Chapter Eleven
Marion found herself staring at the moist whorl of hair on Dunstan’s massive chest, which led downward, inexorably, to the dark thatch at his thighs and the huge member that was rooted there.
Breathless and weak, she wrenched her gaze up to his face, only to find his eyes gleaming with a feral light, his lips curved in a wicked smile.
He reminded her forcibly of a wolf contemplating its prey.
He took a step forward. Shaking her head, Marion tried to back away but she felt the rough wall of the hut behind her. “I cannot undress here…with you,” she choked.
“Then I shall have to do it for you,” he said, grinning at her in that smug de Burgh manner that she had come to know so well from his brothers. He took another step, moving perilously close in the small confines of the hut.
“No!” Marion shifted aside. She looked around frantically, knowing that there was nowhere to go, nowhere on earth that the Wolf could not find her, and then she felt a strange sense of resignation.
To run was ridiculous, to argue futile. Dunstan had stripped her of choices; she did not wish him to take her clothes, as well. “I shall do it.”
“Good,” he said simply. As if to give her the strength to begin, he turned away and knelt to feed the budding fire.
Marion noticed how the glow cast his smooth, muscled body in gold and she was forced to admit that he was more beautiful than any man had the right to be.
Although Marion knew she had no business admiring him, she could not help it.
Her mind told her to glance away; her body had other ideas.
It leaned forward as if reaching for him of its own accord.
Her breasts grew taut, her nipples hard as they strained against the wet linen of her shift.
The sodden heaviness of her clothes, a miserable nuisance only moments before, now seemed an exotic weight, rubbing and clinging to her flesh.
Abruptly she wondered how it would feel to run her fingers down the contours of his back.
A sound escaped her, of shame or torment or desire, she was not quite sure. His eyes flicked up to her.
“Well?” The word held a wealth of impatience, and Marion hurried to keep the Wolf at bay.
Turning around, she fumbled clumsily with her bodice, fingers shaking.
She pulled at her gown, tugging at the wet material helplessly until it was whisked over her head with sudden ease.
Whirling, she found Dunstan standing only a handbreadth from her, his eyes alive with green fire, his mouth wearing that smile that was not a smile, his chest so close she could reach out and touch it—if she dared.
“Dunstan…please…” she whispered, uncomfortable with the proximity of his naked body, yet, paradoxically, wanting him nearer.
“Do you need more help?” he asked, his normally husky voice even deeper and rougher than usual. Although Marion shook her head slowly, he knelt before her and put his hand on her leg.
Mercy! When his fingers brushed against the bare flesh at the top of her hose, Marion nearly jumped.
Although she was astonished by his boldness, Dunstan bent to his task as if it were not a shocking intimacy.
After rolling down the wet material, his callused hands slid down her calf, lifted her foot and ran over her toes.
It was such a simple thing really, a kindly service that one person would perform for another, Marion told herself, and yet she found her knees growing weak.
Although Dunstan’s movements were measured and controlled, she sensed the intensity in him.
It was there, just below the civilized surface…
waiting. Dizzily, Marion wondered if he would again unleash the beast that she had seen outside, fierce and plundering.
And if he did, would she recoil or rejoice?
Just when Marion thought she might collapse from the heady thrill of his touch, Dunstan straightened slowly, his hands skimming to the hem of her shift.
“No! Not that, too!” she cried. In embarrassed panic, Marion struggled to hold on to it, but her paltry efforts were useless.
In an instant, her arms were lifted over her head and her only covering was gone.
She was naked, and Dunstan, clutching her undergarment in his hand, was staring at her.
It was not so much the lack of clothing that disturbed her, for she was used to sleeping nude, as was the norm. However, it was one thing to crawl between the sheets in this state; it was quite another to stand before a man in nothing but her flesh.
But she did, and she did not cringe. There was nowhere to hide, and nothing to drape over herself, for she knew all her things were soaking wet.
If Dunstan wished to see her, there was naught she could do about it.
Painfully aware of all her faults, Marion suspected that the Wolf would soon tire of his view, anyway.
In the meantime, Marion became absurdly concerned with her hair drying in its unruly waves. She lifted a hand to her head, but the sharp hiss of the Wolf’s indrawn breath made her drop it back to her side.
He was gazing at her with an fierceness that was nearly frightening.
His eyes had darkened in that manner she had come to associate with desire, but Marion sensed it was something stronger than that.
He looked…hungry. Uneasiness trickled up her spine, along with a budding excitement. She rubbed her arms warily.
“Day of God, wren. You are beautiful.” The words rushed from his wonderful mouth in a soft torrent, stunning her, for Dunstan spoke little. And Dunstan never lied. “Are you cold?”
Dazed by the compliment, Marion just stared at him. When she did not answer, he put aside her shift and moved toward his leather pouch. To her amazement, he pulled out a cover and threw it across her shoulders.
Released from her trance, Marion found her voice and used it. “Dunstan de Burgh! You had a dry blanket, and you made me stand here with nothing on!” Outraged, she balled a hand into a fist and thumped his chest. It was hard as stone.
Smiling wickedly, Dunstan caught her hand. “In truth, ‘tis only a loan, for we must use it on the bed,” he said with a nod toward the straw mattress. “I would not vouch for the cleanliness of our nest.”
Marion stilled, stunned by the notion that Dunstan planned to take the blanket from her—and by his reference to “our nest.” Were they to share the bed?
Surely he did not want to sleep now. Although the hut was dim because of the storm that howled around it, she judged it to be morning still. “But ‘tis broad day!” she protested.
Although Dunstan did not reply, his lips turned up at the corners, and his eyes gleamed like a deep forest, lush and welcoming.
Glancing nervously at the narrow bed, Marion stepped back, but he followed, his fingers tightening upon her wrist. She bumped into the hut, and the blanket slipped, exposing her shoulders.
Dunstan stared at them. “I care not for the time,” he said roughly.
Even though Marion could move no farther, he came closer, stopping only when his huge body nearly touched her own.
Putting a hand to the wall beside her head, he leaned forward and bent his head, that de Burgh hair, darker and richer than sable, falling forward.
“‘Tis time for our reckoning, Marion,” he whispered.
He loomed over her, so big, so beautiful and so assured that she could only stare up at him wide-eyed.
“I have wanted you ever since you fell out of that tree into my arms. You have bewitched me, wren, just as surely as you did my brothers, and I can resist you no more. Enchantress…”
Alarmed by his speech, Marion felt compelled to protest. “I am no enchantress, Dunstan!” she said. “I am but a simple female—short, rather plain and past marriageable age.”
“Tell that to my brothers,” Dunstan replied with sudden ferocity, his eyes glinting brightly.
“Your brothers think upon me as a sister!” Marion cried.
Smiling in a manner that told her that, as usual, he did not quite believe her, Dunstan released her wrist and lifted his hand to her shoulder.
Extending one finger, he ran it slowly along the edge of the blanket, across her arm and over the uppermost curve of her chest. The blanket drifted slightly, and Marion drew in a breath, then watched in fascination as his dark skin slid across hers again.
His finger made its way over the swelling of one breast, then the other, before it slipped underneath the fabric.
Marion shivered.
“Ah, yes. Tremble for me, wren,” Dunstan said, his face suddenly dark with passion.
“I want you trembling beneath me as I fill you.” His eyes took on a feral gleam, his lips parting slightly as if he could already taste his prey, and Marion realized that whatever he wanted, she could not gainsay him.
Whether a convent or death or exile awaited her, what use to keep her maiden’s virtue?
She loved Dunstan de Burgh with every breath of her body, and whether sinful or no, she would take this chance to know him as a woman.
Any moment now she might wake up to find this all a dream, a frenzied fantasy brought on by the long, wet march and her love for the man before her. Why not glory in it?
Marion was disinclined to let go of this vision without savoring each moment. Gathering her courage, she reached out and laid her palm against the soft matting of hair upon his chest.
The Wolf growled a low sound of encouragement as his hand moved into her hair to drag her face to his. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deep and hot, in a kiss that acknowledged her surrender. Between them, the blanket slipped from her lifeless fingers, and their naked bodies came together.