Taming The Wolf

Although he looked to be hard, even more of a soldier than Simon, his face held none of his younger brother’s tautness, and his mouth, even pulled tight, looked warm and beckoning.... Mercy! Marion lifted a hand to her throat, for she had never before looked at a man and felt the ground give way beneath her feet.

As if drawn by her perusal, he suddenly looked toward her, and Marion realized just how much she had been neglecting her duties. She shot to her feet, forgetting the handwork in her lap, which promptly fell to the floor. “Arthur!” she called to a passing servant in a shaken voice. “Some wine and food for my lord Dunstan.” Then she stooped to retrieve her materials, flustered as she had never been before and all too conscious of her own clumsiness.

She was even more dismayed when a mail-clad knee appeared in front of her. With something akin to amazement, she raised her head to find the object of her admiration before her, holding out the fallen thread. Silently, breathlessly, Marion looked at his hand for a long moment. He had removed his gauntlet, and she gawked at his flesh as if she had never seen such before. And, truly, she had never noticed how appealing such a simple appendage could be.

For one so big, his fingers were neither stubby nor meaty, but long and relatively slender. They were callused and rough, as befitted a warrior, but they held the object gracefully in a light grasp. Marion’s attention shifted to the dark hairs sprinkled on the back of the hand, and she felt herself blushing, as if she were glimpsing some intimate part of his great body, and her heart thudded wildly. Her gaze fled to his face.

He was not really smiling because the corners of his lovely mouth were not curved upward, but it was not a frown, either. It seemed to tease her, that mouth of his, and the sight of his lips this near to her made Marion tingle all over, as if she had just been dropped, shivering, into a hot bath. She lifted her eyes to his.

“They are green!” she murmured, with pleased surprise.

“What?” His voice was a deep one, befitting his size, and had a husky sound to it that made Marion tingle all the more.

“Your eyes. They are different from your brothers’. I always wished for green eyes, instead of plain brown,” she explained. And no ordinary green were Dunstan’s, but the color of the deepest, darkest forest, shrouded in mystery...and promise.

He looked confused. Thrusting the thread at her, he straightened and gave her a peremptory look. “Who are you?”

“Marion,” she answered simply, rising to her feet. When they both stood at full height, she had to lean back her head to look at him.

“Marion, who?” he asked a trifle churlishly.

“I have no other name,” she answered softly. And then she smiled at him. It was easy to do, for he was a beautiful man—even when he was studying her suspiciously, as he was now.

“And you are a visitor to Campion?”

“A guest,” Marion corrected, for a visit implied eventual departure, and she had no intention of leaving.

She watched him slant a glance at the servant, who returned to set out ale and food upon the high table for Dunstan’s men. She nodded her thanks to Arthur, who then withdrew, and turned to find Dunstan’s curious gaze upon her again. “When did you come to Campion?” he asked.

Marion smiled even wider. Did he think she had done away with his father and six brothers? Usurped someone’s position here? Exceeded some unwritten authority on guest behavior? “Nigh on six months ago, my lord. ‘Tis hard for me to believe that I have seen you not. Can it be you did not attend to your lord father for such a time?”

Marion saw a spark of annoyance in his eyes and noted that he was not a one to be teased. “My own lands keep me busy, lady,” he said brusquely. “If you will excuse me.” With a dismissive nod, he turned to join his men, and Marion stifled an urge to reach out and tug on his sleeve. She wanted to call him back, to hold him to her side, but she realized, unfortunately, that whatever earth-shaking thing was between them, it was obviously one-sided. Dunstan did not seem the slightest bit interested in her, beyond normal inquisitiveness.

And why should he? Marion asked herself. She was no court beauty, no sophisticated lady, or even a fresh, young thing in her first flowering. She was short, unremarkable and past marriageable age. For the first time since her arrival at Campion, Marion did not feel at home.

She went back to her sewing and tried to concentrate upon its intricate design rather than the exact hue of Dunstan de Burgh’s eyes, but she kept sneaking surreptitious glances at him. Since he was seated far away at the high table and surrounded by his men, all she could see was a pair of broad shoulders and a mane of dark hair, but it was enough...or too much, depending upon one’s outlook, Marion thought gloomily.

She had often longed to meet Campion’s heir, but now that he was here, she found herself wishing for his speedy departure. She was too old to begin harboring the girlish fancies that his appearance seemed to inspire. Sometimes she wondered if there had ever been a man in her life, but afraid to truly look into her past, she could only rely on her senses. And they told her that there had never been anyone like Dunstan de Burgh.

A sudden burst of noise heralded the entrance of Dunstan’s younger brothers, and Marion felt her errant smile return. They rushed to greet their sibling with a loud volley of rather dubious exchanges: grunts from Simon, insults from Stephen, compliments from Geoffrey, and jests from Robin. Campion followed his sons in at a more stately pace, but he had no reservations about pulling his towering heir into a rough embrace. “‘Tis good to see you,” Marion heard him say, and then they all talked at once.

Listening absently, Marion waited for a formal introduction, but it did not come. The men held a low conversation and then filed up the stairs, presumably to the solar, for a private conference.

What was it about? Marion did not like the urgency of their meeting, nor could she imagine the reason for such grim manners. Was there a threat to Campion? Although the castle seemed impregnable, war was always a possibility, and she did not want to imagine the de Burghs going off to battle.

Moving closer to the fire to ward off a chill, Marion realized that for the first time since entering the safety of Campion’s walls, she felt uneasy, a prickly sense of dread disturbing the hairs upon her neck. Whether it denoted danger to herself or to her newfound family, Marion did not know, but she had to fight an urge to rush to the solar and throw herself into someone’s arms...preferably Dunstan’s.

Chapter Two

Looking up from the papers that had been delivered to him, Campion leaned back and sighed, his heart heavy with their contents. It had been a long and bitter winter with little activity, but the queries he had sent out months ago had borne fruit, and now... Now he wished they had not.

The earl regretted those simple actions, taken before the snows, but it was too late to call them back now. He was well aware that a man often set in motion events that traveled beyond his control, and such had been the case in the autumn when he had asked after a lost lady with no memory.

Reaching a decision, Campion laid his hands upon his knees and surveyed his sons. He felt pride at the sight of them gathered around him in the solar. It had been some time since they had met together. Was it last summer, or had it been spring the last time he had had the pleasure of seeing them all before him?

Campion was glad that the court courier had traveled first to Wessex, with messages for Dunstan. Otherwise, his firstborn might never have come. He felt a small measure of doubt as he wondered if there might be another reason for Dunstan’s visit. Campion was unsure, for his eldest son had become distant and close-mouthed ever since taking over his own holdings.

He is a grown man, keeping his own counsel, Campion noted with a mixture of respect and loss. Although his sons had their faults, they were good men, decent, well educated and capable. The matter at hand returned swiftly to mind, and he hoped that he could depend upon one of them to do what was right.

“It seems we have a problem,” he said without preamble. “You may remember that after Lady Marion arrived, I sent a ring belonging to her to court with the hope that someone there might identify it.” Campion paused, noting, with approval, that he had their undivided attention.

“It was recognized by one Harold Peasely, who claims the ring belongs to his niece, Marion Warenne. The lady, who owns quite a bit of land to the south, has been missing since she undertook a pilgrimage in the fall. Peasely is her guardian, and he wants her back—immediately.”

Campion looked about, assessing the reaction of his audience. Some faces, such as Reynold’s, were taut and grim, while others showed anger and dismay. Good. Obviously, none of his sons wanted the girl to leave. Now, if only he could convince them to keep her here....

“But why does Marion not remember this?” Simon asked sharply. “When we found her in the roadway she knew nothing, and she still claims not to know her own name.”

Campion rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I do not think the lady wants to be restored to her former life,” he answered slowly. “She has always seemed distressed by efforts to help her remember. I would speculate that she is happier here.” Campion saw Robin nod in agreement, while the others released sighs, grunts and mutters as they mulled over that pronouncement.

“If she does not wish to return, do not send her back,” Stephen said with a casual gesture that belied his concern.

“Unfortunately, we are in a rather awkward position,” Campion said. “This Peasely has threatened to bring a force of arms against us if we do not return Marion to her home at once.”

Robin whistled and shook his head.

“I would like to see him try to take Campion,” Simon snarled.

“Who the devil is he?” Reynold asked.

“He is a minor landholder, brother to Marion’s mother, but he holds sway over her extensive properties, her large fortune and her future, according to the messenger.”

“I say let the bastard come and be damned. He shall know whom he threatens!” shouted Simon, slamming his fist against his palm for emphasis.

“‘Tis not as simple as that, boys,” Campion said, holding up a hand to stem the tide of angry voices. He glanced toward Dunstan, thinking that his eldest might contribute to the discussion, but Dunstan only lounged against the wall with a detached air and an expression of disgust on his face. Obviously, he had no interest in the lady’s disposition and viewed his brothers’ concern as a waste of energy. Campion sighed, for he would have no help from that quarter.

“We have no legal right to the girl,” Campion explained. “Even if she wants to stay with us, we cannot keep her.” Outraged mutters met his words, and he lifted his hand again for attention. “Peasely is Marion’s guardian. There is naught we can do to change that, unless, of course, we were to gain the right to her in a perfectly lawful manner.”

Campion paused to assess each man in the room, hoping that one of them would come to Marion’s aid. They all looked at him expectantly, with the exception of Dunstan, who uttered a low snort and pushed off the wall with a grimace. Campion paid him no mind, for Dunstan did not even know the girl. One of his brothers would have to make the decision that Dunstan so rudely disdained.

“How?” piped up Nicholas.

“By marriage,” Campion said simply. He studied them seriously. “Which one of you shall take her to wife?”

Dead silence met his question.

Campion’s gaze swept the assembly, taking in each son, in turn, though none would meet his probing eyes now. Simon, the born warrior, scowled his denial, while Reynold grunted his dismay. Stephen, as was his way of late, immediately poured himself another cup of wine, Campion noted with a frown.

Robin was studying the tips of his boots with extreme concentration, while Nicholas fiddled with the knife in his belt, and Geoffrey looked torn, as always, between compassion and common sense.

“Will none of you have her?” Campion asked. He could not keep the disappointment from his voice, for he had come to care for the girl. He had hoped that this hastily formed plan would keep her with them, but no one said a word. “Are all my sons unnatural that they will not marry and give Campion heirs?”

Eyes downcast, they all refused to answer, except Simon, who flashed his silver-gray ones like steel. “Why is it that she is not already wed? She looks of an age.”

“‘Tis not difficult to imagine that her uncle covets her lands for himself. If so, he will never willingly let her marry. The messenger hinted as much. ‘Tis more than likely that our Marion was little more than a prisoner in her own castle,” Campion said, hoping that guilt might move his sons when duty and affection had failed to do so.

“He treated her badly,” Nicholas said, his head hanging, his misery impossible to disguise.

“Why do you say that?” Simon asked sharply.

Nicholas shrugged. “Just things that she has said about how wonderful it is here and how she always feels safe and part of a family. She gives me that great smile of hers and says how lucky she is that we took her in.”

Ashamed, furtive glances were exchanged, but still no one volunteered to wed Marion. It was his own fault, Campion decided. He should have remarried long ago, so that the boys would know the company of women. But after his second wife had died birthing Nicholas, a grief-stricken Campion had been loath to give his heart again.

Unfortunately, the result was that his sons had grown to manhood without the tender touch of female hands. Now he was cursed with a grown group of bachelors who thought nothing of easing themselves on a bit of bought flesh, but who would never give him grandchildren.

Could they not see the change in Campion and in themselves, wrought by Marion’s presence? In a few short months, she had made herself indispensable to the household, improving the hall and the rooms and the meals. Campion thought of the girl’s smile, so rich and full of warmth, and he felt a pang of loss.

He ought to marry her himself, Campion thought suddenly, and then sighed at his own foolishness. Although past the age when most girls were wed, Marion was far too young for him, and he was too old to begin a new family. The winter had not been kind to him, and his joints were bothersome. He did not let on to his sons, of course, but he was finding it harder to wield a sword with his previous skill. Fond as he was of Marion, that fondness made him want her to have a robust husband to give her many sons.

And he was looking at seven healthy candidates who refused to take her. Campion let them see his displeasure. “Very well, then. If none of you will have her to wife, she must go home. Who will take her back to Baddersly?”

Again, dead silence met his words. The toes of his boots still interested Robin, Nicholas still fiddled with his knife, and Stephen concentrated on the bottom of his cup. Reynold rubbed his bad leg, as he often did when he was disturbed, and Simon scowled out the window, as if an answer would strike him from the heavens.

“Well?” This time, Campion’s tone left no doubt that he was angry.

Reynold glanced up. “Geoffrey is her favorite,” he pointed out.

Geoffrey looked startled—and appalled. “Nay! I cannot. Make Simon go.”

“Aye. He is best equipped to guard her,” Stephen said, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Enough,” Campion said, calling a halt to the bickering. Yet they muttered on, sending black looks at one another, none of them willing to do the deed. Campion felt his pride in them melt away. By the rood, he faced a room full of cowards! He was about to chastise them as such, when suddenly the voices trailed off. They all looked at one another, brows lifted in surprise. Then, six heads swiveled toward the wall behind him, as they spoke as one.

“Send Dunstan!” all of them cried at the same time.

“Aye! Dunstan is better equipped than I!” Simon said. His words made Campion pause, for normally Simon would rather have died than admit such a thing.

“Aye. He knows her not and would as likely feel nothing even if he did,” Stephen added with a contemptuous sneer.

Campion glanced at Dunstan, who was watching the furor with a detached frown, and he wondered what the boy was thinking. When had his eldest son grown so distant? With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Dunstan is a good man on a journey,” he noted.

“Aye! He knows his way throughout the whole country!” Nicholas said.

Campion ignored the youngest de Burgh’s enthusiasm for his eldest brother and considered the idea further. Perhaps Dunstan would be the best man for the job. He was a fine knight and could easily handle any trouble that Peasely might serve him. He was also a baron in his own right, possessing some of the diplomacy that Simon so sorely lacked. And he was not involved with the girl’s affections; it would cause him no suffering to give Marion over to her uncle.

Laying his palms upon the table, Campion made his decision. “If Dunstan is willing, then so be it.”

“Aye, father.” They answered as one, and Campion realized that for once his sons were in agreement, all relieved to escape the task that they had dreaded. Campion sighed, his disappointment heavy as they rose to their feet, eager to be gone, only to halt at the sound of Dunstan’s low voice.

“Stay,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Although the boys rarely listened to one another, they were indebted to their sibling this day, so they deferred to him and remained where they were.

“Fetch the girl, and say your farewells, for we leave within the hour,” Dunstan said.

Campion glanced at him in surprise. “But you just arrived. Surely, you will want to rest before beginning another journey.” Campion felt a sting in his chest at the thought of Dunstan’s swift departure. It had been a year since his firstborn had been home. Why would he go so quickly?

“If you wish me to take on this errand, I would hurry, for I am needed back in Wessex,” Dunstan said tersely. He appeared none too happy to be saddled with the task, and yet he had accepted it readily enough. Campion eyed him closely, trying to see inside the man his boy had become, but Dunstan’s dark eyes glinted dispassionately, revealing nothing. Campion felt another prick of sadness at the knowledge that Dunstan preferred his own castle, his own home now....

Campion turned back to his younger sons. “Have Wilda bring Marion to us,” he said. Then he looked around the room. If the de Burghs had appeared uncomfortable before, they were practically squirming now. Not one of them wanted to face Marion—the cowards. Campion’s shame for them was tempered with a bit of sympathy, for even he knew some trepidation at the coming confrontation. After all, he, too, had come to care for the lady he had taken in.

Now how, by the rood, was he going to tell her she had to leave?

* * *

Campion’s summons stunned Marion. Panic such as she had not known since waking up bewildered in the roadway seized her, and for a long moment she could not even move. Slowly, firmly, she told herself that the earl only wanted to order a special feast in honor of Dunstan’s visit or to introduce his eldest son to her, but her memory loss had forced Marion to rely on her senses. And they told her that something was amiss.

Marion tried to compose herself as she followed Wilda to the solar, but the sight that met her brought on a new rush of dread. Although all the de Burghs were there, the room was silent as a tomb, Campion’s seven sons engaging in none of their usual boisterous banter. The six whom she had grown to love as brothers were arranged around their father, yet not one of them would meet her eyes. Only Dunstan, who was lounging against a wall like a dark, brooding presence, appeared to be watching her, his handsome face in shadow.

“Lady Marion. Please sit down,” the earl said. Campion met her gaze openly, but something in it—a hint of sadness or regret—made her heart contract. She sat down on the edge of a settle, nodding calmly while her mind rushed ahead, pondering what harrowing news might be forthcoming.

“Marion,” Campion began. “You know that we have been happy to have you with us. You have filled a need here, not only by acting as chatelaine, but by cheering us with your smiles. If we could, we would have you stay with us always.”

Marion froze, her body immobile while the outcome that she feared most became a reality. He was sending her away! Where would she go? What would she do, a lone woman without friend or family to take her in, without even a memory of her own past?

“However, it appears that we are not the only people who care about you. Although you may not remember, you have at least one relative who has not forgotten you—your uncle.”

Campion waited, as if expecting her to respond in some way, but how could she? Uncle? What uncle? “I know no uncle,” Marion said finally, her words hardly audible above the pounding of her heart. Forcing her limbs to move, she folded her hands neatly in her lap, affecting an outward appearance of serenity.

“I know this all seems strange to you, my dear,” Campion said. “But I am sure that your memory will return in time, perhaps more quickly when you are home.”

Panic, renewed and ferocious, rushed through her, and Marion gripped her fingers together. It was one thing to be cast out, alone. It was quite another to be thrust into the custody of a stranger from a past that filled her only with dread.... Marion struggled for air while she sought to follow Campion’s words.

“You are Marion Warenne, and you are quite an heiress,” he was saying. He smiled slightly, as though he expected her to be cheered by the news, but she was not. The name meant nothing to her, the wealth even less.

“But, my lord, you told me that I might stay as long as I wish,” she protested, trying to keep her voice steady.

Sympathy washed gently over the earl’s face, frightening her far more than indifference. “I know that, my dear, and I am truly sorry. If you were still alone and unknown, I would most certainly extend my hospitality to you indefinitely. But you have a home of your own, and your uncle is most anxious for your return.”

Through the blind haze of horror that had descended upon her, Marion tried to find words to deny the earl, but she could not. She could only stare at him wide-eyed, while she fought to keep her agitation in check. It came to her from nowhere, this knowledge that she must hide her fear, mask her emotions and keep her soul to herself. She had obviously learned it well, sometime back in the murky past that escaped her.

As if sensing her despair, Campion leaned forward. “Do not worry, Marion. We shall not let any harm come to you.” Fixing his gaze steadily upon her, he spoke over his shoulder to where Dunstan leaned against the wall. “My eldest son, Dunstan, baron of Wessex, will escort you home, and he will make sure all is well.”

Marion suspected that Campion was directing an order at his son, while trying to reassure her, but it mattered little. She knew that once she left the safety of these walls, the de Burghs, from the earl down to young Nicholas, would hold no sway in her life, and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise.

Her champions had deserted her.

Marion marshaled all her resources for one last effort. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lord, for I cannot plead my case very coherently. ‘Tis true that my past is a mystery to me, but I know this much—something there was very wrong. I cannot even try to remember but that I am filled with dread. I beg you, my lord, do not send me back.”

She let the plea hang in the air while Campion rubbed his chin and studied her thoughtfully. Although panic threatened to consume her, Marion betrayed nothing and made no movement. Her back remained straight as a rod while she perched on the edge of the settle, her hands in her lap.