Chapter Ten
Marion huddled in her blanket, watching Dunstan under lowered lashes.
They had spoken little during the day’s long, tiring march.
She had nursed her anger, and he had kept his thoughts to himself.
Like a wolf, he had prowled restlessly forward, growling under his breath and maintaining his distance, except for a few odd occasions when he had suddenly reached out to her.
At those moments, Marion could have sworn she saw dark desire flashing in his forest eyes.
She told herself she was imagining things.
The man had enough on his mind, between his grief and trying to keep them alive, without her putting dangerous thoughts in his head.
Besides, he did not even like her. He did not even believe her.
That stung, and Marion swallowed against a lump rising in her throat.
His disbelief stood between them like one of Campion’s walls—tall, cold and impregnable.
Although it pained her, Marion was not really surprised by the Wolf’s attitude.
That he had listened to her story at all was a small wonder.
Dunstan de Burgh was not a man for half-truths or half measures.
He liked things plain and simple, and with a sad smile, Marion knew her life could hardly be described in those terms.
Exhaustion rolled over her aching body in waves, threatening to drown her, but she struggled against it.
Focusing on Dunstan, she watched him, marking with her eyes the dark spill of his hair, the high curve of his cheek, the muscled contours of his great body.
And slowly, like a nameless fever, the strange heat that sparked between them roused her flagging body.
He would not light a fire, so they had eaten what food they had packed and made their bed at the foot of some trees.
He sat leaning against a trunk, his legs spread before him and his eyes closed, and Marion felt a sweet familiarity at the sight.
She concentrated on details to take with her when she left him: his thick lashes in repose against his skin and the shape of his hands, large but gentle, their backs dusted with hair.
Marion swallowed back a sound of shock at the sudden rise of her bodily humors.
What was it about his hands that made her feel like shivering?
She wondered if the rest of his body was covered with that fine coat of hair.
She had never seen any part of his flesh uncovered, save for his hands.
Perhaps that was why they seemed so exciting to her.
They were naked without his gauntlets, and they had the power to daze her with one touch.
Tearing her gaze away from his fingers, Marion noted the rise and fall of his massive chest and wondered how soon he would be asleep. Despite her aching feet and tired body, she had to stay awake until she was certain that he slept, for it was then that she meant to make her escape.
The thought held no joy for her, only a numbing inevitability.
Where once she would have been thrilled to outwit him, now Marion only felt an absurd longing for what could not be.
Ironically, of all the pain that fought for a hold upon her, the impending loss of Dunstan was uppermost. The return of her memory made all her griefs fresh and new, from the deaths of her parents to the slaughter of her train, but her love for the Wolf was so overwhelming that to leave him would cut more deeply than aught else.
Yet she could hardly stay with him just to be delivered to her enemy.
No matter how much she loved him, Marion refused to die needlessly for him.
And now, knowing the truth about her uncle, she was certain that death awaited her at Baddersly.
Although she could not prove that Harold Peasely was responsible for last night’s slaughter, she knew for certain that he had murdered her own train that autumn morn, a lifetime ago, when she had sought to leave him.
Closing her eyes, Marion called back those days after the death of her parents when she had been grief-stricken and lonely. In the bleak years that followed, she had become a shadow of herself, isolated and fearful of her uncle’s increasingly difficult moods and violent behavior.
Like someone removed, Marion thought of the woman she had been then and wanted to weep for her.
That woman could not have held her own against the de Burgh brothers, and she would never have had the courage to argue with the Wolf of Wessex.
If he had slammed her up against a tree, pinning her with his body and his dark green gaze, she would have fainted away.
With a wry smile, Marion thought perhaps it was best that she had lost her memory, for how else would she have found this new woman inside herself?
She closed her eyes to find an image of Dunstan forming in her mind, warming her even in the chill of the night.
If she were truly brave, she would offer herself up to the Wolf and let him devour her… .
Marion jerked awake and stared across at Dunstan’s shadowed form in the darkness.
How long had she dozed? She cursed her weary body as she scanned the blackness that surrounded them, but perhaps it was not too late to make her escape.
Listening to the Wolf’s breathing, low and even, Marion waited, her own breath caught perilously, until she was sure he was asleep.
Then she rose, slowly and stealthily, to make her departure.
Maybe this time he would not follow her. After all, he was needed back at Wessex, and had more pressing concerns than one wayward woman. If only he would just let her go and get on with his life…Marion turned as quietly as possible and took a step away from him.
“Going somewhere, wren?”
Marion jumped a good foot at the question, which emanated from the base of the tree where Dunstan lounged in the blackness. “I was…just thirsty,” she said. “Where did you put the flagon of water?”
“‘Tis beside you,” he snapped, and Marion noted the underlying anger in his tone.
Obviously, he did not believe her. She rooted noisily for the vessel, wondering how she was ever going to get away from him when he seemed never to sleep or let her out of his sight.
Taking a long swallow, she put the drink away, and glared at him across the darkness. The man was infuriating.
“Remember, Marion—you have made your last escape from me,” Dunstan said suddenly, his voice harsh with warning.
It was on the tip of her tongue to argue, but she had no desire to be trussed up and hauled back to Baddersly on the Wolf’s shoulder. And she would put nothing past Dunstan when he was in one of his moods. Let him think that she heeded him well; then she would do as she pleased.
“Yes, Dunstan,” she said meekly.
He grunted, incredulity evident in the sound, and Marion fought a smile.
Apparently, he accepted her agreement, however, for when he spoke again his tone was gentler.
“I shall judge myself just what kind of man this uncle of yours may be. You have no need to fear, wren, for I will not let anyone kill you.”
The gruff assurance was a small concession, but Marion’s heart swelled. She loved him so much that she was surprised he could not see it, rising up to overflow her and wash over him in the night. If only he would believe her… If only things were different…
“Now, come. Lie with me,” Dunstan said softly, extending his hand.
Taking his words at face value, Marion made a small sound of startlement as her body responded with a dizzying assent.
Although she had only vague ideas of what went on between a man and a woman, she felt helpless to deny such an invitation.
The Wolf of Wessex wanted her? Marion leaned forward eagerly, her love for him overriding her modesty, her caution and her good sense.
The hiss of Dunstan’s surprise rang out loudly in the stillness.
“Make your bed here beside me, wren, and get some sleep,” he ordered harshly.
Disappointment flooded Marion as she realized her mistake.
He did not want her to lie with him; he wanted her to lie near him—probably so he could prevent any further escapes.
For some reason, the knowledge made the backs of her eyelids prick with pressure.
Of all the foolishness! She had seen enough death and destruction this day to last her a lifetime, and yet she would weep because Dunstan de Burgh was not going to kiss her?
Marion smiled crookedly, glad that he could not see her features.
It was too dark for that, but she could still make out his arm, reaching toward her.
Gathering up her blanket obediently, Marion inched forward, then hesitated. His hand was still outstretched, waiting, and without a thought about it, Marion stripped off her glove and placed her bare hand in his.
It was wonderful. His fingers were so warm and strong. She had known that, of course, but she could never have guessed at the way his skin would feel against her own—delightfully rough and different, firm but gentle. She wanted to rub her palm against his in a soft caress.
He growled her name, so low and impatiently that it startled her, and Marion lifted her head, trying to see his face in the blackness. He said nothing more, but she could hear his breath, rapid as her own tripping heartbeat. A long minute passed by, and then another.
“Go to sleep,” Dunstan finally ordered gruffly.
He released her, and Marion knew a moment’s regret, but she felt good, too.
She had touched him, really touched him, her skin to his, and now she could take the memory of it with her when she left.
Nestling down beside him as he leaned against the tree, Marion pulled the cover over her and closed her eyes.