Chapter Fifteen
From past experience, Marion guessed that Dunstan would sleep like the dead after performing so lustily. He was snoring again, a good sign that he would not wake easily, and Marion knew this was her chance. She slid out of bed.
She dressed quietly, without glancing toward him. She did not want to remember the rough, hot bliss of their mating, for then she might be tempted to stay with a man who did not love her—who did not even believe in such tender emotions.
Although Dunstan had promised her a home and family, Marion knew their marriage would be but a hollow mockery of the happy life at Campion.
As innocent as she was, she could tell the difference between true caring and desire.
Passion, she suspected, was all that she would ever get from her husband.
And when it faded? She could never again bear to be shut away from life, shunted aside, locked away… .
Swallowing a lump in her throat, Marion wasted precious minutes groping in the dark for his belt and the bag that held her jewels.
When she found them right beside the bed, she realized that Dunstan did not expect her to flee him now that they were wed.
The thought moved the thickness in her throat down into her chest, filled to bursting with yearning and grief.
Although she knew she must hurry, Marion found that her limbs were slow to move, as if her body, disputing her brain’s plans, was reluctant to leave.
But she knew that this night held her best chance for escape.
He was asleep, unsuspecting and…vulnerable.
Unwilling to think of the Wolf in such terms, Marion disregarded her own observations, but they continued nonetheless. And when he woke to find her gone?
He would feel betrayed.
Trying to ignore her sudden, fierce sympathy for the man who did not love her, Marion forced her rebellious legs to action and crept carefully to the window.
She opened the shutters and looked out to total blackness.
In town, the darkness seemed absolute, and it took her a while to see the ground below.
From the high, narrow ledge, she would have quite a jump, but if she could climb out and swing herself down, she could manage it.
The sudden sound of voices below made Marion freeze where she was, for she had no desire to land among a group of ruffians, especially at this hour. Although she could not tell how many they were in the darkness, Marion heard one man speak, low yet clearly as they approached.
“They are here at the inn,” he said.
“Are you certain?”
“Aye. The innkeeper said a huge, dark-haired knight and a tiny lady took all of one room from him. Although the fellow feared to betray Wessex, he was more than ready to accept my money. We shall have no trouble gaining entrance.”
They passed right beneath her window as Marion stood stock-still above, frozen in shock. Someone was after them. Her uncle! Unsure of how much time they had before the knaves would burst into the room, Marion rushed to the bed. She put a finger to Dunstan’s lips and her mouth to his ear.
“There are men in the alley coming for us!” she whispered frantically.
She did not have to speak again. The Wolf was up instantly, pulling on his clothes, while she grabbed their pouches.
With astonishing speed, he swung his great, agile body out the narrow window and dropped to the ground.
In another moment, she was in his arms and they were off, running around the back of the building to where the horse was stabled.
Mounting in tense silence, they galloped off into the darkness even as the disappointed shouts of their pursuers rose to meet their ears from the room they had left behind.
They did not take the road, but wound out into the darkness until Marion was hopelessly confused. Dunstan seemed to know where they going, so she made no argument, but slept against him, grateful now that they shared a mount.
He had purchased a bow and arrows in Stile, which he put to good use come morning, and they dared a small fire to dine on roast hare.
Although Marion had a hand in cooking it, she swore nothing had ever tasted as good.
When she said so, Dunstan rewarded her with one of his infrequent, flashing smiles, and, for the moment, she was content.
The night’s near calamity had convinced her that, for now, they were both safer together.
Although she still had no intention of living as wife to the Wolf of Wessex for the rest of their days, Marion would stay close by him at least until her uncle no longer posed a threat.
Then she would decide what to do and where to go.
“You did well last night, Marion.” Surprised at Dunstan’s words, she glanced up to see his eyes upon her, grave and proud.
Stunned, Marion could not stop the swell of love she felt for him.
When he looked at her this way, as an equal instead of a mindless fool, she felt the power of him, right down to her bones.
Strength, dignity, loyalty, gentleness and a fierce protectiveness—the Wolf had all these in abundance.
Would that he showed her less growling and more of this side of him, and Marion might be tempted to stay with him forever.
Swallowing the last of her rabbit with difficulty, Marion basked in the warm glow of his praise, so rarely given.
“Your attentiveness and quick thinking saved our lives,” Dunstan added. His face was serious, his words simple and sincere. He did not rant about his own helplessness, asleep in the bed, nor did he make light of her part, as some men might have done.
Words did not come easily to him, and knowing that, Marion was well pleased with his speech. She smiled at him, her love for the Wolf threatening to spill out of her, for he was, indeed, a different beast than he once had been. “Thank you,” she said.
“Thank you, my wife,” he said gruffly. Marion began to wonder if she had earned his respect at last. How ironic that she should prove herself in what had begun as an attempt to escape him.
Praise God that Dunstan would never know that small truth!
He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him, and she saw something in his face for a fleeting moment that stole her breath.
“It seems that I am well served in our marriage,” he said.
Then it was gone, and he rose to put out the fire, leaving Marion to gape after him, uncertain how to respond. Was he being sarcastic or serious? Did he make reference to her own discontent, which, she knew, tried him sorely? Or was he, truly, satisfied?
Too confused to reply, Marion said nothing, and when it became apparent that Dunstan was not going to elaborate, she rose and washed her hands in the nearby stream.
When she returned, Dunstan was seated, his back against a tree, his knees bent before him.
His concentration was focused on an arrow that he held between his hands, and he turned it slowly while he studied it.
As she watched, Marion realized it was not any shaft, but the one he had taken from the sentry’s body at their ill-fated camp.
Having carried it south to Baddersly, he kept it still.
Marion made some noise at the discovery, and he looked up at her, a question on his handsome features.
Seeing her distress, he said simply, “We know not who came upon us last night.”
“No,” Marion agreed, after a brief hesitation.
She had related the overheard conversation to him already, and though she assumed the men under their window to have been sent by her uncle, nothing in their speech had given away their identity.
She sighed softly. “Mayhap everyone in the world is out to do us murder.”
Dunstan smiled grimly. “It seems that way, does it not, wren?” He gazed down at the missile, running it through his fingers and examining the fletch.
Then, as if suddenly seized by an idea, he leaned forward and sniffed it.
His eyes narrowed, and his features grew taut and troubled at the scent, but before Marion could ask him what that meant, he put it to his mouth and tasted it.
She stared, astonished, as Dunstan’s jaw clenched and his handsome face became more hard and set than she had ever seen it.
“What is it?” she managed to squeak.
Glancing up at her, Dunstan appeared strangely distant for a moment, as though he did not know her.
Then he hefted the weapon in his hand. “This arrow was made with hide glue, not a fish-based substance,” he explained.
At her blank look, he added, “‘Tis more expensive and not widely employed, but I know someone who uses naught else.”
“Who?” Marion asked, half fearful of the answer.
“My neighbor, Fitzhugh.” He hissed the name like an obscenity, and Marion blanched.
She had heard Dunstan speak of the man before, as an enemy of Wessex, but why would Fitzhugh slaughter their train?
Dunstan had been on an errand for Campion, escorting a woman south to her home.
What business would Fitzhugh have with them?
“But surely our camp was too far from your holdings to attract this man’s attention,” Marion protested. “Why would Fitzhugh follow you so far?”
Even she was startled by the black hatred that passed over the Wolf’s face, reminding her what a ferocious warrior he would be when roused.
“Why?” he asked, in a tone heavy with bitterness. His eyes met hers over the tip of the arrow he now clutched in a death hold. “I would give you an answer in one word, Marion—murder.”
Marion drew in a sharp breath at his reply. He had spoken of Fitzhugh as harrying his people and his lands, but cold-blooded murder? “Why?” she asked again.