Snuggling closer to his warmth, Marion listened to his breathing slow and even out. Usually Dunstan went to sleep with the promptness of a trained soldier. Sometimes he even snored, but she did not mind. Marion found the strangely intimate sound endearing, especially after what had happened in the hall tonight.
She had been so terrified by the sight of him, covered with blood and staggering…. Marion squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of those long, horrible moments when she thought she might lose him. She had known then that she could never again entertain thoughts of leaving her husband.
No matter what the future held, she would cleave to the Wolf. If he never spoke one word of affection, or learned any tender arts, she was content, for she knew, deep in her heart, that he cared for her. The Wolf might never admit as much, but the evidence was there in his eyes and his gruff behavior—if one knew him well enough to look.
And she did. Dunstan was a man of few words, a man who found it difficult to talk about his feelings, yet he showed her in a myriad tiny ways what was going on inside him. Marion had been slow to realize just how much until her uncle’s hateful words had rung out in the hall. No, she did not believe that she had tamed the Wolf with her money, as Peasely had claimed, for Dunstan was not greedy. But hehadchanged.
Dunstan did seek her out, and he did attend her, and no matter how he might scoff at her romantic notions, his actions were those of a man who cared for his wife. Marion smiled sleepily. She realized that she would always have to pay attention to all the little ways in which the Wolf spoke to her for the rest of their days. And if he never mentioned words of love, she had only to look toward his deeds to find what she sought.
“Wren?” Thinking him asleep, Marion was surprised to feel Dunstan touch her gently. He entwined his large fingers with her smaller ones and brought her palm to his lips in an unusually sweet gesture.
“Hmm?” Marion murmured. She rubbed her thumb against his skin, envisioning in the darkness the hand that she had come to know so well. It was just as beautiful and powerfully stimulating today as the first time she had seen it, the back dusted with his dark hair….
“I love you.” His words were a harsh whisper, startling in their simplicity, and so unexpected that Marion froze for a moment, stunned to hear them spoken aloud.
She felt the foolish pressure of tears, along with a thickness in her throat that forced her to swallow hard before she could reply. “I know,” she said softly. “But ‘tis good to listen to you say it.”
Dunstan grunted then, one of those indecipherable noises that she had come to accept so readily, and Marion closed her eyes again, warm and safe in the knowledge of her husband’s love.
“Wren?” This time his voice held an edge of roughness that hinted at his displeasure.
“Hmm?” Marion answered, rousing herself again from the edge of sleep.
“I would hear you speak of this,” Dunstan said gruffly.
Hiding her wide smile in the darkness, Marion leaned close to kiss his mouth. “I love you, Dunstan de Burgh,” she whispered.
With a growl of satisfaction, the Wolf wrapped one heavy arm around her, anchoring her to him, and soon she heard the slow, even sound of his breathing as he sank into slumber, content.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At dawn, Dunstan rode out to Peasely’s camp with the dead man’s body. He was accompanied by a small guard from Wessex, although he knew they could do little against the larger force if it came to a battle. Most of the de Burghs remained at the castle, manning its defense, but Geoffrey had insisted upon coming, claiming his superior negotiating skills might save Dunstan’s life.
After much argument over the matter, Dunstan had discovered that his quiet, studious brother had a stubborn streak as fierce as the rest of the de Burghs. It soon became apparent that the only way he was going to prevent Geoffrey from coming along was by locking him up, so Dunstan gave way.
He urged his horse forward, trying to ignore the pain of his wound, aggravated by the ride. Suddenly, he longed for nothing more than to be flat on his back in bed, his wife hovering over him with that sweet concern shining in her great doe eyes. He let out a low oath and decided he was getting old.
With a grimace, Dunstan realized he would have more to worry about than a small cut, if Peasely’s men proved difficult. No one had come out to greet them, and the silence of the morn made Dunstan uneasy as they approached the camp. He caught Geoffrey’s eye for a brief moment, and then they topped the slope to view the enemy soldiers.
They were, to a man, dead to the world.
Dunstan was dumbfounded—until he remembered how undisciplined the guard at Baddersly had been, dicing and drinking in the hall. Without Peasely or Goodson, they obviously had done as they pleased, swilling their supplies of ale and bowing to no authority. Not one of them even stood sentry for the rest. Dunstan laughed out loud.
As they were roused and rounded up, some of the soldiers were found to be the worse for a few fights, some had slunk off, and others were too dazed with drink yet to stand. When Dunstan, as their new lord, growled out orders, however, most hastened to obey. Those who did not were either turned out or locked up, depending on how dangerous Dunstan deemed them. The rest swore their loyalty to him and waited to go back to Baddersly.
Not one drop of blood was spilled.
* * *
When Nicholas told her that Dunstan had gone out to treat with Peasely’s men, Marion began sobbing, much to the dismay of the youngest de Burgh. Nicholas was plainly baffled that the same woman who had attacked her uncle so fiercely the night before could be so distraught this morning.
Although he obviously thought she was mourning Peasely’s death, Marion was not. In fact, she felt precious little regret for her uncle’s passing. He had tried to kill her more than once, and now she felt only relief that he would pose no threat to her or her new family.
Her tears were for Dunstan, who had left her bed without a goodbye while she still slept. Marion knew the kind of men her uncle employed, and she would not wish to lose her husband to them. After all that they had been through together—after the Wolf had finally admitted he loved her—what if he was killed out there this morning before his very gates?
A particularly loud sob made Nicholas rush out of the hall in a panic, shouting for Robin, while Marion sank down on a bench to give vent to her fears. She had saved up many a tear during all those years at Baddersly when she had stoically survived with no one to care for and none to care for her. Now she let them flow unheeded down her cheeks, for she had good reason to give in to her worries.
After consultation with an older woman from the village, Marion had discovered just what had turned her into a watering pot of late. Although she had said nothing as yet, she suspected that she was carrying the Wolf’s child, and the thought that the baby might not have a father come evening made her weep more copiously.
