Chapter Fourteen #2
With a low oath, Dunstan told himself it mattered not. They would reach Stile soon enough and there the business would be finished. Despite any protestations to the contrary, Marion Warenne was going to be his wife, and despite his own ill humor, Dunstan took a certain grim satisfaction in it.
* * *
He was in one of his moods again, grunting and growling at her like a baited bear, and Marion was too distraught herself to find it at all amusing or endearing.
Although she hurried beside him, her thoughts were directed toward leaving Dunstan de Burgh, her plans for escape only momentarily thwarted by the tight grip of his hand upon her arm.
Stile was a town, not a village, and when she saw the crowded marketplace, Marion hoped to disappear among the stalls.
Dunstan seemed to read her mind, however, for the minute they came to the busy streets, he took hold of her.
Although she knew that he was being careful not to bruise her, his grasp was firm, and she could hardly fight the strength of the Wolf of Wessex.
He had asked after a horse market, and now here they were, Dunstan striding back and forth, dragging her with him, as he viewed the mares and foals, palfreys and chargers.
He halted before the largest beast there, eyeing it up and down, and although it was not as huge as his old destrier, Dunstan seemed well pleased.
Marion was tugged along while he investigated the horse further, and then, apparently satisfied, haggled with the seller.
Plotting her escape, she listened but absently to their conversation.
Perhaps tonight, after he fell asleep… Even the Wolf of Wessex could not stay awake forever, and it would be so easy to vanish among all these buildings in the darkness.
When Dunstan lowered his voice, Marion turned her attention back to him.
Tall and threatening-looking, the Wolf was asking the man where he got his stock and if he had seen any horses put up for sale in the past week.
Surprised, Marion realized Dunstan was describing his destrier and the mounts that had served his men.
A waste of time to look for them here, she thought dismally, when they were, no doubt, filling up her uncle’s stables.
A saddle, which Dunstan claimed was a sad piece of workmanship, was found and the purchase completed. Then Dunstan mounted and lifted her up before him. Marion had barely settled in against his chest when he turned the beast away from the market to head down the street.
“Wait! Where is my horse?” Marion asked, straining to turn toward him.
“This is it, wren. Under the circumstances, I thought it best if we share,” he said, giving her a tight, hard smile.
His features were set in a scowl, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
Marion whirled back around. Obviously, he was beginning to know her too well.
He expected her to bolt, and he was not happy about it.
Well, let the Wolf grunt and growl. She cared not! His boorish behavior only made her more eager to be rid of him forever! Pressing a hand to her skirts, Marion smoothed the material and stared straight ahead.
She spoke not another word, so they traveled in silence until Dunstan reined the horse to a halt in front of a stone building. He deftly slid to the ground and then pulled her down beside him. Did she imagine it, or did his hands linger at her waist, his breath caressing her hair intimately?
Marion glanced up at him to see his face taut above hers, his eyes glittering and dark. Despite his foul temper, he wanted her, and she knew it. Her fingers dug into the huge muscles of his upper arms even as her heart swelled…and her stomach protested loudly.
He smiled, flashing his white teeth in a way that made her knees wobble. “Behave inside and I will feed you, wren,” he promised.
Marion found her voice, with difficulty. “Where are we going now?”
“We have one more bit of business to take care of, and then we shall find an inn and fill your belly.” Dunstan’s mouth curled up at that, as if he saw some private amusement in the words, then he hurried her inside.
It took Marion’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, but all too soon, she realized where they were. A church! Rage sparked in her, surprising in its intensity, for she had never felt such anger before, even toward her uncle.
For a moment, she tried to check it, but it only flared higher, driven by weeks of ill usage. By faith, ever since she met him, Dunstan de Burgh had dragged her this way and that, according to his male whims, while ignoring her wishes and her feelings. It was going to stop now.
“No.” Wrenching herself from his grasp, Marion turned and folded her arms in front of her, her legs spread in an echo of the Wolf’s own unyielding stance. “You cannot force me to marry you, Dunstan.”
Glaring at her, he swore a low string of foul curses, and then swung away, as if he would put a fist through one of the wooden settles.
“Watch your tongue! Have you no respect for the Lord’s house?”
At her reprimand, Dunstan growled out his displeasure.
In one swift, graceful movement, he whirled around, put his hands upon his hips, and stared down at her, his face implacable.
Out of the corner of her eye, Marion saw a priest approach them, only to take one look at Dunstan, turn tail and scurry back into the shadows.
But Marion did not retreat. She simply stared right back at the man towering over her, and she realized, suddenly, how very silly she must appear, one tiny female standing up to this huge, dangerous knight. She realized, too, that neither one of them saw anything odd in their confrontation.
The Wolf, it seemed, had become used to her arguments. He did not use his great strength to subdue her, nor did he threaten her with it. He was furious, and yet he waited, determined to sway her by sheer force of his will. He was not tamed, by any means, but he had changed….
“Why, Marion?” he finally said, in an oddly strained voice. “Give me one good reason why you deny me. Give me one good reason, and perhaps I shall reconsider my course.”
Marion looked up at the face that meant so much to her, and her anger dwindled away. Her refusal had stung his pride. The evidence was there in his green eyes, fierce and bright, as they sought her own. He was truly baffled, and yes, perhaps even hurt, by her rejection.
Suddenly, Marion wanted nothing more than to reassure him, to soothe his wounded dignity, to lift her hands to his face and kiss his wonderful mouth, proving to him just how much she would like to marry him—if only things were different.
Instead, her gaze slid away from his piercing one.
“Because you do not love me,” she whispered.
Dunstan snorted loudly, and she saw him throw back his head as if he would laugh, but noting her horrified expression, he restrained himself. He frowned at her instead. “Of all the ridiculous notions!”
Marion reached down to smooth her gown, as though by that gentle motion, she might ease her aching heart.
What use to tell him the truth, for he only scoffed, as she should have known he would?
Obviously, the Wolf had not changed very much, after all.
She looked down at her hands and then clasped them neatly together before her.
Although she said nothing, Marion could feel his eyes upon her, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, as if he sensed her distress.
Still, his exasperation showed in his tone and in his question.
“We are talking about life and death, here, Marion, of protecting you from your uncle, and you are worried about love?”
When she glanced up at him, Marion realized that he had on his long-suffering face, the one he wore whenever he thought her foolish.
He stepped closer, his speech measured in an apparent attempt to appeal to her better sense.
“Marion, love is naught but some silliness concocted by the troubadours.
‘Tis not something known to real men and women, to husbands and wives.”
Marion felt a pang at his words, along with a deep sadness for him—and for herself.
How could she convince him? Arguing with the Wolf was a useless enterprise, and yet she had to try.
She held her fingers tightly before her, drawing strength and composure from the familiar pose.
“Yes, it is, Dunstan, for I know my parents loved each other,” she said, her head bent, her throat thick.
“And do not tell me that your father did not love his wives.”
Dunstan hesitated, obviously caught unawares by her statement, and Marion felt emboldened as long as she did not look at him. She went on, recklessly taking the final step, baring her soul in one heedless moment. “I know love exists, Dunstan, because I feel it myself…for you.”
Marion heard his harsh hiss of surprise, and then he was silent for so long that she yearned to take back her confession.
When she finally dared peek up at him, she saw something pass across his face, as if he were involved in some inner struggle with himself, before it was gone, subdued by his supreme discipline.
His handsome features revealed nothing as he took her hands gently.
“All the more reason to marry me, then,” he said, his lips curving in the most pathetic excuse for a smile she had ever seen.
Marion drew back at his attempt to humor her.
She had tried to pierce that thick hide of his and failed.
Obviously, the Wolf felt nothing for her, and her wrenching admission had won her naught but his contempt.
It was no more than she had expected, yet it pained her still.
She smoothed out her gown, ostensibly concerned only with each rumple and crease.
“Marion…”
“No,” she said softly.