Taming The Wolf

Taming The Wolf

Deborah Simmons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my own brother, Robert W. Smith

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Prologue

England 1270

The sound of approaching riders made Marion freeze, her hands still upon the reins and colder than the autumn winds that whipped against her cloak. Although they were nearly two days gone from Baddersly Castle, she still feared pursuit from her uncle and his soldiers. When both he and his steward were away, she had made her escape, ostensibly to go on a pilgrimage, but even a journey taken in the Lord’s name would ill please Harold Peasely. He would track her down, and when he found her...Marion shuddered at the thought.

If only she could reach the convent, she would have sanctuary, for even her uncle could not touch her there. She could live a selfless, holy existence, locked inside the walls safe from harm, with a group of women who would be a family to her—because she would never have one of her own.

Marion swallowed thickly at the cost of her asylum. Once she had entertained dreams of a husband and children, but her uncle had no intention of giving over his wardship of her lands and wealth to another man. He had kept her hidden away, subject to his wild tempers and so often alone....

With a piercing glance, Marion focused her attention on the oncoming travelers, relaxing slightly when she saw that they did not wear her uncle’s colors. Closer inspection revealed that they were a dangerous-looking, ill-kept group, however, and Marion worried anew.

Although the Church proclaimed that pilgrims were not to be harmed, assassins and outlaws roamed the roads, and the group of young serfs and freedmen Marion had hired to accompany her were poor protection. Little more than boys, the Miller brothers might wield clubs, but they would be no match for armed brigands.

As if to confirm her worst fears, the men ahead suddenly spurred toward them, thundering forward on great horses and raising cruel weapons. Marion gasped as they smote the leader of her train, John Miller, with one mighty blow. Her palfrey balked, and beside her, her servant, Enid, screamed wildly, drawing the attention of one of the attackers, a bearded giant who was soon looming over them. Before Marion could draw a breath, the fellow dragged the shrieking Enid from her seat.

Marion’s heart contracted in horror, and for a moment she simply stared, immobile, as the man pawed at her servant. Then, forcing her limbs to action, she drew her small dagger with calm deliberation. She moved as if in a dream, the world about her seemingly slowed, the clank of weapons and the screams of her companions fading to a low buzz, while she urged her mount toward the fiend who held Enid.

Marion knew she must aim her blade at his heart, and she poised to strike, but years of submission to those bigger and stronger stilled her hand and she remained motionless as the nightmare unfolded around her.

Finally, it was too late. The brute saw her. Laughing at the sight of her puny knife, he lifted an arm to knock her aside like a pesky fly. Marion fell to the ground below, landing hard on her back, the wind knocked from her and her head spinning and spinning....

Chapter One

Campion. Marion drew in a breath at the sight of the massive stone walls, rising high in the air and marching majestically into the distance. Its myriad towers looked so fine, so great and strong, that a tingle of apprehension ran along her spine. What awaited her here?

Anxiously, Marion glanced toward the dark-haired knights who led the train, and she felt her tension ease. Over the past weeks of travel, she had grown to trust the men who had found her in the roadway. But then, she had little choice in the matter, for they were all she knew.

She remembered nothing else.

It was because of her head injury. Geoffrey, the learned one, said that sometimes a blow to the brain could steal one’s memory, and she had to believe him, for she knew naught of herself or her past. All that had happened before the de Burgh brothers appeared in her life was a vast, empty—and rather chilling—void.

Although she lived and breathed and walked and talked, it was eerie, this lack of history. Hearing the song of a bird, she could easily identify it as a sparrow. She could even recall a recipe for roasting the creatures, but how and when she had learned the ingredients escaped her. Her past was a blank.

They called her Marion. It meant naught to her, but they had found the name inscribed in what they thought was her psalter. They said that she was a lady, and only a lady would have such possessions as they discovered—fine clothes, a mirror, books, coins and jewelry. Then they took her with them, for they did not know who she was, and were in a hurry to return home.

“Come, lady!” Geoffrey called. Obviously happy to have finally reached his destination, he urged her on, through the outer bailey and inner bailey toward massive doors, flung open in welcome. He helped her dismount quickly, and Marion smiled at his eagerness as he led her inside. Although a knight, Geoffrey was a gentle, scholarly man, and she liked him readily.

Then Marion looked around, and her eyes widened in wonder at the enormous hall, the like of which she could swear she had never seen before. Light poured in through the tall, arched windows set high in the walls, and chairs and settles were scattered among the benches as evidence of the de Burgh fortune.

It was very impressive—and very dirty. Marion tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of overripe food, stale rushes and dogs, which the chill air could not dispel. Even with her faulty wit, she could tell that Campion was in need of a chatelaine.

The thought made Marion pause, while tiny prickles trickled up the back of her neck, along with a sense of discovery. She could do it. She knew it with utter certainty, and with that certainty came a swell of longing and excitement. Not only could she do it, but she would do it well and find happiness in the task.

“Ho! Simon! Geoffrey!” Suddenly, there was such a din that Marion nearly covered her ears. The party was set upon by various large dogs, barking their heads off, followed closely by several large, dark-haired men, shouting even louder. She stepped back as the giants joined the equally big Geoffrey and Simon and jostled and hugged and swung at them in what she hoped was a friendly fashion.

They all seemed to talk at once in shouts and grunts while she watched, amazed by the affection apparent beneath all the gruff bellowing. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, the noise ceased and all turned to face an approaching figure.

He was not as tall, or nearly as broad as his sons, but Marion immediately guessed that the man who drew near was their father, the earl of Campion. His hair was still as dark as theirs except where it was streaked with silver. His face was more gaunt, his mouth less generous, but the resemblance was there, marking him as an attractive man, despite his years.

Marion watched him closely, her eyes flicking away only to gauge the reaction of others to his presence. Though a patriarch and a nobleman, he did not appear to be a cruel lord and master, nor did he seem full of his own importance. He moved very gracefully, with a dignity that commanded respect, not through brute force but through wisdom, and Marion felt the tightness that had settled in her chest ease at the sight of him.

Although Campion was obviously above the kind of boisterous behavior of the others, he was nonetheless pleased to see his sons. It was evident in his smile and in his voice when he spoke their names. “Simon, Geoffrey,” he said, his tone low and rough with the measure of his affection. And then, while Marion looked on in astonishment, the elegant earl opened his arms and loosely clasped the towering body of the mail-clad Simon.

Marion’s longing returned in a rush, more piercing this time. Had she ever been part of such a family? She watched, fascinated, as the earl did the same with Geoffrey. Then, suddenly, Campion’s attention was upon her. His brows lifted a fraction in polite curiosity, and she nodded her greeting before bending her head, anxiety curling in her breast.

“Sir, we came upon a pack of thieves attacking the Lady Marion’s train,” Geoffrey explained. “Although we dispatched them, we were not in time to save her injury. She was thrown into the roadway and now knows not her own name. All of her people were either slain or fled in fright, so we have offered her our protection until she might regain her...health.”

“My lady,” Campion said, bowing slightly in a formal salute. “We shall be pleased to have you with us. It has been too long since a damsel has graced our hall. I am Campion, and these are my sons,” he said, lifting a hand to take in the group.

“You have met Simon and Geoffrey. May I introduce Stephen,” he said, and another de Burgh stepped forward, this one with a lock of the familiar dark hair hanging loosely over his forehead. He had a different air about him than Simon or Geoffrey, a careless attitude that did not seem to fit Campion’s line.

“My lady,” Stephen said. He flashed white teeth in a mocking grin, and she decided he was too handsome for his own good.

“Robin, my lady.” A man of about twenty years spoke this time. His hair was a shade lighter than the rest, and his friendliness was genuine, as if he were paying court to her. Marion nodded her greeting with pleasure.

“Reynold.” More gaunt than the others and walking with a stiff gait, as though one leg pained him, came Reynold. Although he appeared to be younger than Robin, he seemed angry and bitter beyond his years. He did not return her smile.

“And, finally, Nicholas.” At the earl’s words, no one stepped forward, and Campion repeated the name with just a hint of exasperation. Marion almost laughed aloud then as the youngest de Burgh bounded toward her. He was probably no more than fourteen, a softer, smaller version of his brothers.

“Yes, sir?”

“Please meet our guest,” Campion directed with a nod toward Marion.

“Greetings!” Nicholas said, eyeing her up and down with the eager curiosity of the young. She could see that he was bubbling over with questions for her, but apparently his father also recognized the signs, for he quickly forestalled the interrogation with a reproving look.

Campion then glanced around the hall. “Wilda,” he called. Although he did not raise his voice, a young servant girl was soon at his elbow.

“Yes, my lord?” She spoke respectfully, yet with a sincerity that caught Marion’s attention. She realized that even the servants went about their work with pride here at Campion. It was a situation that struck Marion as oddly unusual, but she could not say why.

“This lady will be staying with us,” Campion said. “Please show her to a room with a hearth, and send something up from the kitchens for her. ‘Tis late, and she will wish to seek her rest after the long journey.”

“Yes, my lord.” Wilda nodded warmly, the casually given welcome touching Marion to the bone. Although she realized that she had been graciously dismissed, Marion could not leave yet. Ignoring the urge to scurry away, she turned to face the earl.

“My lord, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality. I promise you that you shall not regret it,” Marion said. Then she did hurry after Wilda, before he could change his mind about letting her stay.

She had seen little enough of the castle and its inhabitants, but Marion liked what she saw. Although big and gruff, the de Burgh brothers were handsome and appealing, their father was gentle and kind, and his people were happy. It seemed to Marion’s dazed senses that the very walls reached out to her in welcome.

Already, Campion seemed like home.

* * *

“Come, I have ordered some food and drink for you two,” the earl said to his returning sons.

“And me, too, sir!” Nicholas said.

Campion smiled at his youngest. “For all of us, then.”

Although supper had been cleared away, he sent a servant for bread, cheese, apples and ale. Once these were brought and they were all seated at the high table, Campion nodded toward Simon to speak. He listened intently as his warrior son reported on his trip south to collect monies from a recalcitrant tenant.

“Then, on the way home, when we were hurrying against winter’s winds, we came across a small band being attacked by murderous thieves. We killed the devils, but some of our men were injured in the skirmish,” Simon said.

“The odd thing is, the ruffians were not your usual bandits. They fought very well, like trained soldiers,” Geoffrey put in, “and on fine horseflesh, far better than you would expect such men to own.”

Simon snorted his dispute. “They fought to the death, as the bastards will when cornered, ‘tis all.”

The earl glanced back at Geoffrey, but the boy said nothing further, deferring instead to his brother, as usual. It was not Geoffrey’s way to argue, and yet Campion knew that his scholarly son was probably speaking the truth. Geoffrey might not be as bold as Simon, but he noticed things. He sat back, watched, assessed and made his plans accordingly. That was his strength, and that was why Campion often sent him to accompany his more single-minded brother.

“Some members of the attacked train fled into the woods,” Simon said with a scowl of contempt. “They appeared to be youths hardly fit for working in the fields, let alone escorting a female of any consequence. The only remaining survivor was the woman. When we revived her, she could not tell us who she was, nor did she or the caravan have any colors or clues to identify them.”

Geoffrey spoke up again. “‘Tis plain she is a lady, sir, by the quality of her clothes and by her bearing and speech. I talked with her at length on the road, and she is well educated. She can read and write and has some knowledge of accounts, too.”

“And yet she does not remember her own name?” Campion asked.

“No, sir,” Geoffrey said. Campion held his gaze for a moment, a silent question passing between them, but Geoffrey did not flinch. Without putting the query into words, Campion knew his son believed the woman spoke the truth. Campion then glanced at Simon, to get his opinion, but the older brother obviously did not think the lady worthy of further conversation. He was already fiddling with his scabbard, impatient to be off.

“And who christened her? You?” Stephen asked, laughing at his own jest. Campion shot him a look and did not miss the replenished wine cup in his hands. Stephen was becoming difficult.

“We have called her Marion,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Stephen’s contemptuous chuckling, “for we found the name in one of her books.”

“Oh! And are you smitten with her, brother?” Stephen taunted.

“Geoffrey’s in love!” Nicholas shouted. A round of jeering followed that announcement, and Campion let it play itself out. He could tell with one glance at Geoffrey’s disgusted expression that his son had no interest in the girl other than compassion.

“No?” Stephen said. “Then perhaps ‘tis our Simon who has felt Cupid’s prick?” There was some laughter at Stephen’s play on words. Lord, he was a clever boy. If only he would use it to advantage, instead of wasting it. “Our good brother likes his women short and well rounded, I see!”

Suddenly, the room quieted as Simon shot to his feet. “Wish you a fight?” he growled, looming over Stephen, who leaned back against the wall in a casual pose.

“Lord, no,” Stephen replied. He affected a yawn. “It has been positively peaceful without you about—crowing like a cock at the veriest whim.”

“That is enough,” Campion said. “Simon, sit down. And Stephen, you will be kind enough to keep a civil tongue in your head concerning our guest.” Stephen’s penchant for finding fault with anything and everything was beginning to annoy his father. The girl might not be breathtaking, but she was pretty in an arresting way.

If Stephen could have seen past the current fashion for boyish figures and golden ladies, he might have noticed that the unruly brown curls framing her heart-shaped face would be a riot of thick locks when freed. He might have noted that her skin, although not as ghostly white as some, was pale and pure, and that those great dark eyes could hold their own against another’s of brighter hue.

Campion kept his thoughts to himself, however, having no wish to watch his sons battling one another for the favor of their visitor. Let them ignore her comeliness, but he would not have them treat her rudely, and the look he gave them made that clear.

After a long, threatening moment, Simon sat down, sending a scowl at his black-sheep brother, who grinned shamelessly. One day, Stephen would get his deserts, Campion thought to himself with a flash of premonition, then he focused his attention on the matter at hand. “We shall continue to call her Marion,” he said. “Now, tell me where you found her. Perhaps she was only going to a village or visiting amongst her neighbors.”

“Nay, sir,” Geoffrey said. “A cart held supplies for a long journey, perhaps a pilgrimage.” He paused, as if uncertain how much to say, and then continued on determinedly. “I wanted to go back along the road and ask about her, but Simon...did not feel the issue warranted a delay.”

Campion nodded, but said nothing. Geoffrey’s words held no censure, but Campion knew that the two must have been at odds over the fate of the lady. Simon had no use for women and would have put the return of his company before the mystery of a lone female. And who was to say he was wrong? Perhaps, if they had probed the area, they could have returned her safely to her home. Perhaps not. And with the unpredictable weather and poor state of the roads to contend with, Campion hesitated to second-guess Simon.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It could not hurt to discover who lives in the area and to send out inquiries, but with winter nigh, I am not certain how much success we shall have. Ask the lady for something of her own, something identifiable—a piece of her jewelry, perhaps—and we shall send it along with a messenger to court.”

Campion sighed softly, his decision made, and put his palms on the table. “Until we discover her identity, however, the lady shall stay with us and shall be treated as such,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the circle of his sons.

He noted, with chagrin, that the members of this womanless household did not look very well pleased by his verdict. Only Nicholas seemed intrigued by the idea of a visiting female, and Campion could see a wealth of problems in the youth’s healthy curiosity. Simon and Reynold looked positively dour, Robin and Stephen rather amused, and Geoffrey somewhat pained. He obviously was feeling sorry for the poor girl.

Campion, on the other hand, had no fears for the lady. Though small, she looked strong enough to withstand much—even the fierce pack of de Burghs—without flinching. There was more to the mysterious Marion than met the eye, he would swear to it. He remembered her huge eyes, soft as a doe’s, and he sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Perhaps, he wondered, smiling himself...perhaps she might even tame the wolves to her hand.

* * *

What beautiful beasts, Marion thought, admiring her own handiwork. It had taken her all winter, but she had finally finished the tapestry last week, and now it brightened the great hall with its bold colors.

It was her own design, a rendering of eight wolves—the de Burgh device—rampant across a field of green, with Campion Castle rising behind them. Of course, the work had been greeted with much humor by the brothers, who taunted Nicholas for being depicted as the runt of the litter and complained loudly about being turned into creatures of various hues. The only de Burghs who did not voice their disapproval were the earl, who was as polite as always, and his eldest son, Dunstan, who did not live at Campion.

For the past week, the hall had been filled with mock howling that would have deafened another woman, but Marion was undisturbed. She took in stride Simon’s grunts, Stephen’s baiting, Robin’s tricks, Reynold’s sharp words, and Nicholas’s curiosity, for they were like brothers to her now.

Seated by the fire with some sewing, Marion mused on her good fortune. A total stranger, without name or fortune or family, she had been taken in by the de Burghs and accepted. She now served as chatelaine in almost every capacity, and the joy of purpose in her life was heady. But Campion and his handsome, dark-haired sons had given her more than a home and a position—they had given her their grudging affection. That was what made her smile and kept the smile upon her face so much that they teased her unmercifully about it.

Startled from her pleasant thoughts by the sound of the great doors banging open, Marion looked up, the needle still in her hand, to see a giant of a man stride into the hall. He was dressed as a knight and accompanied by others similarly garbed, though none was quite as imposing as the man who led them.

Mercy, but the fellow was huge, Marion thought. He looked to be even bigger than the de Burghs, who towered over everyone at Campion. Who was he? He walked into the hall as if he owned it, arrogance apparent in every step.

Suddenly, Marion felt an odd sensation of recognition. There was something familiar about that gait, strong but graceful, and yet it was like none she had ever seen before. While she watched, trying to place the massive warrior, he lifted his helm to shake out a head of dark hair that gave away his identity in an instant.

Dunstan.

For a moment, Marion remained in her seat, studying him with blatant interest. Although the family often spoke of Campion’s firstborn, he lived at his own holding and Marion had never seen him before. She began to stare openly as her curiosity gave way to admiration. Although a good distance from him, she could see his features plainly enough. But no one, no one could ever use the word plain in association with Dunstan.

The eldest de Burgh was the handsomest man Marion had ever seen. He was huge, taller and broader even than Simon, and wore his heavy mail with ease. He looked like a predator, dark menace emanating from his formidable form, but Marion did not shy from the sight. In fact, she was surprised to find her heart increasing its pace, for the first time in her short memory, at a pair of wide male shoulders and muscular legs.

But that was not all that stirred her. The hair that fell to his shoulders was nearly the color of a raven’s wing; his face was broad, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm, and his lips...they were neither too full nor too thin, but just right. She gaped.

Oh, Marion knew the de Burghs were a glorious group of specimens, with their thick hair and striking features, but the others had never affected her in this way. They were men, and they were dear to her, but Dunstan rose above his brothers like cream to the top of the crock.