Chapter Nine
Marion trudged along the path, wondering what she had done in her life to deserve the trials she had recently undergone—especially the trial who strode easily beside her over the uneven ground.
Despite being twice her size, Dunstan was much more graceful than she would ever be, which was another example of the injustice of the world, Marion decided.
As if she needed another example to add to her already lengthy list!
Losing her memory was bad enough. Then Campion had tossed her out, and now…
Now she had done the most ridiculous thing she could recall.
Out of all seven of the de Burgh brothers, she had to pick the least likable, most recalcitrant one with whom to fall in love.
It was obvious to her now, although she was not quite sure when it had happened.
Sometime during their days on the road together, she had begun to care for the huge, surly knight at her side.
Last night, when he had come to her rescue, Marion had felt it—a warm, rush of feeling unlike anything she could remember.
It had filled her up so completely that it threatened to spill out of her, perhaps onto Dunstan himself.
Foolishness. Marion slanted a glance at him and nearly stumbled.
His hand shot out and gripped her arm—too tightly—but she did not protest. In his own way, he was trying his best to help her, even though he was scowling ferociously at her plodding, bumbling pace.
Marion noted idly that she was in desperate straits.
She was not only accustomed to his grimace; she had grown to like it.
Foolishness! None of it mattered because in a few days he would leave her to her fate, without a backward glance.
And she… She had no business mooning over the Wolf; she had her very life to think about.
The closer they drew to Baddersly, the more imperative it became that she manage to escape.
Yet how could she, when Dunstan would not let her out of his sight even to relieve herself?
Would he continue to haunt her? What of tonight? Did he intend to sleep beside her in her small tent? Marion tried to ignore the heated rush of bodily humors that the very thought of such closeness engendered. She shut her eyes, suddenly, painfully aware of his presence beside her—and his touch.
“Dunstan, you are hurting me,” she finally said softly. It struck her then as to just how truly she spoke, though her arm suffered the least of it. The Wolf was making her ache from her head right down to her heart.
“What?” He threw a sharp look at her and then loosened his grip, but he kept his hand upon her sleeve, and Marion felt the warmth all through her.
He did not apologize, and she smiled, certain that he never would.
He was Dunstan, beloved to her, despite all his rough edges, and she would cherish him, if she could.
But she could not.
They would have to part soon, and that would be best, for she knew as surely as she drew breath that the Wolf would never return her regard.
Oh, he might think her body “luscious” and he might look at her at times with the flare of desire shining in his green eyes, but he could not give her what she wanted: love and a home and a family.
He would not even give her freedom.
The thought was sobering, and Marion went still for a moment before Dunstan urged her on with a jerk. He did not hurt her, though, until they finally neared the edge of the forest, when his fingers dug into her arm again with more pressure than was comfortable.
Glancing up in surprise, Marion saw the tenseness in his stance, and she realized he did not even know what he did. He was looking ahead and concentrating intently, as if scenting trouble in the very air. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched, and Marion stiffened instantly in response.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Shh,” Dunstan said, his attention elsewhere.
“‘Tis too quiet for my liking. Stay here.” Too quiet?
Marion could hear the morning birds trilling their songs in the treetops and small animals foraging among the roots not far away.
All seemed as it should be, but she remained where she was, watching, with admiration, as Dunstan walked ahead.
His long hair was surely darker and richer than that of his brothers, she thought wistfully. His shoulders were definitely wider, and his thighs…Well, she had never really looked at any of his brothers’ legs, but Dunstan’s were strong and thickly muscled, yet he moved silently, like a wolf.
Marion saw him disappear through the edge of the trees into the light that marked the campsite area, then she stood there, staring stupidly after him, dreamily musing on Dunstan de Burgh’s attributes. It took her a full minute to realize just what he had done, and when she did, she froze.
The man who had sworn never to let her out of his sight had left her alone.
It took another moment for the knowledge to sink in, and Marion hardly dared breathe as the possibilities presented themselves to her dazed mind.
She could flee. She could actually leave the Wolf, his men and his nearby camp, and proceed with her plans.
Although last night’s attack had left her wary, she told herself that it was morning now, and her chances of being set upon were surely fewer during the daylight hours. Were they not?
Ignoring the echo of Dunstan’s warnings, Marion scanned the area around her, trying to make her decision swiftly. If she turned and made her way through the trees off the path and headed back toward Campion, Dunstan might not find her. Ever.
Although she stood perfectly still, Marion’s heart raced, pounding so loudly that the sound seemed to rise above the raucous call of the birds.
Suddenly aware of the number of dark wings flapping against the gray sky, Marion looked up and felt a chill omen, the kind of unearthly dread that she knew about Baddersly.
She could not see the road, but she was sure that something was wrong. She could sense it.
And then it came to her—the reason for Dunstan’s caution.
The camp was too quiet. If it lay just ahead, why did she not hear Agnes’s cackle or the voices of the men or the sounds of the horses?
Although the group was not boisterous, the general noise of people and animals surrounded them wherever they went.
And yet, Marion heard nothing but the birds.
Uneasiness crept over her, along with concern for Dunstan.
If anything should happen to him… The thought rocked Marion with raw emotions so fierce that she nearly fell to her knees, and without hesitation, she stepped forward, determined to see for herself that he was all right. Then she stopped abruptly in her tracks. What of her plans to fly?
Now, Marion! You must go now! Turning to leave, she told herself to run, but her legs refused to move. How could she go without making sure he was well? She felt torn, pulled in two different directions, and with only a moment, perhaps less, to decide.
It was the hardest thing she had ever done. Finally, with a resignation that was painful, Marion closed her eyes tightly and discovered that she really had no choice. She loved Dunstan with a dizzying force that could not be denied, that seemed to engulf her body and her will.
She loved him more, perhaps, than her own freedom.
With calm determination, Marion pressed her hands to her skirts and walked to the edge of the woods. At the last line of trees, she took a deep breath and looked toward the roadway, afraid of what might meet her gaze.
The camp appeared peaceful enough, mocking her fears as foolishness.
Perhaps Dunstan was right and she was overly sensitive, seeing threats where there were none.
With a soft sigh of relief, she realized why it was so quiet.
The men were still asleep. Perhaps it was earlier than she thought or mayhap they thought to lie about without Dunstan to rouse them.
Stepping out into the grassy area before the road, Marion walked to where the embers of the night’s fire glowed and several of the men still huddled in their blankets.
Dunstan was standing not far away, with his back to her, and it was then that she began to notice the deathly quiet.
Why was he not shouting at them all? The hair on the back of her neck rose, and her throat shut tightly, cutting off her air.
She must have made some sound because Dunstan turned toward her, and the naked agony on his face struck her like a physical blow.
Dread enveloped her, bearing down upon her very soul, and she closed her eyes.
It was nearly overwhelming this time, and she struggled with it, pushing away that black well of memory that threatened to drag her into its depths.
Fear of the past warred with fear of the present until she felt wrenched in two, until she had no choice but to open her eyes—and to look.
And when she did, she saw that Dunstan’s men were not really sleeping.
They were dead.
Those near the fire must have been killed as they slept, for their bodies still lay wrapped in their woolen blankets, stained red with blood. Others had risen to fight, for they had fallen near the carts, their eyes open and staring, their wounds already sending up a stench.
The unholy silence was broken only by the sound of a bit of tent flapping in the breeze.
Not one single moan rose from the men, and Marion realized that there must be no survivors.
No noise came from the animals, either, and a glance told her that the horses were all gone, leaving Dunstan and herself as the only living creatures in the entire camp—seemingly in all the world.