The afternoon passed quickly, the three of them talking amiably while Marion searched for plants. Sometimes, she cajoled Geoffrey and Nicholas into helping, often she let them lie in the tall grass along the hills to soak up the heat of the day. The countryside had a wilder look than at Campion, where so much land had been cleared for farming, but Geoffrey liked it. All was quiet, but for the buzzing of bees and the wind in the trees. It was infinitely peaceful.
Until Dunstan arrived.
“Oh—oh,” Nicholas said suddenly, and the tone in his voice made Geoffrey rise on one elbow to look below. He had been chewing on a stalk of grass, and it fell abruptly from his lips when he saw just what had prompted Nicholas’s words.
Dunstan was striding up the hill, his hands fisted at his sides, his face black with fury and his jaw clenched so hard it looked as though it might pop. In an instant, Geoffrey leaped to his feet and the years fell away, making him feel like a boy once more caught in some mischief by his older brother.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” Dunstan growled, just as if they were guilty of some vile transgression. Geoffrey was at a loss to answer, however, for as far as he knew, they had done nothing to rouse Dunstan’s rage. He and Nicholas simply remained stiffly at attention, staring at their brother.
“Dunstan, what a surprise! Have you come to help us?” Marion asked sweetly, and Geoffrey shot a quick glance at her. She was still blithely collecting plants, just as if the Wolf of Wessex were not breathing down their throats with murder in his eyes.
“No,” Dunstan answered, his voice low and menacing. He stood with his feet apart, his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed and a ferocious scowl upon his features. “What do you think you are doing?”
Something in his tone stopped her, and Marion turned toward him, as if finally noticing his mood—a mood that kept Geoffrey and Nicholas warily silent. “Whatever is the matter?”
“The matter! You leave the safety of my walls to dally over the countryside with naught but these two as protection?” Although Geoffrey took umbrage at the implied insult in Dunstan’s words, he said nothing. Past experience had taught him that it was useless to argue with the Wolf.
Dunstan stepped forward, gripping Marion’s arms tightly. “Have you no sense at all? You could have been killed, you little fool! Walter, Peasely and God knows who else would love to catch you out here alone. Have you not seen enough bloodshed to have a care for yourself?”
Geoffrey liked not the way Dunstan grasped Marion, as if ready to shake her forcibly, and, despite his apprehension, he stepped forward. No matter what, he would not let Marion be hurt—even by her husband.
