Chapter Ten #2
Dunstan’s heat reached out to her, and she fought the urge to doze once again in the warm shelter of his body, for she was still determined to escape.
After all, the man had to sleep sometime, and when he did, she wanted to be ready.
Stifling a great yawn, Marion told herself to stay awake, but before she knew it, her mind was drifting, the image of the Wolf’s hand appearing before her eyes.
Was it only yesterday when she had been shocked at spending the night alone with him?
Now, she would willingly go into his arms, if he would but ask her.
Smiling, Marion dreamed of kissing the dark hairs that were scattered across his skin, the long fingers that held such strength and the roughened palm that had touched her own.
* * *
The rain woke her. It began dripping down through the leaves around dawn, striking her face until she opened her eyes.
Still groggy with sleep, Marion took a few minutes to realize where she was, but when she glanced around, Dunstan was already up, hurriedly preparing for another march.
Marion felt like groaning aloud—or throwing something at him.
The prospect of another day of walking filled her with loathing.
Her body ached, her feet were blistered, and she longed for nothing more than a soft bed where she could lay her head.
Instead, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with the Wolf of Wessex, who, from the looks of him, was even grumpier than usual.
A steady drizzle continued, obscuring the line of the road and forcing them to leave the cover of the trees, which ill suited Dunstan.
After a string of low oaths, he said they should reach Wisborough soon, but as every new hill rose and fell before them, Marion began to wonder.
And even the promise of approaching a village could not raise her spirits, for each step took them closer to Baddersly.
Although she had not surrendered her hopes for escape, Marion did not know how to get away in the mess that the world had become.
She could barely keep her footing on the slick grass and muddy hollows.
As the morning wore on, she was soaked to the bone, wet through cloak and gown and shift and skin—wet, tired and miserable.
Knight that he was, Dunstan plodded on as though oblivious to the conditions that tortured her, and his stoic silence added to her frustration.
The only time he even acknowledged her existence was when she slipped.
Then a strong arm would shoot out to steady her, but gradually those gestures began to resemble impatient tugs rather than chivalrous assistance.
The temper that Marion had only recently discovered in herself began to make itself known, urging her to stomp along in an ungainly manner that could not match the Wolf’s long, graceful strides.
Naturally, she slid again, prevented from a tumble into a puddle only by a swift, bone-crunching grip on her elbow.
She shook it off, stopped still right where she was and let the rain pelt her sodden cloak.
For a long moment, she stood watching as Dunstan trudged on ahead.
Then, suddenly, he turned around to glare at her, a question in his shadowed eyes.
Her first thought was that the insufferable man still looked as handsome as ever, even with water matting his dark hair to his head and dripping down his broad cheekbones past that incredible mouth.
Marion’s anger dimmed somewhat as helpless, hopeless love for him welled up in her, but she tried on one of his infamous grimaces and held her ground. “I am surprised, Dunstan de Burgh, that you do not pull out a length of rope, tie me to you and drag me along like chattel.”
His positively blank look told her that he was oblivious to his less than tender treatment of her.
Against her will, Marion’s heart melted some more.
She had to force her lips into a scowl. “Dunstan, I am a mass of bruises from your rough handling! Despite what you may think of me, I am a woman, and I am not made of leather and stone.”
A long silence followed in which his forest eyes seemed to burn into her. “Believe me, wren,” he finally said, his voice low and rough. “I am well aware that you are a woman.”
His tone made Marion catch her breath, but she told herself not to read anything into it.
How often had she imagined that Dunstan de Burgh was noticing her?
More times than she could count, and naught, so far, had come from it.
She steeled herself against the darkening of his gaze. “Then quit grabbing me!”
His eyes narrowed, and he gave her that look that said she was a woman all right—a baffling one. “You want me to let you fall headfirst into a ditch?”
“No.”
He put his hands on his hips. “Well, then, Marion, what exactly do you want?” The condescending tone that told her he thought her naught but a foolish female made her temper flare anew.
“What do I want? I will tell you what I want, Dunstan de Burgh, baron of Wessex. I want this to stop—all of this,” she said, raising a hand to encompass the surrounding area.
“And right now. Why should I trudge along in this rain on a march to my own death? It is bad enough that you are going to deliver me into the hands of a murderer, but must you torture me first?”
Marion could see the swift rise of irritation in the tightening of his mouth, but she went on.
“Let us just turn around, Dunstan, for the love of God! Take me to Campion or to Wessex or the nearest village. Or just leave me here! Go on. Go on about your business,” she said, moving her hand in a shooing gesture.
“Go on about your business and tell everyone that I died along with your train. It will hurt you naught to tell this small falsehood. And it will save my life!”
“My father—” Dunstan began, a grimace on his face, but Marion did not let him continue.
“Your father cares not what becomes of me.
And my uncle will be overjoyed to learn of my demise.
‘Twill save him the trouble of murdering me, and he will take all my lands in celebration. May he have joy of them.” Worn-out and dejected, she stared at Dunstan, hoping against hope for some sign of agreement.
“Are you finished?” he growled at her, his jaw clenched.
“No, I am not.” Marion plopped down upon a nearby rock. “I am staying right here. Go on, now,” she said, shooing him away again as she would a pesky fly. “And leave me be.”
He was not amused. “If you persist, Marion, I will be forced to carry you over my shoulder, and if you think you are miserable now, bumping along against my back is not going to be an improvement.”
With a soft curse, borrowed from Dunstan’s vast store, Marion rose and huffed past him as best she could.
They had veered away from the road along some kind of sheep track, and her slippers were sticking in the ooze.
It made a dignified display of contempt difficult, but she continued on, ignoring the towering figure that caught up with her effortlessly.
When they reached a small rise, Dunstan lifted his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the rain as was his habit, to have a look below. Marion did the same, and to her surprise, this time she saw something down in the hollow.
“Look there!” she said, pointing excitedly. “What is it?”
“A shepherd’s hut, perhaps,” Dunstan mused under his breath. “It does not look like much, but mayhap it will give us shelter from the storm.”
Shelter! Marion rushed forward eagerly, but when she did, one slipper caught in the ooze and she fell, facefirst, onto the soggy ground.
She came up sputtering to the sound of the Wolf’s laughter.
It rang out, deep and rich, and normally it would have touched her very heart.
But as she lifted herself from the wet, clinging dirt of the path, Marion was in no mood to admire anything about Dunstan de Burgh.
“You…you bugger!” she cried, echoing a word she had heard from his brothers. Anger flaring brightly, she shoved at his mailed chest with all of her might. Of course, her puny efforts did little but leave muddy marks on the front of his tunic—and send her careening backward.
This time, between gulps of laughter, he reached out to halt her fall, but suddenly the ground upon which she stood gave way and Marion’s feet dropped. She saw Dunstan’s wide-eyed look of surprise, and then they were both rolling and sliding down the muddy slope to the bottom of the hill.
Unhurt, Marion ended up on her back in a puddle at the base of the rise, but before she could catch her breath, Dunstan landed with a thud on top of her, knocking the wind from her body.
She opened her eyes to see his face above hers, the rain slashing down all around them and dripping from his face.
His dark hair hung in wet ribbons, his green gaze focused intently upon her.
Marion’s first thought was that he was crushing her, his great form bearing down on her with the weight of two men.
Just as she opened her mouth to protest, however, she realized that he had shifted his mass somehow, allowing her to gulp in some air.
He was up on his elbows, but still lying upon her.
With that recognition came the discovery that his body felt extremely good just where it was. She shut her mouth.
Rather bewildered, she looked up at him, and Dunstan caught her gaze, his green eyes damp and compelling.
For a long moment, neither of them breathed as whatever strange forces worked between them sprang to life.
Marion stilled, her humors rising feverishly while he hovered over her, his massive figure covering her own tiny one. Dunstan’s eyes darkened, unfathomable.
“‘Tis time for the reckoning between us, Marion,” he growled. And then he lowered his head.