Chapter Fourteen #3
“Wren…” He whirled away, and in that moment, Marion’s fragile determination shattered. Had he argued further, she would have remained steadfast; had he growled and cursed, she would have been unmoved. But whatever he felt, he did not want her to see it. Perhaps he did not want to see it himself.
Placing his hands upon the back of a settle, he leaned upon it, his great shoulders sagging and his dark head lowered in a pose of defeat she had never expected to see the Wolf assume.
Marion was lost.
Blinking back the tears that threatened, she knew then just how much she loved him—enough to concede her hard-won freedom for now. Perhaps forever.
“All right, Dunstan,” she said.
* * *
True to his word, Dunstan fed her. They stopped at a tavern for hot stew cradled in loaves of bread and then left, taking it with them, for Dunstan had no wish to stay inside for the meal.
As a lone knight and a lovely woman, they were conspicuous, and without his men, Dunstan felt too vulnerable to linger, especially when Peasely might still be looking for them.
The stealth did not sit well with Dunstan, a man used to open warfare and honest dealings.
He felt naked without his knights, and frustrated, but he could do nothing more to protect Marion and he had no wish to spend his wedding night on the road.
Still, he chose a room at a quiet inn near the edge of town, in case a quick departure became necessary.
Although he was fairly certain that Peasely would not be searching this far east, he would not gamble his life upon it, or the life of his wife.
His wife. There was something strangely satisfying in the knowledge that he possessed the wren. She was his, now and forever, to warm his bed every night, to nurture him in that motherly way of hers, to bestow upon him the light of that smile, complete with dimples….
Dunstan scowled. There had been little enough smiling of late.
Although the wren had capitulated, she bore no resemblance to a beaming bride.
On the contrary, she had about her an indefinable air of sadness that made her seem even more fragile and small.
It was like a mantle of grief, appropriate if he had killed her horse or some such despicable deed, but hardly justified by his noble gesture of marriage.
Her manner pricked at his pride and made him surly, and with each grimace and growl, Dunstan felt her slipping farther away.
By faith! Where was the Marion who had pressed him down upon the bank of the stream, pleasuring him with her touch and her mouth?
This doe-eyed creature was but a shadow of that woman, and if this was love, he could well live without it!
Dunstan snorted in disgust at the thought.
Female foolishness! Courtly songs and poems celebrating this fanciful emotion did naught but make a married woman unhappy with her lot and set her to dreaming of some pasty-faced bard who dripped honeyed phrases over her hand, but could not hold a sword.
What good were sweet words? A woman should be content with a decent home, a life free from want and toil and a strong man to protect her.
That was just what he could provide for Marion. Why then was she not happy? Why were women so wretchedly perverse?
Grunting in bafflement, Dunstan glanced toward her. After having eaten in silence and prepared for the night like a doomed woman receiving her last food and rest, Marion lay in the big bed, covers up to her chin, just as though she were a virgin looking forward to a night of ill usage.
Well, he knew better, and so did she, by faith!
Dunstan let his mail fall to the floor loudly.
She did not flinch, but remained still and silent, in her composed pose, which annoyed him further.
He wanted her to smile at him, dimples and all, to beckon to him in her own innocently alluring way, to show some small measure of contentment in their marriage.
She did not. Blowing out the candle, Dunstan quickly shed his garments in the darkness and stepped to the bed.
“Have you no welcome for your husband?” he asked.
Although her manner sorely plagued him, his body was already responding to the thought of her naked beneath the sheets.
His wife. He climbed in beside her and stretched out.
“Yes, I welcome you, Dunstan.” Her voice was soft and sad, irritating him further. He moved atop her, bracing his arms at her sides and sliding his fingers into hers, as if by his own strength, he could bend her to his will.
“I have no honeyed words for you, wife,” he ground out harshly.
“I know that, Dunstan.” Her voice broke, and he thought she might be crying.
Day of God, what a wedding night! He felt like rolling from her, but he was already painfully hard.
Her soft breasts pressed up into his chest, and he could smell the earthy scent of her hair, like flowers and fresh fields.
He wanted her. He had an insidious suspicion that he always would.
“I would give you my protection, and a home and children,” he rasped, his breath coming faster.
“I know.”
“Then what is it?” Dunstan growled, impatient with her mood.
“You will not give me love or respect or freedom of will.”
Dunstan snorted. More female foolishness. Perhaps it was her flux time. He pressed her wrists into the mattress. “But I will give you pleasure, wren,” he whispered before he took her mouth with his own and silenced all debate.
He was hungry for her. The morning’s joining in the stream seemed years ago, and he had to have her, like a man possessed.
He was grateful that she was, indeed, no virgin, for he did not have the restraint he had shown in the shepherd’s hut.
Not tonight. Not when she was well and truly his, and he must needs possess her.
His lips moved across her tender cheek to her throat and slid along the sweet slim column to the round curve of her shoulder.
By faith, she felt so good. The passion that always sparked between them flared brightly, heating his blood and dazing his mind.
What magic did this woman weave that made all his senses keener, all his feelings run deeper?
Moving lower, he tasted her breasts, full and firm and round, suckling them until she whimpered and writhed beneath him.
Whatever else stood between them, here in bed there were no constraints—or complaints.
Dunstan smiled smugly, using his knee to nudge apart her legs and positioning himself between her thighs.
Wife, he thought when he filled her in one eager motion. My wife. His fingers still entwined with hers as he thrust home, again and again, into the sweet, hot haven of her body. Day of God, nothing could ever be so good as this….
She was making the pleasure sounds that excited him beyond bearing, flinging her head from side to side as she rose to meet him eagerly.
And when she cried out, Dunstan cut it off with his mouth, drawing in the frenzied joy of her climax and plunging himself over the edge into the violent, shuddering world of surcease.