Chapter Seven #2
For a long moment Dunstan stood there, breathing heavily, his heart thundering, his body still tense, his eyes raking the area for more enemies. But the clearing was empty. Nothing moved but the flickering flames of the low fire, and the only sound was the bubble of life’s blood leaving the fallen.
Dunstan drew in a deep, shaky breath as he tried to bring himself back to normalcy.
It was not easy. He had fought fiercer battles many times, had been in more danger more often than he could count and had even been wounded several times, as his body’s scars could attest. But never had he known such killing lust—unreasoning, overwhelming and still unappeased.
When he realized that he longed to hack the corpses to pieces, Dunstan let the air out of his lungs in a low hiss and turned.
Spattered with blood, Marion was lying in the dirt with her gown bunched around her hips and one pale limb resting against the headless body of one of her attackers.
Her beautiful dark hair was spread out around her face in wild disarray, framing delicate features that were as white and still as death.
Dunstan fell to his knees beside her and forced himself to speak evenly.
His voice came out a ragged whisper. “Wren! Wren…are you hurt?” Now that the threat to her was vanquished, Dunstan felt at a loss. What if she was injured? He knew naught of healing and even less of succoring the wounded. “Marion, ‘tis I, Dunstan,” he said louder.
When she did not respond, he removed his gauntlets slowly, afraid to startle her, and put a hand to her forehead. Her long lashes fluttered open. “Dunstan…” She murmured his name like a caress.
The pain in his chest eased a little, and he held out a hand toward her.
She took it, rising to a sitting position, and he arranged her skirts to cover shapely legs made visible in the firelight.
When he had finished, she was looking up at him with an expression he had never seen before.
Something akin to dazed wonder shone out of those huge brown eyes, and then she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in the warm curve of his throat above his mail coat and wept.
Dunstan grudgingly embraced her, hugging her close as he had not held another human being since Nicholas was a babe.
He felt ridiculously ill-equipped to give comfort.
What did he know of it? His years as a soldier had taught him to disdain such things, and women who took him to their beds knew better than to ask for more than a friendly tumble. But the wren needed him.
Awkwardly, Dunstan put a palm to the tangled softness of her hair, glad to feel the life pulsing beneath it.
She was all right. By God’s good grace, she was all right.
Dunstan felt a shudder and told himself that Marion was reacting normally to all that had happened.
It was certainly not his own body that was trembling like a newly weaned babe at the sight of a little blood. Thank God that it was not her blood….
Dunstan’s fingers drifted through curls silky and rich as the finest cloth.
And thick! By faith, he could feel the weight of the mass tumbling over his fist. A man could bury his hand in hair like that, anchoring himself, he thought, before removing his own hand abruptly and laying it gingerly upon her shoulder.
He told himself she had nearly been raped. He told himself that she was frightened out of her mind and clinging to him for solace. He told himself that she was a troublesome piece of baggage who was here because of her own recklessness and that he had no liking for her.
But no matter what he told himself, Dunstan was becoming all too aware of the woman in his arms. The tears she had shed upon his neck were caught by a breeze, cooling the surface of his skin in a tantalizing sensation.
Her breath was soft and warm upon his throat, and she carried some elusive scent of rich earth and fertile flowers.
Her lush breasts were nestled against his chest, and her hips were nearly touching his own.
Cursing himself for a fiend, Dunstan felt himself spring to life.
As if sensing his perfidy, she lifted her head, but her heart-shaped face held no accusation.
Those great brown eyes of hers looked at him as no one had ever looked at him before—that strange sort of wonder mixed with something else.
Could it be desire? Dunstan felt the spark between them ignite, heating the air, burning away all else.
His hands went to her shoulders. She parted her lips.
Shuddering with need, he leaned closer—and swore softly.
Pushing her away, Dunstan got to his feet before he took her himself, making him little better than the corpses that surrounded them.
After a brush with death, a man often craved life, or the best use he could make of it, but that was no excuse.
The wren was no whore, and they were not safely ensconced in any camp.
With another low curse, Dunstan whirled around, half-expecting to see himself surrounded.
What kind of a randy, witless fool was he to lie about as if they were on a pleasure outing?
From the looks of the camp, the two dead men had not been alone, and their companions might return at any moment.
“We must go,” Dunstan snapped without regard to Marion’s sensibilities.
His brain was working quickly now, and he was cursing himself for his vainglorious charge into the clearing.
Why had he not left one of the men alive, at least long enough to discover who they were and what they were about?
Dunstan rubbed the back of his neck. Never, since learning the rules of combat at his father’s knee, had he been so rash.
The blood lust that had seized him now seemed a disturbing thing, robbing him of his senses and taking control of his body.
With a low oath, Dunstan glanced down at the corpse, wishing, too late, that the dead could speak.
Unfortunately, this fellow would tell him nothing, so Dunstan turned on his heel to go.
But something made him swing back around to look more closely at the wretch at his feet.
The man was dressed poorly in plain rough wool, and yet he carried a sword.
Unusual, that. Something niggled at the back of Dunstan’s mind.
Something familiar. Leaning down, he searched the body, but found nothing except a purse with a few coins.
If the man was a robber, he had yet to win his gold—or be paid. Dunstan’s eyes narrowed.
“Wh-what are you doing?” The wren’s shaky voice brought him upright.
“Nothing,” Dunstan answered abruptly. “Can you walk?”
She looked up at him, her great eyes awash with confusion, reminding him of nothing so much as a little lost fawn. He felt like cursing. He did not want to hurt her, but he had wasted enough time coddling her. Danger was in the air. He could almost smell it.
“Can you walk?” he asked again. She nodded dully, and he reached out a hand, pulling her to her feet.
“Come then. We must be off.” He glanced around the site and decided to let the low fire burn itself out.
If it served as a beacon for other outlaws, he did not want to draw their attention by extinguishing it.
“What of…them?” Marion asked. Her voice was shaky, and he looked down to see her hugging herself tightly as she stared at the bodies.
Anger pulsed through him—anger at the men who had reduced his little wren to this, and anger at himself for not reaching her sooner, for not being able to give her what she needed, and for not having his own wits about him.
“Leave them for carrion,” Dunstan answered gruffly.
He strode swiftly toward the trees, taking note of the footprints that marked the passage of more than those two.
He stifled a curse. They needed to get away from the clearing and the path and find a resting place.
Others, obviously, were abroad this night, and few men roamed the dark woods with good intentions.
“Dunstan.” She was tugging on his sleeve, and when he turned to her, she let her hand slide down to his, apparently taking some comfort from his touch. Awkwardly, he squeezed her fingers. Then he strode from the clearing, one hand pulling her along with him, the other resting on his sword hilt.
Once under the trees, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the blackness, then he pushed on, far enough from the path to be out of the way of any travelers.
When he finally paused, Dunstan stood looking up at several tall oaks, assessing them as well as he could in the dark.
Moving to a large one with a split trunk, he said, “We shall bed down here.”
Marion’s small palm jerked in his. “Can we not go back to the train?”
“No. Others are abroad this night, and in this light, I can little judge what they are about. We know that some of them, at least, are not above attacking a woman.”
She clutched his hand tighter, and the answering squeeze he gave hers came more naturally now. “Since you sleep like a babe in a tree, this spot should suit you perfectly,” he noted wryly.
“But—but…” Marion stammered, and Dunstan’s lips curved upward. Then he put his hands about her waist and lifted her up, setting her in the crook of the giant tree. She was still sputtering when he climbed up beside her and leaned back against the sturdy trunk.
“But what?” Dunstan asked easily. Despite having found her hiding in a large oak after her first escape, he assumed that she would object to spending the night on a branch. After all, he could imagine few ladies finding a comfortable berth up here.
“But…you do not really expect me to sleep here, do you?”
“Why not?” Dunstan asked. Although he had one ear tuned to the forest, he was beginning to enjoy himself.
The wren was recovered enough to endure some teasing.
He could not wait to hear her admit that her story about falling asleep in the tree had been a fantastic lie.
Perhaps then he could get some other truths from her, as well.
He listened, suddenly eager to hear her confession, but when she spoke, it was not to complain about the bed, but the company.
“Why, ‘twould not be seemly to stay here alone with you,” she protested.
Dunstan threw back his head and guffawed before he caught himself. “Do not make me laugh. We must be quiet. Now hush, and try to rest.” He could make out the dark shape of her form and smiled.
By faith, what kind of woman thought nothing of running into the woods alone, but felt threatened by spending the night with him? A bit of moonlight danced through the leaves, illuminating Marion’s face, and Dunstan caught a glimpse of her licking her lips before she was again cast in shadow.
In that instant, his smile died. Perhaps Marion was right, he thought grimly. She might be in more danger than either of them suspected.