Chapter Thirteen
Disturbed by a noise, Marion awoke with a start, fear coursing through her as she remembered who she was and where she slept.
Her first thought was that her uncle was at the door, ready to slip in and murder her in her bed, but then she heard it again, the rasping of metal against stone.
She froze, her body immobile but for wide eyes that turned in the direction of the grating sound.
In the utter darkness of her room, she found the lighter midnight of her window. Was something hanging over the sill?
Although she wanted to close her eyes and remain where she was, Marion knew that she could hardly lie prone, waiting for a possible attack.
Forcing herself to move, she rose as silently as a wraith and crept along the wall toward the opening.
Her heart thudded in her ears, threatening to deafen her when she realized that a pickax was slung through the open shutters.
As Marion watched, it jerked, embedding itself more firmly, and she saw that a rope was tied securely around it, taut and swaying as if…
Marion stifled a gasp as a huge shape filled the window.
Stiff with horror, she frantically glanced about for something to use against the intruder.
Whoever managed to scale the smooth side of the tower could only mean to do her ill, she knew, and yet when she looked into the shadowed face of her assassin, she felt dizzy and uncertain.
“Marion?” The sound of that voice, calling her as if from her dreams, made her tremble so violently that her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, convinced that she had finally lost her mind. For how could he be here?
“Marion!” A soft thump announced that he was inside her room, and then he was kneeling before her, his deep tones husky with concern. Mad she might be, but she flung herself into his embrace in the hope that he was real.
“Dunstan!” Wrapping her arms around his neck, Marion buried her face against his throat.
Warm and throbbing with his pulse beat, it proclaimed that he was no vision, but a living, breathing man.
His scent, familiar and potent, surrounded her, along with his terrific heat, and she pressed her lips to his skin, tasting the salt there.
He made an incoherent sound, took her face in his huge hands and kissed the very soul from her.
The Wolf was devouring her again, and Marion welcomed it, meeting his thrusting tongue with her own and twining her fingers in his long locks to tug him closer. Love for him surged through her, driving away all else—her heartache, her fear and whatever modesty she still possessed.
In some inner recess of her mind, Marion realized that she would happily mate with him upon the cold stone floor, so glad was she to see him again.
She had thought never to look upon his beloved face, and yet here he was, bursting into her room and her world, a huge, vital presence, greater than ever.
When he broke the kiss, Marion clung to him so that he took her up with him as he rose to his feet. “Come, wren,” he murmured, setting her forcibly from him. “We do not have much time. Your uncle’s men are looking for me.”
Why was he here? Where was he taking her?
Endless questions leaped to her tongue, but Marion bit them back, for now was not the time to talk.
As she watched in amazement, Dunstan slung a leg through the window in one graceful movement, gripped the rope that hung from the ax and lowered himself outside.
He beckoned her from his airy perch, but Marion remained where she was, her feet firmly planted on the floor. Although the bailey was lost in blackness below, she knew just how far up they were, and the knowledge was not comforting.
“Me?” she whispered. Pointing to her chest, Marion thought that she might have understood his gesture, but unfortunately, Dunstan nodded. He wanted her to climb out there with him. She felt faint.
“Come, wren. Put your arms around me. I will keep you safe.” His gruff reassurance touched her heart, and drawing a deep breath, the new Marion stepped onto the ledge and locked her hands around his neck.
“Put your legs around me, too,” he directed, and somehow she managed to grip him with her thighs.
Even through his mail, Marion could feel the heat of him seep into her, and she blushed to recall the last time she had been similarly positioned.
Then all such thoughts vanished as she hung on for dear life while he took them down the rope, bit by bit, hand over hand, kicking off from the side of the tower at intervals in a way that made her stomach lurch.
By the time they reached the lower window, Marion was in awe of his strength.
Although she had known that his muscles were massive, she was still amazed that he carried her as if she were naught but a bit of cloth against his chest.
When they finally dropped to the ground, Marion eased out a sigh of relief, which was stopped by Dunstan’s finger upon her lips, warning her to silence.
Although he had freed her from her locked room, they were still inside Baddersly’s walls, at the mercy of her uncle.
She stilled, suitably cowed by his reminder, and yet her blood thrummed with the knowledge that the Wolf was here. He had come for her.
Pulling her into the black entrance of a nearby storage building, Dunstan whispered in her ear. “Shall we brave our way through the gate?” She looked up at his darkened features, uncertain whether he was asking her advice or questioning her courage. Either way, she could give him only one answer.
“Yes,” she said softly. He had come to take her away.
A grunt of approval met her response. “From what I have seen, most of the soldiers are drunk and security is lax. I doubt that anyone will question someone leaving the grounds. Know you any different?” Dunstan asked.
Marion felt a jolt of pleasant surprise. Was Dunstan de Burgh actually consulting with her? “I thought you said my uncle was searching for you,” she whispered.
“Yes, but they plan to waylay me on the road.”
“Oh,” Marion said softly, finding little comfort in his words.
“Come, wren,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
“We must hurry before your absence is discovered.” He pulled her along then, flitting from the shadows of one building to the next, stopping only when he heard a sound.
They waited, in tense silence, behind one hut, until Marion wondered what was keeping them there.
Then he leaned close. “Is this the brewery?”
“Yes,” Marion answered. She watched in surprise as he flung a leg through the low window and slipped inside.
He was back in a moment, a vessel in hand, which he put to his lips.
He was thirsty? Stepping back, Marion realized that the man positively reeked of ale.
“Did you fall in?” she asked with a sniff.
She could have sworn she heard the low rumble of laughter in answer.
“Nay, wren, but I would douse us both. Wait, cover your finery,” he said, and to Marion’s amazement, he pulled out her old cloak from his pouch.
After she had wrapped it about her, he sprinkled her liberally with the brew.
“We are naught but two peasants returning home to our cot,” he whispered fiercely.
For a moment, Marion did not understand, but when Dunstan began weaving drunkenly toward the gate, with her in tow, understanding dawned clearly.
He had pulled his own cloak about him to hide his mail, and Marion only hoped that whoever manned the entrance would not look too closely in the darkness.
Marion’s heart was pounding so loudly that she feared the soldiers would hear, but they barely looked up when Dunstan approached, singing a ribald ditty in a coarse voice.
He was slouching in an attempt to hide his size, she realized, and she clung to his side, as if to hold him up when he staggered.
Each step was perilous, and Marion felt a bone-deep terror that she had never known in her other escape attempts.
One swift glance at her companion told her the source of her newfound fear.
He was rescuing her. He was risking his life for her.
And although she was well used to her own being threatened, she could not bear to imagine anything happening to the Wolf.
The walk past the walls seemed endless, but Dunstan continued his charade, only lengthening his strides as they moved farther away from Baddersly.
The cloud-covered moon lit their way faintly, making the road a dim line, and Marion was watching it closely, trying to keep up with Dunstan’s long legs when he stumbled and fell, dragging her down on top of him with a low oath.
Absolute panic knifed through her, along with the certainty that he had just been struck through the back with an arrow.
Struggling for her voice, she cried out his name in a broken whisper.
“Hush,” he warned. “For the benefit of anyone watching, we have just passed out upon the road. We will stay here for a while, then roll into the grass. When I tell you to run, we must go low, crouching, to avoid any chance sighting from a soldier on the battlements. We will head over that hill, bearing west for now to throw them off the scent.”
Off the scent? Marion froze as the implication of his words became clear. “Think you that my uncle will send his men after us?”
“I am certain of it,” he answered grimly. “I am sorry that I did not believe you sooner, wren, but I do now. Your uncle is, indeed, a murderer.”
“How do you know?” Marion asked.
“Because he is out to kill me.”
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