Chapter Seventeen
When Dunstan awoke, it was to sharp pain.
He opened his eyes to see an old servant cleansing a wound upon his chest. He was in his bed at Wessex and, for a moment, wondered groggily what had happened.
Every muscle in his body ached, his face throbbed, and his throat was dry and sore. Had he been in some battle?
Glancing blearily around the room, Dunstan saw his brothers Geoffrey and Simon…
at Wessex? He shut his eyes in an effort to concentrate, and suddenly the past day came rushing back to him, along with a sense of peace.
Fitzhugh was dead, his castle was his own, and he could now turn his attention to putting it to rights.
All was well again, and yet…something was missing.
Marion. Day of God, where was his wife? Dunstan’s mouth seemed inordinately dry and his lips slow to work, but he finally croaked out her name. “Marion.”
“What?” Geoffrey stepped closer, his voice heavy with concern.
“Marion,” Dunstan whispered.
“Marion? Oh, Marion! She is well. We left her at Campion,” Geoffrey said.
Relief spilled through him like sunlight.
The wren was all right! But why was she at his father’s house?
Dunstan frowned. “Have someone fetch her here.” He wanted her with him.
She was his wife, whether she would or no, and her place was at his side.
He scowled more deeply as the old woman probed his injuries, and then he grunted aloud, his eyes flying open to glare at her.
“Is that rib broken, my lord?” she asked him, a pensive look on her aged face.
“No,” Dunstan barked, rising onto his elbows.
His brothers must have carried him upstairs and stripped him of his clothes, for now he lay in bed, like a babe, and it pleased him not.
He growled out a protest, but it came out more like a cat’s mew than the angry cry of a wolf.
“Cease your poking, woman. I am fit,” he managed to snarl.
“You were beaten most severely, my lord,” she argued.
“‘Twas terrible. I saw it all.” She opened her mouth as if to expound upon the episode to his brothers, but Dunstan grabbed her wrist, proving he still had strength enough to quiet her, should the need arise.
Catching his warning glance, she paused before speaking again in a more positive tone.
“Food and water, that is what he needs most. Here, my lord, have a drink.”
The water revived him, and Dunstan sat up, surveying the room while he sipped some obnoxious gruel obviously meant for someone frail and weak.
Nicholas was watching him with wide-eyed admiration, Geoffrey’s brows were drawn together in worry, and Simon paced the floor impatiently, unhappy to be in the sickroom.
Dunstan’s lips curved into a reluctant smile.
How long had it been since he had spent time with his brothers?
In his single-minded quest to prove himself, he had missed something important—getting to know the men they had become.
“I believe I owe you my thanks, brothers,” he said.
Nicholas beamed happily at his words, while Geoffrey seemed to relax, and Simon swung around with a stiff nod of acknowledgment. By faith, they were dear to him, Dunstan realized with some surprise. What had kept him from sharing his life with them?
“We were happy to help you,” Geoffrey said. “Now, you must rest. You gave me some gray hairs, Dunstan, when I saw you take on Fitzhugh, alone and in your condition.”
Dunstan snorted, but in an affectionate way. “‘Twas but little, compared to my brothers’ contributions to my cause,” he said. “And I am well enough to hear the state of my castle, if you please, Simon.”
Simon smiled grimly, eager to impart the details of the battle, the casualties, the number of Dunstan’s men who had been freed, and how many of Fitzhugh’s soldiers were willing to pledge their lives to Wessex.
“And what of my former vassal, Walter Avery?” Dunstan asked roughly. The pain of that betrayal still stung, making the meat he swallowed go down hard. Perhaps a man was wise to trust none but his own brothers….
“Escaped,” Simon said tersely. “He and a few went out the gates before we could close them, and I could not spare the men to give chase. He is probably halfway to Fitzhugh’s manor by now.” Simon’s face was taut with anger and disgust.
Dunstan recognized the frustration Simon was feeling, for he had wasted plenty of his own energies in the futile exercise of hindsight. “You did well, Simon,” he said. “None would fault you.”
The sharp, quick glance Simon sent him showed surprise, disbelief and, finally, greedy acceptance of his praise. It stunned Dunstan to realize just how much worth his brothers placed upon his words.
“Perhaps,” Simon said with a brief nod, “but now we are in a precarious position, with only a small force to protect Wessex. Although I would gladly go after this Avery, I have no idea what might await at Fitzhugh’s holding.
Frankly, I think we have too few men to make any showing of ourselves.
” Simon paced the room in front of the bed.
“With your permission, I would return to Campion and hand-pick some others to fill the ranks. I know Father will insist upon giving you men.”
Dunstan was dubious. “Are you sure?”
Whipping around swiftly, Simon shot him a look that questioned his sense. “Of course! Campion has men to spare, as you should remember.”
Of course. Dunstan smiled grimly. Perhaps Marion had been right and if he had swallowed his pride and simply asked, he would have had help long before now.
He nodded and put his trencher aside. “You take care of it, Simon,” he said.
Suddenly weary, Dunstan closed his eyes and missed his brother’s startled look of pleasure at the charge.
Eager for the blessed comfort of sleep in his own bed, Dunstan relaxed against the pillows. He heard the movements of his brothers as they headed toward the door, then suddenly he opened his eyes wide, shocked to have momentarily forgotten something so vital.
“And bring Marion back with you,” he said tersely.
* * *
In a few days, Dunstan was back to his old self, the healing wound on his chest the only reminder of his ordeal. His aches were gone, his belly full of food and drink, and he was whole again but for one minor thing. His wife was still gone.
Dunstan did not feel quite…complete without her. He swung between irritation at the odd sensation of need and exaltation at the thought of her return. It was ridiculous, but he wanted her here beside him. Now.
During their long, forced time together, Dunstan had grown accustomed to her presence, and he would have it back.
It was as simple as that. He missed that smile of hers with its dimples peeping out brazenly.
He missed her graceful movements, her silly patter and the air of innocence that clung to her, despite her hot passions.
He missed the way she argued with him, poking her tiny finger into his great chest when she was particularly riled.
And he missed the way she fussed over him, full of worry for him. Dunstan paused to savor that memory. He liked being the subject of her concern. He especially liked it when she turned those huge eyes on him and they shone with an inner brilliance, just as if she adored him….
Of course, she did not. All that nonsense about loving him Dunstan knew as so much fiddle-faddle, and yet if she wanted to believe herself enamored of him, who was he to argue? He enjoyed being the object of her affections—the only object of her affections.
Dunstan scowled. He found he did not like the thought of Marion surrounded by his brothers here at Wessex. Would her doe eyes look upon them with the same sweetness? Dunstan resisted an urge to slam his fist into the table in front of him. He would not care for that at all.
Marion was his, by law, by right and by possession. He tried not to think of her back at Campion, greeting Simon, the returning hero. He tried not to think of her giving his brothers the gift of her smile and receiving their proprietary glances. He tried not to think of her at all.
He cursed loudly.
“What is it, Dunstan?” Geoffrey asked, looking up from the papers spread before him. They sat at the table in the great hall, while Geoffrey went over Dunstan’s accounts with an eye both to reduce expenses and increase income.
“Nothing,” Dunstan muttered. “I look for Simon’s return, ‘tis all.”
Geoffrey smiled. It was not the first time Dunstan had suddenly burst out with an oath for no good reason. Something, or rather someone, was preying on the Wolf’s mind. Geoffrey leaned back, twirled the quill in his hand and wondered if Dunstan would bring up the topic of Marion again.
Although Dunstan had mentioned his wife several times, as if he could not help himself, he had been hesitant to discuss her, leaving Geoffrey mightily curious.
Geoff never would have thought Dunstan, the toughest loner of all the de Burghs, would be struck by Cupid’s arrow, and yet the Wolf showed indisputable signs of being smitten by dear little Marion.
Having heard Marion claim the marriage was not her idea, Geoffrey was interested to see how the couple would deal together.
Although she had pleaded Dunstan’s case to his family in a heart-wrenching manner, that did not mean Marion loved him.
Yet Geoffrey suspected that Dunstan was very much in love with her.
It was an intriguing puzzle, and Geoffrey had seen enough of his eldest brother’s stubborn arrogance over the years to admit he was going to enjoy watching Dunstan squirm.
“What is it like, being married?” Geoffrey asked, tongue firmly in cheek.
“‘Tis sorely aggrieving!” Dunstan answered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Geoffrey smiled. “That bad?”
As if suddenly aware of what he had said, Dunstan scowled. “I would have her here, that is all. ‘Tis where she belongs. She is mine,” Dunstan said, adding a threatening look to cap off his words.