Taming The Wolf

“I was too afraid to scream,” she answered without demur. The forthright manner in which she spoke nearly made him doubt his own presumptions, but Dunstan knew better. He put his hands on his hips and assessed her.

“And how is it that we spent a goodly time searching for you and calling for you, directly beneath this very same tree, and you made no response?”

“I believe I must have fainted dead away from sheer fright,” she said, blithely meeting his gaze.

“I see.” Dunstan eased out the words with no little effort. She was an audacious wench, if nothing else. “And you have been up there all this time, precariously balanced, but not awake—even to our cries?”

She nodded sweetly. What a liar! And she looked so innocent, too. No wonder she had easily gulled his brothers. From what Dunstan understood, she had convinced them she did not even know her own name. Who could tell what game the girl was playing? Dunstan fully admitted that he did not, nor was he particularly interested in discovering the truth. As tempting as it was to join in the play, he had neither the time nor the energy at this point in his life. He frowned as he studied her closely. “And this muteness that affects you occurs whenever you are frightened?”

“Oh, yes, my lord...Dunstan. May I call you Dunstan?” she asked, as nicely as if they were ensconced in a cozy solar exchanging sweetmeats and he had not just wasted precious hours dangling after her. He nodded curtly, then turned to his approaching horse.

He stood there for a moment, his feet apart, and then slanted a glance toward her. She was trying, uselessly, to better her hair, which he suspected resisted constraints of any kind. He grinned, certain she was not watching him, and let loose a battle cry that had been known to freeze the blood of his enemies.

His companion jumped and shrieked—loudly. With a smug smile, Dunstan mounted his horse and held out a hand to her. “It seems, my lady, that your voice has returned—in full force.”

“That is hardly fair, Dunstan,” she said, accepting his aid grudgingly. “I was not frightened by your mean-spirited gesture, merely startled.”

He grinned wider. “Do not lie to me, my lady. And do not run away from me again, or I shall make you regret it,” he warned. Then he grasped her fingers, lifting her up in front of him as easily as a child, and tucked her between his thighs.

He was going to elaborate on his threat, but she moved, settling herself comfortably against him, and desire flared again in his loins, much to his annoyance. With a grunt, he kicked his horse to a gallop along the road.

She must be some kind of witch, Dunstan told himself, for she was trying to enchant him as surely as she had his brothers. He could just picture her wiggling that generous bottom like a lure, and all of them, led by the all-too-randy Stephen, jumping to the bait.

Suddenly Dunstan wondered if she were still a maid. She was, after all, past marriageable age, and she had been living with six robust males for the past winter.... With a grimace, Dunstan shook aside such thoughts as unimportant. It mattered not to him if she had bedded all of his brothers. His job was simply to return her to Baddersly.

At that moment, a movement of the horse brought his groin up against her even more tightly, and Dunstan gritted his teeth. So far his hopes for an uneventful journey had been dashed, and now, from the feel of things, it was not going to be very peaceful trip, either.

Chapter Four

Marion could not get comfortable. Nestled in between Dunstan de Burgh’s heavy thighs, her back bumping against his hard chest, she felt...disoriented. Although she could not remember her past, Marion suspected that she had never been pressed up against a man’s body before. It was strange. It was disturbing.

It was exhilarating.

Leaning forward, she tried to ignore it. After all, she was not enamored of the man. Quite the contrary! Dunstan, with his arrogant attitude and bullying tactics, was responsible for all her misfortune. It was bad enough that he had found her, foiling her clever escape, but to taunt her and scare her with that ferocious roar...That was beyond pardon. And so, the fact that she was riding in front of him, his body touching hers until his presence surrounded her, enveloping her like a cloak, should have no effect upon her at all.

But it did. It would help if he were not so deliciously warm, Marion decided. Heat seemed to pour from the man like a forge. He smelled of it even—of warm skin, horses and leather, and some kind of soap. Marion, who was always cold and could ever be found in front of a fire, felt blessedly toasted for the first time in her life.

Suddenly pulled more tightly against him, Marion was awed by the hardness of him, the steel of his thighs and arms and alien form. Dark male strength was apparent in every inch of him, in every breath he took. It was daunting. Almost frightening.

Definitely thrilling.

Like a swimmer about to dive beneath the surface, Marion closed her eyes, took a deep draft of air and leaned back into that massive chest. For a few brief moments, she seemed to merge with the eldest de Burgh, drawn into his heat and scent and vigor as the great beast beneath them surged forward. And then, like a fleeting but vivid dream, it was over. Too quickly.

In what seemed like an instant, Dunstan’s destrier reached the others, and Marion found herself the object of attention. Although none asked where she had been found, she caught questioning looks from some of the men and unkind glances from those who had not liked searching for her.

Ignoring them, Marion lifted her chin, secure in the protection of Dunstan’s embrace. The eldest de Burgh might be more her enemy than her friend, but who would not feel safe before him? Despite their discord, Marion sensed that he would let no harm come to her, and she stayed where she was until the boy who served as Dunstan’s squire darted forward to assist her down.

Marion told herself she was not disappointed to leave the haven of Dunstan’s arms, especially when he thrust her away none too gently, just as if she were a hedgehog that pricked him sorely. “Put her back on her palfrey. And keep watch upon her,” he ordered his squire curtly. Then, without another word or glance, he was off, barking orders to his men, a remote, dark figure atop his massive warhorse.

Annoyed that he could so quickly forget her when the touch of him still lingered on her skin, Marion stared after him until the young squire touched her arm gently. “Please, my lady, we had best hurry.”

Yes, better hurry, better dance to Dunstan’s tune, Marion thought churlishly. When the boy helped her mount, she concentrated very hard on just how much she disliked the eldest de Burgh brother. The biggest and fiercest of Campion’s boys was nothing but a brute, she told herself. And yet...

“Well, a fine chase you led us all!” said Agnes. Although Marion heard the elderly servant Campion had sent along to attend her, she did not respond. Apparently, the old woman was the only female the earl could recruit for the journey, but Marion thought them ill-suited. Agnes seemed to doze most of the time, even while riding, and she was far too outspoken for Marion’s taste. Disregarding the rude comment, Marion looked away.

But Agnes was not to be deterred. “You look no worse for it. Did he not beat you?” she asked, in a shrill, penetrating voice.

Marion’s eyes flew back to the servant. “Beat me?” she squeaked.

“Aye! A big giant of a man, dark and fierce, is the earl’s eldest. He looks like he would give no quarter. Did he beat you?”

Appalled by Agnes’s loud questions, Marion tried to put the conversation to rest. “My lord Wessex has no right or reason to abuse me.”

The old woman made a noise and then blew her nose. “Mayhap he is not so ferocious as he looks then, if he let a wee slip of a thing like you rile him so and did not lay a hand on you.”

Lay a hand on you. The words hung in the air, making Marion turn her face away, for Dunstan had put his hand on her. Color, bright and hot, raced up from her throat at the memory. He had touched her, had gripped her wrists and pinned her up against the tree with his body, and then...

Marion’s breath came quickly at the recollection of his palm skimming her waist and his hard thighs rubbing against her stomach. Mercy, but when his hand had moved, his thumb had brushed underneath her breast!

For one, long, incredible instant she had thought he might kiss her. Had she ever seen the hot flash of desire in a man’s eyes? Marion doubted it, but she suspected that was exactly what had darkened Dunstan’s green gaze, holding her in thrall. She could not have moved or protested if she had wanted to, and she had not wanted the moment to end. Ever. Marion shut her eyes against the wave of strange, restless yearning that consumed her.

“Ah, so he did do something!” Agnes’s cackling laugh brought Marion out of her thoughts abruptly.

“Enough!” she said, blushing even more brightly at the old woman’s astute guess. “Tend to your business and leave me in peace.”

The cackling became a gravelly chuckle. “Many a maid’s head has been turned by that one,” Agnes said. “‘Tis said at court that they call him the Wolf of Wessex, and not just because of his family’s device.”

Marion drew in a deep breath. This was something she did not care to hear!

“Why, a man that big—”

“Enough!” Marion’s voice rose. “I am not interested in Lord Wessex’s reputation or aught else about him! He is a mannerless brute, and he will not bend me to his will!” Just saying the words aloud seemed to strengthen Marion’s resolve.

And why not? She was not chattel to be driven before him. The loss of her memory did not make her stupid. She had been clever enough to nearly escape him once. Just because she had failed this time did not mean she must meekly accept her fate.

She would try again. And again and again—until she succeeded. Marion felt that small spark in her ignite as new plans, half-formed, danced before her. She glanced over at Agnes. Apparently, her sharp words had been heeded, for the old woman was slumped in the saddle, as if dozing again. Marion relaxed—until she heard Agnes speak again.

“Do not tell me what you are about, lady, for I do not wish to know,” the old woman said. She opened one eye to gaze at Marion cannily, then closed it again, a smile cracking her lips.

Biting back a sound of dismay, Marion looked away, ruing the day that Campion had given her such a companion. Apparently, Agnes saw much more than she should have. But the servant would not stand in her way, Marion told herself firmly. Despite Agnes’s often astute comments, the old woman knew nothing and could not inform anyone of her schemes.

And scheme Marion did. Unfortunately, she had lost the advantage of surprise, so she would have to manage her escape under more attentive escorts. At the thought of those green wolf’s eyes following her, Marion nearly shivered. But Dunstan had already forgotten her. She need only worry about the squire, and she knew that somehow she would manage to elude him.

Once away, she would find the nearest convent. For some reason, Our Lady of All Sorrows sprang to mind. Was it not close to Baddersly? The thought made her pause. If only she could remember! Closing her eyes, Marion tried again to see into the well of her memory, but she was met only with blackness, and the harder she concentrated, the faster her heart began to pound.

Her palms grew moist, and, although she was cold, Marion could feel sweat beading on her temple. Her mind thrummed, her head throbbing with the effort to concentrate as she sought an answer in the emptiness. Baddersly. The dire name rang like a death knell, and a chill sense of dread washed over her, drowning her, sucking her down....

With a start, Marion opened her eyes and drew in a ragged breath. She lifted a trembling hand and pressed her fingers to her aching forehead. They were becoming more grueling, these attempts of hers to remember, with each one worse than the last, until she was forced to admit that her history was closed, unavailable to her whether for good or ill. All she ever came away with was a confirmation of her own fears of Baddersly—and a grim determination that to go there would be to risk her life.

Sighing soundlessly, Marion straightened and told herself that she must get along without her memory. Whether Our Lady of All Sorrows or some other convent, the good sisters would no doubt take her in, especially if she presented them with the fat purse of money and jewels that she had carried with her since the day the de Burghs had found her.

If they did not, well, then she would simply disappear into a city, creating a new life for herself—as a widow perhaps. The thought made Marion’s lips curve in amusement, for surely few maids of her age knew less about being a wife than she did. Her smile faded as Dunstan de Burgh suddenly invaded her thoughts.

The Wolf of Wessex they called him, and Marion acknowledged that the name fit him well. She suspected that he could teach her much of what transpired between a man and a woman, married or not. Absently rubbing her wrist where he had bruised her with his fierce grip, Marion told herself that she did not such crave such knowledge.

All she wanted of Dunstan de Burgh was to be away from him. And soon.

* * *

“Well? Where was she?” Walter asked.

Hearing the barely restrained humor in his vassal’s voice, Dunstan scowled. “You do not want to know,” he answered curtly, urging his mount to the head of the train.

Walter’s laugh followed him, and soon his most skilled knight was riding alongside. “Admit it, Dunstan. The Wolf of Wessex has been bested by a mere wench.” Walter’s loud guffaws grated on Dunstan’s sorely tested temper.

“Nay, Walter,” Dunstan argued. “I was nearly bested by a woman. ‘Tis not quite the same thing.”

“Oh, aye,” Walter said, snorting.

“I found her, did I not?” Dunstan demanded angrily. “‘Tis more than I can say for my vassal.”

Walter’s laughter abruptly ceased. He looked as if he might say something further, but stopped, his mouth curving into a sneer. “I stand rebuked, my lord,” he mocked. Then he shrugged carelessly. “But I am still curious. Where did she go, and why? Did she lose her way?”

“No,” Dunstan answered. “She hid from us because she does not want to return home.”

“What?” Walter looked genuinely surprised—and intrigued. “I thought she was some sort of heiress.”

“She is, but apparently she was happier at Campion.” Weaving her spells around my brothers, Dunstan thought to himself. “She does not fancy going back to a guardian, who might keep her to heel. ‘Tis my opinion that ‘twould do her good.”

Walter chuckled, his blue gaze turning back toward where Marion rode. “An unusual woman,” he mused aloud.

Dunstan did not like the way Walter’s eyes gleamed with interest. Disinclined to whet that interest further, he did not concur. Nor did he add that Marion Warenne could look as innocent as a child while spouting lies worthy of a hardened jade. And what lies! If all were as transparent as those she had given him this day, Dunstan would have no difficulty seeing through them.

In fact, Dunstan suspected he could find a great deal of pleasure in trying to coax the truth from her. His thoughts strayed to the feel of her against him, and he promptly turned them back to the roadway. Marion Warenne was nothing to him but a package to be delivered, soft and luxuriantly curved, perhaps, but a package nonetheless. He pitied the poor fool who thought of her as aught else.

With an angry grunt, Dunstan urged his destrier forward, content to leave the woman under the watchful eye of his squire, Cedric. She had brought him naught but trouble since he had first set eyes upon her at Campion, staring at him from across his father’s hall. By faith, he should have never accepted this task! He had his own problems, and right now they preyed upon his mind more fiercely than ever.

Two years ago when Edward had gifted him with the Wessex property, Dunstan had thought himself finally rooted after years on the road, making his bed wherever he might find it. But disputes with his greedy neighbor, Clarence Fitzhugh, had kept him from his hall. Now, it seemed that he was always on the borders, fending off raids and thefts. Yet Dunstan had no proof that Fitzhugh was behind his problems, and he could not retaliate against his neighbor’s holdings without drawing the king’s ire. He was neatly cornered.

Wessex itself had needed improvements and further defenses that had badly depleted Dunstan’s coffers, and the small number of villeins had forced him to supplement their labor with that of his own soldiers. Last year’s crops had been poor, stretching his resources to the limit....

With a grimace, Dunstan realized that his visions of taking his ease in his own hall, like his father, were but a youth’s foolish dream. His life seemed destined to be that of a knight struggling to keep his lands, forever on the move, forever watching his back. Rubbing his neck in a reflexive movement, Dunstan sought to ease the weight that rested there, trying to crush him.

By faith, but he could use the help of his brothers and a loan of men or money from his father! But Dunstan would rather be damned than beg. He had gone to Campion, hoping for an offer of aid, and look where it had gotten him! Instead of returning to Wessex with reinforcements, he was wasting his precious time playing nursemaid to a runaway wench.

At the thought of Marion Warenne, Dunstan knew an urge to rein in and find her among the train. He told himself he would be wise to check upon her himself, and for a moment he hesitated, then he grunted angrily and rode ahead, determined to keep both his body and his mind away from his charge.

* * *

Dunstan avoided her all day. When it came time for supper, he glanced in her direction—just to make sure that she was there, he told himself firmly—but all he saw was a flash of brown cloak as she slipped into her tent to eat alone. What cared he? Dunstan thought with a surly scowl. By faith, just the sight of her would probably put him off his food!

He was able to finish his meal quickly, and in peace, but he returned later, seating himself not far away. Absently, he watched her lair for signs of movement, even though Cedric was stationed at the entrance, keeping guard.

“Why does she hide herself away?” his squire asked, and Dunstan jerked his head, annoyed to be caught staring.

“Mayhap she is ashamed of wasting our time this day in our merry chase after her,” Dunstan growled. As rightfully she should be, he thought. Ridiculous wench!

“She ate but little,” Cedric noted. It took a moment for the words to sink into Dunstan’s distracted mind. Then, with slow deliberation, he lifted his head and gave his squire a look that questioned the significance of such news.

Coloring brightly, Cedric hurriedly glanced away, while Dunstan’s eyes narrowed at the discovery of his squire’s weakness. Already the boy showed signs of succumbing to Lady Warenne’s mysterious spell. Did Cedric think the woman was in danger of wasting away? Dunstan snorted. From the looks of her lush form, Lady Warenne was in little danger of becoming skinny—like some of those bony women at court....

With another snort, Dunstan realized that he was actually comparing those ladies unfavorably to a runaway wench.

And yet, there was more to the little brown wren than one might expect, Dunstan mused. Just what would make such a dab of a female climb a tree? And why would anyone brave the dangers of the wild rather than return as mistress of a rich household? Foolishness, that was the only answer, Dunstan thought. Shaking his head at the senseless foibles of women, he settled himself more firmly in the saddle and fought the memory of soft curves pressing into his body and huge doelike eyes framed by a wild mane of dark hair.

* * *

For the next couple of days Dunstan saw little of his charge, though she plagued his thoughts. She and the old serving woman were quiet and kept to themselves, a situation that could not have pleased him more. No doubt the lady regretted her ridiculous stunt in the tree and was becoming reconciled to the journey.

Dunstan had lost none of his personal resentment at his task, however, for he was still anxious to return to Wessex. They were making good progress now, even over the poor roads, and he had to admit that all was, once again, going smoothly. At this rate, they should reach Baddersly in only a few more days. But his absence from his holdings still chafed at him, and the errand could not be finished swiftly enough for his taste.

So he drove the train on, stopping only for the midmorning meal. Dunstan caught sight of her then, accidentally, as she sat alone with Cedric, the sunlight gleaming on her unbound hair. For a moment, he stared after her, wondering why she seemed to grow lovelier each time that he saw her.

Then, snorting in disgust, Dunstan turned on his heel to nearly run headlong into his vassal. Stopping just short of collision, Dunstan glared at the knight, who assessed his lord with a speculative gleam in his eye.

“Why do you not simply join her, or ride with her? Or perhaps ‘twould be better just to ride her,” Walter said with a smirk.

“What?” Dunstan looked at his trusted knight as if the man had spoken some foreign tongue.

Walter smiled slowly. “The lady, Dunstan. You have been avoiding her for days, while you snarl at everyone. Why not simply draw her out so that you may satisfy your...curiosity?” The words were spoken with sly innuendo, and Dunstan growled menacingly.

“I have no interest in Lady Warenne other than to make certain she reaches her home, Walter.”

This time, his vassal laughed outright. “Then why the bristling, my friend? Everyone is talking about how the lady is making our lord testy as a boar with a toothache.” He grinned wickedly. “Or is the pain located elsewhere?”

Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. “That female has naught to do with my mood,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I like not this errand and would rather be at home, keeping Wessex safe from the bastard Fitzhugh.”

Walter’s smile fled. “Wessex is in good hands.”

“Aye,” Dunstan said softly, thinking of the head of the castle guard, Leonard Collins. Leonard and Walter had been with Dunstan a long time, going back to the days of their youth when they served Edward together. Dunstan trusted them both, but he still felt a deep desire to be at Wessex, protecting his own, instead of on the road with a exasperating wench.

“Come,” said Walter, banging him roughly on the back. “Sit and take your meal with me, and I shall ease your mind.”

Dunstan nodded curtly, and the two ate companionably together, as they had countless times before. They spoke of Fitzhugh and Wessex’s defenses, but Dunstan did not mention the crops that he hoped were being well tended in his absence. Strictly a soldier, with no head for farming, Walter would not understand. Dunstan had more to concern him than his next battle, however, and he felt the weight of his own responsibilities distance him from his old friend.

Perhaps because his mind was occupied with thoughts of Wessex, or perhaps because he had taken Walter’s gibes to heart, Dunstan did not so much as glance toward Lady Warenne during the meal. It was only afterwards, when the train was again preparing to leave, that he looked to her palfrey. When he did not see her, Dunstan felt a vague apprehension.

He quelled it immediately, thinking that he might be acting testy after all—simply because of the insufferable woman he was forced to escort. Dunstan did not see Cedric either, so, obviously, the two had not rejoined the group yet. Their absence was probably easily explained, but Dunstan felt an odd sense of foreboding. Where were they? Slowly he turned, his eyes raking the area for his squire, but when he found the boy, he was not encouraged. Cedric stood near the edge of some bushes with a worried look on his thin countenance.