Chapter Nineteen
Marion did not want any more battles at Wessex, so she forced a smile to her lips and insisted that Dunstan let her uncle stay, at least for a little while—long enough perhaps to discover what he was about. She kept to her room, however, joining the others only to eat.
After a peaceful afternoon spent working upon a new tapestry, Marion stood and stretched, mindful that she must go down soon for the evening meal, when there was a knock on the chamber door. Thinking it Geoffrey or Nicholas come to escort her below, she called out an invitation to enter.
But it was neither Geoffrey nor Nicholas, nor any of the de Burghs.
It was her uncle who walked in and shut the door behind him, and Marion froze in horror.
“So, here you are, Marion. I have missed you today. How rude of you to treat a guest with so little hospitality,” he said.
He stalked around the room, examining the tapestries and spare furnishings with a look of contempt before turning toward her suddenly.
“But, then, you never did know how to do your duty, did you?”
Marion backed away, recognizing, all too well, the abrupt change in his tone. He had been drinking, and that meant he was capable of anything. Sitting down upon the edge of the bed, she bent her head, able to do naught but cower before the man who had tormented her so often.
“No!” he shouted. “You never could do anything right, could you? Worthless, useless spawn of my worthless, useless sister, standing between me and what is rightfully mine.” Marion heard him step closer, but she remained where she was, silent and still.
“You think to take Baddersly from me, do you?” he snarled. Marion said nothing, having learned not to answer his questions even with a denial when he was in such a mood. “Well, you will not. You cannot!” His voice rose higher, his tone fierce. “I will—”
The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud crack, and Marion looked up to see the Wolf filling the doorway, huge and threatening and powerful.
“What are you doing in my chamber?” he growled at her uncle.
“She invited me in,” Peasely said, waving a hand in Marion’s direction. Hearing his easy tone, she cast him a sharp glance and was surprised to realize that he was not cowed by Dunstan. Why? Mercy, but the Wolf had been known to scare his own brothers when he was in a black humor.
“Is that true, Marion?” Dunstan asked, piercing her with his bright green gaze.
It glittered dangerously. He was tightly reined, but Marion could see that the slightest word from her would unleash his temper. Frightened as she had been, she wanted no bloodshed here in their chamber. She nodded in agreement.
Despite her response, Dunstan stood where he was, assessing her for a long moment before turning toward Peasely. “I warned you, Peasely,” he growled. “See that you remember it.”
“Oh, I will, my lord,” her uncle said with a conciliatory smile and a mocking manner that made Marion stare at him, wide-eyed.
Had he lost his senses? Perhaps he was foolhardy with drink, for why else would he bait the Wolf?
Then, with one last glance that promised her retribution, he slipped by Dunstan and out of the room, leaving them alone.
“What the devil was that about?” Dunstan asked, obviously still angry and frustrated. No doubt he would have liked to slam her uncle into the wall, but had restrained himself on her account. Marion managed a tremulous smile at his patience.
“Nothing. He only sought to taunt me,” she said. “You came bursting in before he did anything but bluster.” It was true, she realized, and she felt a little ashamed for letting her uncle intimidate her in her very own home, in her very own room. But he had always done that….
She looked up in some surprise to see Dunstan kneeling before her. He took her hands in his roughly, but the look in his eyes was so gentle she felt the tears threaten again. Mercy, but she was a watering pot of late!
“He is nothing, Marion. Nothing. He cannot harm you ever again,” Dunstan whispered.
“I know,” she admitted. “I know it is silly, but when I see him, it is as if I am only seven again and all alone in the world—” She broke off as Dunstan’s arms came around her, and she finally gave in to the urge to weep, burying her face against his neck and soaking the collar of his tunic.
* * *
Dunstan barely touched his trencher. Even if he had been starving, which he was not, his jaw was clenched too tightly to eat.
He leaned back in his chair, alternately watching his wife and her uncle, and brooded.
Day of God, he wanted to be rid of Peasely.
How dared the bastard threaten his wife in his own chamber?
Dunstan’s blood boiled at the very thought.
Marion was his. His. And, by faith, he would protect her.
It was strange and new yet, this business of having a wife, and not at all what he had envisioned.
Perhaps it was his time spent in the dungeon that made him cherish every minute with Marion, but he found he no longer wanted to put her aside while he went about his business. In a way, she was his business.
And he wanted her back! He wanted his wife, the spirited little sprite who poked her tiny finger into his chest and argued with him, not this quiet shadow of a woman. The change in her was all Peasely’s fault and Dunstan was sorely tempted to murder the man. Right now.
Dunstan’s mouth tightened into a grim line at the sound of Peasely’s harsh laugh.
Marion’s uncle and Stephen were in their cups, their tongues growing sharper with each drink, and although everyone was well used to ignoring Stephen, Peasely was a different story.
Dunstan liked not his loud speech, peppered with oaths, or the look of him, full of ill-disguised loathing for his hosts.
Glancing again toward Marion, Dunstan saw the wariness in her eyes, and he wanted to smash Peasely’s face in with his bare fist. Maybe he would.
He imagined breaking the man’s bulbous nose and what pleasure that would give him.
Then he caught Geoffrey’s frown of warning and remembered that Peasely’s soldiers still camped outside.
With a grunt, he curbed his urge to violence—just barely.
“I would retire now,” Marion said, rising and whispering excuses.
At her words, Dunstan nodded, moving swiftly to his feet.
Although he would have liked to stay in the hall to keep an eye upon his enemy, he did not want to let Marion out of his sight, especially after Peasely had bearded her in their chamber this afternoon.
When she darted across the tiles like a frightened mouse, he moved to follow.
Their attempted departure did not go unnoticed, however. “Marion!” Peasely shouted. “Surely you would not leave us yet? The night is young, and there is much to discuss.”
“You can talk tomorrow, Peasely,” Dunstan growled, turning toward his guest.
“But I would talk now,” Peasely snapped. And, in response, Marion swiftly sat down upon the nearest bench, lowering her face in that submissive way that hit Dunstan like a blow to the gut. “I would talk about why a man with naught but a small and poor holding would marry the heiress to Baddersly.”
Ignoring the hush that fell over the room, Peasely lurched to his feet. “He wanted a rich wife so badly that he sold himself to this sniveling creature,” he said, waving his arm toward his niece.
With a contemptuous sneer, Peasely swaggered over to Marion. “I have seen the way the famous Wolf of Wessex dances around his wealthy bride, and I think it is pathetic!” he shouted. “She snaps her fingers, and he jumps. She speaks, and he follows her around like a dog, waiting for a bone!”
Dunstan heard Nicholas’s outraged gasp and silenced him with a glance. This was between Peasely and himself, and he was more than ready to finish it. He stared stonily at his guest, his hand drifting to rest on the hilt of his sword, while Marion’s uncle continued ranting.
Peasely’s face was red and mottled as he swung toward his niece.
“Methinks my little Marion has tamed the Wolf with her inheritance,” he spat out.
“But I am not so easily bought, my lord. Women were not created as our equals—they are to be little seen and little heard. And I would teach this one her place.”
To Dunstan’s shock, Peasely lifted his hand to strike Marion, who sat, still as a statue, to accept it.
Too late, Dunstan realized just how far away from his wife he was, with Peasely standing between them.
With a roar, he bounded forward, but just as he did Marion screamed, “No!” The single, defiant shout was so loud that Peasely hesitated, and she lifted her arms to block his blow easily.
Then, instead of cowering, she leaped at her uncle, spewing oaths and clawing at his eyes.
Unsteady from drink, Peasely fell to the floor, with Marion atop him, kicking and gouging him with her tiny nails like some kind of wild animal. For a long moment, everyone stared in stunned surprise, then the entire hall exploded as all the de Burghs rushed to Marion’s aid.
Dunstan, who was the closest, was struck with a kind of relief to see that his spirited wife was back, but then he saw the flash of silver that told him Peasely had a dagger.
And in that instant, Dunstan discovered just what his wife meant to him.
It came to him like a wound to his chest, sharp and clean and painful—and straight to the heart. He loved. He loved her.
And Peasely was cutting her. Dunstan saw the blade slice her arm and the blood spill, bright red upon the pale yellow of her sleeve.
His vision was blurred briefly with a hot flood of dizzying anger such as he had never known.
Then, with a great growl of rage, Dunstan threw himself across the rushes in a desperate reach for Peasely’s wrist.