Chapter Nine #3
“I will speak to your uncle myself, as soon as we arrive,” he said, neither confirming nor denying her statement.
She rose angrily to her feet, that beautiful mane of dark curls flying about her, and Dunstan was pleased to see the fire in her spark to life again.
He did not like it when she knelt upon the ground, weeping and retching.
It bothered him at some level that he did not care to explore.
And he had enough problems right now without feeling someone else’s pain more acutely than his own.
“You do not understand, Dunstan,” she said, pointing a dainty finger at him. “The man slaughtered my train, and now he has done the same to yours! If you take me there, he will kill me!”
“Show me the proof!” Dunstan growled, resting his hands upon his hips. “What evidence have you that he is responsible for what happened at the camp? Tell me what his arrows look like. I have the one that killed a sentry in my pack, and we shall see whether it matches.”
Marion frowned, her lovely mouth tipping downward, and Dunstan realized he would much rather draw a smile from her than argue. But he had a mission to accomplish and murder to investigate, and he could hardly credit the charges of one foolish female, however appealing she might be.
She poked his mailed chest with her finger. “You are being as stupid and stubborn as the king when faced with your claims about your neighbor. You should know better than any that an enemy may take many guises.”
Dunstan scowled at the mention of the bastard who harried him, and something niggled at his mind, just out of reach.
He had no time for further disagreements, however.
Reaching out, he grasped her arms tightly and opened his mouth to tell her to cease her prattle, but as soon as he touched her, the words failed him.
She was flushed with anger, her cheeks rosy, her dark eyes wide, and her lips were parted slightly.
Suddenly, he wanted her so badly that he could taste it.
He wanted to taste her. He wanted to thrust his tongue into her mouth and his fists into her hair. He wanted to pull her up against him and ease the ache in his loins. He wanted to see her eyes hazy with desire and feel her tremble beneath his hands.
He wanted her.
Dunstan told himself it was the memory of the camp, the brush with death, that made him want to seize life, however briefly. But as he stared down at her, he knew that the need plaguing him could be assuaged by no other woman. He wanted only this one. Now.
She was staring up at him like a trapped doe, and he could hear her breathing, quick and shallow.
Dimly, he suspected that his own was coming loud and harsh.
Tightening his grip on her arms, Dunstan tried to gain control of himself, but only when she flinched under his hold did his mind clear enough to return to him.
In that instant, the flashing, hot moment was gone, the spell broken.
She blinked, as if suddenly released from some dark place—perhaps the same that had possessed him. “Dunstan de Burgh! Must you always bruise me?” she complained shakily.
He let go of her. “Come, we must be off,” he said roughly.
Turning away, he strode forward without even waiting to see if she followed.
His groin ached so painfully that he felt like seeing to himself.
That would certainly send the wren scurrying for cover, he thought grimly.
His lips curved at the image of touching himself in front of her, but his amusement fled swiftly, to be replaced by a swift surge of blood rushing through his body, heating him anew.
By faith, of all the women in the land, why did this single female affect him so?
Clenching his jaw, Dunstan marched forward.
To him, this bizarre attraction to one insignificant female was simply one more complication for which he had no time.
Mentally, he tried to calculate how many more days he would have to spend in her company.
If they could just reach Wisborough today, then he could find horses for them and perhaps an inn where they could spend the night.
He would welcome a warm, soft bed in which to rest his bones.
Unbidden, an image of Marion stretched out upon a feather tick, with her body loosely gowned and her hair spread out around her, came to his mind.
Dunstan swore aloud and turned his head round to glare at her.
She was walking with head bent, despair etched across her usually composed features, and Dunstan felt a sharp pain inside himself, as if someone had lanced a wound he did not remember taking.
He shuddered for a moment, uncharacteristic indecision making him pause.
Then, with a growl of annoyance, he reached out, unable to stop himself from touching her.
He saw her swift glance of surprise, those great dark eyes of hers wide and rich as the finest velvet, as he took her hand.
He had only meant to comfort her, but the moment his ungloved fingers contacted the butter-soft leather that covered her own, the air sizzled between them as if a storm were brewing.
Her dark gaze flew to his again, startlement followed swiftly by a heart-stopping languor that made him want to toss her down upon a bed of grass and thrust into her.
She wanted him, too.
The thought sent his head reeling, but all the connotations were lost in the shrill call of a bird overhead.
Distractions. Complications. Dunstan thought of his dead men and cursed himself for a randy fool.
Like as not, he would find his pleasure followed by an arrow in the back when his enemies discovered him taking his leisure upon her.
And the wren… As much as he desired her, he did not want her life lost because of his own carelessness.
Dunstan dropped her hand, swearing silently this time, and trudged on.