Chapter Eight
Marion glared at the great dark form that disappeared into the blackness of the tree trunk, and did not know what to think.
When she had first seen him, when he had held out his hand to her, dragging her back from the horror that had gripped her, Marion had been so happy that she had wept with relief.
When he had held her, comforting her in his own awkward way, she had felt something for Dunstan de Burgh that she had never known before, a welling of emotion so profound that she hardly dared trust her own senses.
When he had stroked her hair and that odd look came over his handsome face, she had been breathless with anticipation—and wanting.
Marion blushed to admit it even to herself.
And yet, for just a moment, it had seemed as if nothing existed but Dunstan and herself.
There were no filthy hands pawing at her, no death cries, no blood and no flights into the woods.
There was not even a Baddersly, waiting like a giant, loathsome spider, ready to draw her into its web.
There was only Dunstan and the way he made her body tingle and her heart trip over itself eagerly.
But, all too soon, that brief interlude was over, and Dunstan was back to his old, surly self, grunting and dragging her along as if she were naught but unwanted baggage.
And now he had tossed her up in a tree and laughed at her.
The man was impossible! Marion moved restlessly, the bark digging into her back. How could anyone actually sleep here?
Her gown had ridden up, and Marion tugged at the hem, bringing it down. Although the weather had been pleasant, the setting sun had brought a chill to the woods. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her head on her knees and her eyes upon the black shape opposite.
And, as soon as she did, it came again—that sweet rush of emotion.
Was it only because he had rescued her? Would she have greeted any savior with the depth of feeling that swelled now in her breast?
Marion stared at his dark figure and knew not with certainty, but she suspected that whatever she felt was reserved for Dunstan de Burgh, pigheaded, sullen and handsome devil that he was.
Closing her eyes to call up his visage, she smiled—because it was scowling.
At least he had not scolded her. Marion would not have been surprised if he had launched into a long lecture about her foolishness.
Grudgingly, she admitted that he had the right, for his warning had been all too true; the forest was full of desperate men.
With disconcerting haste, the image of Dunstan was replaced by others, with faces and hands that held her down and something worse.
It was there at the edge of her mind, taunting her tonight, that great well of her memories, threatening to overwhelm her.
And Marion wanted no part of them. She opened her eyes wide.
“It is there, so close I can almost feel it,” she whispered.
“What?” Dunstan’s low, urgent response told her that he was awake and alert for danger.
“My past.”
He grunted, rather irritably, and Marion wondered if he was heartily sick of chasing after her. Who could blame him? He had a home and duties awaiting him, while she had only bleak nothingness. “I am afraid of it, Dunstan,” she said. “I do not want to remember.”
“Then, do not,” he said gruffly, and suddenly Marion felt his arm around her, pulling her into the curve of his body. “Sleep,” he ordered in a rough whisper.
She had forgotten how warm he was, but the reminder made her snuggle up against his side.
His heat surrounded her immediately, driving away the chill in the air, the horrors of the night and the dread of a history that loomed over her like a black cloud.
She rested her head on his shoulder, safe and content, and began to relax, slowly but surely.
Dazedly, she knew that she should not be curled up so close to a man, alone in the night, but it felt so right, how could it be wrong?
She slid a leg up over his thick thigh and sighed softly.
Drifting off in that haze between awareness and dreams, Marion was slow to recognize the subtle change in Dunstan’s embrace.
Dimly, she noticed the great muscles in the arm beneath her head become hard and tense, the body touching hers grow taut.
She moved, snuggling tighter, but the low hiss of his indrawn breath made her open her eyes and freeze, suddenly alarmed.
Her first thought was that something threatened them, but Marion realized quickly that no forest danger made the heart beneath her hand quicken its pace.
In an instant, she knew what the problem was, for in an instant she felt it, too.
What had but a moment ago been an innocent caress had become something else entirely as that strange fire flared between them.
Although she could not see his eyes, Marion knew they had darkened to the green-black that marked his desire. Her own eyes widened in shock, but she remained still, afraid to move lest any motion acerbate the raw, hot feeling that was coursing through her and, she suspected, through him.
Dunstan burned her everywhere they met—where her knee rested casually on his thigh and where his hard chest, encased in mail, lay beneath her arm.
Even her scalp tingled where it touched the thick muscle of his arm.
Her breasts became absurdly sensitive, the linen of her shift seeming to rub against them. It felt deliciously good.
Marion stiffened in surprise. Although she knew little of her past, she thought herself innocent.
Then why this wanton yearning? And why only with Dunstan?
She had never lain in a man’s arms before, as far as she knew, but she had touched all of the de Burghs at one time or another and had never felt this wrenching heat with any of them—except the eldest.
Her throat became dry, and her body began to ache from the effort it took to hold herself rigidly in place.
Finally, when she could bear it no more, Marion shifted her weight, easing away from him a little, her leg sliding along his.
Dunstan made a soft, strangled sound, and she glanced up at him swiftly, but she could see naught of his shadowed face in the darkness.
“Go to sleep,” he ordered hoarsely. Sleep?
Every humor in her body was alive and seeking Dunstan.
It was the strangest experience, frightening and wonderful, exciting and terrible, all at the same time.
Would he kiss her? Marion fought the urge to search his face with her fingers and beg him to do just that.
If only she could see him! Was he scowling?
Or were his green eyes glinting with that wolfish look that threatened to devour her?
She waited, tense with anticipation, but Dunstan made no move, no sound, and gradually she realized the foolishness of her behavior. She had heard enough of Stephen’s ribald commentary to know that she should not be here, lying in Dunstan’s embrace, and wanting more.
Shame colored her cheeks and made her roll over, but she was not free of Dunstan immediately. Her bottom brushed his hip, and he jerked as if she had scorched him before she could inch from his side. Now only the top of her head touched him, resting against his arm.
They both lay stiffly then, their breathing swift and shallow. Marion stared out into the blackness of the woods, feeling again the chill in the air and the bark of the tree digging into her. Her new position left something to be desired in the way of comfort, but what else could she do?
She could turn back over and put her arms around him, drawing him to her and melting into his heat….
Marion had to bite back the sound that rushed up at the thought. She could not. There were names for women who gave their favors freely, and they were not nice. Did she really want a quick tumble from the Wolf? No, Marion’s heart cried out. She wanted more….
It was impossible. No matter what strange desires she might harbor for him, no matter what tender emotions she might feel for him, Dunstan was the man who was taking her, against her will, to Baddersly, where he would abandon her.
Marion closed her eyes against a sudden ache and turned her mind to calming images, as she often did to maintain her composure. “Tell me of Wessex,” she said softly.
“Wessex?” For a moment, Dunstan sounded as if he were the one with no memory, as if the name of his home ushered up naught but confusion in his mind.
Then he began to talk, slowly at first, but soon warming to his subject, and Marion could almost see his holdings in her mind: the green valleys, the steep hillsides and the tall castle in the midst of it all.
Under the soft, low rhythm of his speech, the fire between them waned, and the exhaustion that had been working upon Marion since her ordeal drew her heavily into its grasp.
The hard bed, the height of her perch, and the coolness of the night faded away under the lulling warmth of his voice, and she slept.
* * *
It was barely light when Dunstan woke her.
He stood below her, a great, menacing presence, staring up at her with a scowl, and Marion sensed that the man who had spoken freely to her of his hopes for his home was gone with the darkness.
Dunstan was back to his old surly self. She smiled at him, anyway, for she had grown accustomed to his moods.
“I would get back to the train as quickly as we can. ‘Tis unwise to linger here,” he said curtly.
Marion nodded, and he lifted her down. For a moment, his hands rested at her waist and his green eyes met hers, but then he drew back as if she had burned him.
Was she only imagining this strange pull between them?
Or perhaps she, naive fool that she was, was the only one of them who felt anything at all.