Taming The Wolf
Deborah Simmons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my own brother, Robert W. Smith

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Prologue

England 1270

The sound of approaching riders made Marion freeze, her hands still upon the reins and colder than the autumn winds that whipped against her cloak. Although they were nearly two days gone from Baddersly Castle, she still feared pursuit from her uncle and his soldiers. When both he and his steward were away, she had made her escape, ostensibly to go on a pilgrimage, but even a journey taken in the Lord’s name would ill please Harold Peasely. He would track her down, and when he found her...Marion shuddered at the thought.

If only she could reach the convent, she would have sanctuary, for even her uncle could not touch her there. She could live a selfless, holy existence, locked inside the walls safe from harm, with a group of women who would be a family to her—because she would never have one of her own.

Marion swallowed thickly at the cost of her asylum. Once she had entertained dreams of a husband and children, but her uncle had no intention of giving over his wardship of her lands and wealth to another man. He had kept her hidden away, subject to his wild tempers and so often alone....

With a piercing glance, Marion focused her attention on the oncoming travelers, relaxing slightly when she saw that they did not wear her uncle’s colors. Closer inspection revealed that they were a dangerous-looking, ill-kept group, however, and Marion worried anew.

Although the Church proclaimed that pilgrims were not to be harmed, assassins and outlaws roamed the roads, and the group of young serfs and freedmen Marion had hired to accompany her were poor protection. Little more than boys, the Miller brothers might wield clubs, but they would be no match for armed brigands.

As if to confirm her worst fears, the men ahead suddenly spurred toward them, thundering forward on great horses and raising cruel weapons. Marion gasped as they smote the leader of her train, John Miller, with one mighty blow. Her palfrey balked, and beside her, her servant, Enid, screamed wildly, drawing the attention of one of the attackers, a bearded giant who was soon looming over them. Before Marion could draw a breath, the fellow dragged the shrieking Enid from her seat.

Marion’s heart contracted in horror, and for a moment she simply stared, immobile, as the man pawed at her servant. Then, forcing her limbs to action, she drew her small dagger with calm deliberation. She moved as if in a dream, the world about her seemingly slowed, the clank of weapons and the screams of her companions fading to a low buzz, while she urged her mount toward the fiend who held Enid.

Marion knew she must aim her blade at his heart, and she poised to strike, but years of submission to those bigger and stronger stilled her hand and she remained motionless as the nightmare unfolded around her.

Finally, it was too late. The brute saw her. Laughing at the sight of her puny knife, he lifted an arm to knock her aside like a pesky fly. Marion fell to the ground below, landing hard on her back, the wind knocked from her and her head spinning and spinning....

Chapter One

Campion. Marion drew in a breath at the sight of the massive stone walls, rising high in the air and marching majestically into the distance. Its myriad towers looked so fine, so great and strong, that a tingle of apprehension ran along her spine. What awaited her here?

Anxiously, Marion glanced toward the dark-haired knights who led the train, and she felt her tension ease. Over the past weeks of travel, she had grown to trust the men who had found her in the roadway. But then, she had little choice in the matter, for they were all she knew.

She remembered nothing else.

It was because of her head injury. Geoffrey, the learned one, said that sometimes a blow to the brain could steal one’s memory, and she had to believe him, for she knew naught of herself or her past. All that had happened before the de Burgh brothers appeared in her life was a vast, empty—and rather chilling—void.

Although she lived and breathed and walked and talked, it was eerie, this lack of history. Hearing the song of a bird, she could easily identify it as a sparrow. She could even recall a recipe for roasting the creatures, but how and when she had learned the ingredients escaped her. Her past was a blank.

They called her Marion. It meant naught to her, but they had found the name inscribed in what they thought was her psalter. They said that she was a lady, and only a lady would have such possessions as they discovered—fine clothes, a mirror, books, coins and jewelry. Then they took her with them, for they did not know who she was, and were in a hurry to return home.

“Come, lady!” Geoffrey called. Obviously happy to have finally reached his destination, he urged her on, through the outer bailey and inner bailey toward massive doors, flung open in welcome. He helped her dismount quickly, and Marion smiled at his eagerness as he led her inside. Although a knight, Geoffrey was a gentle, scholarly man, and she liked him readily.

Then Marion looked around, and her eyes widened in wonder at the enormous hall, the like of which she could swear she had never seen before. Light poured in through the tall, arched windows set high in the walls, and chairs and settles were scattered among the benches as evidence of the de Burgh fortune.

It was very impressive—and very dirty. Marion tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of overripe food, stale rushes and dogs, which the chill air could not dispel. Even with her faulty wit, she could tell that Campion was in need of a chatelaine.

The thought made Marion pause, while tiny prickles trickled up the back of her neck, along with a sense of discovery. She could do it. She knew it with utter certainty, and with that certainty came a swell of longing and excitement. Not only could she do it, but she would do it well and find happiness in the task.

“Ho! Simon! Geoffrey!” Suddenly, there was such a din that Marion nearly covered her ears. The party was set upon by various large dogs, barking their heads off, followed closely by several large, dark-haired men, shouting even louder. She stepped back as the giants joined the equally big Geoffrey and Simon and jostled and hugged and swung at them in what she hoped was a friendly fashion.

They all seemed to talk at once in shouts and grunts while she watched, amazed by the affection apparent beneath all the gruff bellowing. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, the noise ceased and all turned to face an approaching figure.

He was not as tall, or nearly as broad as his sons, but Marion immediately guessed that the man who drew near was their father, the earl of Campion. His hair was still as dark as theirs except where it was streaked with silver. His face was more gaunt, his mouth less generous, but the resemblance was there, marking him as an attractive man, despite his years.

Marion watched him closely, her eyes flicking away only to gauge the reaction of others to his presence. Though a patriarch and a nobleman, he did not appear to be a cruel lord and master, nor did he seem full of his own importance. He moved very gracefully, with a dignity that commanded respect, not through brute force but through wisdom, and Marion felt the tightness that had settled in her chest ease at the sight of him.

Although Campion was obviously above the kind of boisterous behavior of the others, he was nonetheless pleased to see his sons. It was evident in his smile and in his voice when he spoke their names. “Simon, Geoffrey,” he said, his tone low and rough with the measure of his affection. And then, while Marion looked on in astonishment, the elegant earl opened his arms and loosely clasped the towering body of the mail-clad Simon.

Marion’s longing returned in a rush, more piercing this time. Had she ever been part of such a family? She watched, fascinated, as the earl did the same with Geoffrey. Then, suddenly, Campion’s attention was upon her. His brows lifted a fraction in polite curiosity, and she nodded her greeting before bending her head, anxiety curling in her breast.

“Sir, we came upon a pack of thieves attacking the Lady Marion’s train,” Geoffrey explained. “Although we dispatched them, we were not in time to save her injury. She was thrown into the roadway and now knows not her own name. All of her people were either slain or fled in fright, so we have offered her our protection until she might regain her...health.”

“My lady,” Campion said, bowing slightly in a formal salute. “We shall be pleased to have you with us. It has been too long since a damsel has graced our hall. I am Campion, and these are my sons,” he said, lifting a hand to take in the group.

“You have met Simon and Geoffrey. May I introduce Stephen,” he said, and another de Burgh stepped forward, this one with a lock of the familiar dark hair hanging loosely over his forehead. He had a different air about him than Simon or Geoffrey, a careless attitude that did not seem to fit Campion’s line.

“My lady,” Stephen said. He flashed white teeth in a mocking grin, and she decided he was too handsome for his own good.

“Robin, my lady.” A man of about twenty years spoke this time. His hair was a shade lighter than the rest, and his friendliness was genuine, as if he were paying court to her. Marion nodded her greeting with pleasure.

“Reynold.” More gaunt than the others and walking with a stiff gait, as though one leg pained him, came Reynold. Although he appeared to be younger than Robin, he seemed angry and bitter beyond his years. He did not return her smile.

“And, finally, Nicholas.” At the earl’s words, no one stepped forward, and Campion repeated the name with just a hint of exasperation. Marion almost laughed aloud then as the youngest de Burgh bounded toward her. He was probably no more than fourteen, a softer, smaller version of his brothers.

“Yes, sir?”

“Please meet our guest,” Campion directed with a nod toward Marion.

“Greetings!” Nicholas said, eyeing her up and down with the eager curiosity of the young. She could see that he was bubbling over with questions for her, but apparently his father also recognized the signs, for he quickly forestalled the interrogation with a reproving look.

Campion then glanced around the hall. “Wilda,” he called. Although he did not raise his voice, a young servant girl was soon at his elbow.

“Yes, my lord?” She spoke respectfully, yet with a sincerity that caught Marion’s attention. She realized that even the servants went about their work with pride here at Campion. It was a situation that struck Marion as oddly unusual, but she could not say why.

“This lady will be staying with us,” Campion said. “Please show her to a room with a hearth, and send something up from the kitchens for her. ‘Tis late, and she will wish to seek her rest after the long journey.”

“Yes, my lord.” Wilda nodded warmly, the casually given welcome touching Marion to the bone. Although she realized that she had been graciously dismissed, Marion could not leave yet. Ignoring the urge to scurry away, she turned to face the earl.

“My lord, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality. I promise you that you shall not regret it,” Marion said. Then she did hurry after Wilda, before he could change his mind about letting her stay.

She had seen little enough of the castle and its inhabitants, but Marion liked what she saw. Although big and gruff, the de Burgh brothers were handsome and appealing, their father was gentle and kind, and his people were happy. It seemed to Marion’s dazed senses that the very walls reached out to her in welcome.

Already, Campion seemed like home.

* * *

“Come, I have ordered some food and drink for you two,” the earl said to his returning sons.

“And me, too, sir!” Nicholas said.

Campion smiled at his youngest. “For all of us, then.”

Although supper had been cleared away, he sent a servant for bread, cheese, apples and ale. Once these were brought and they were all seated at the high table, Campion nodded toward Simon to speak. He listened intently as his warrior son reported on his trip south to collect monies from a recalcitrant tenant.

“Then, on the way home, when we were hurrying against winter’s winds, we came across a small band being attacked by murderous thieves. We killed the devils, but some of our men were injured in the skirmish,” Simon said.

“The odd thing is, the ruffians were not your usual bandits. They fought very well, like trained soldiers,” Geoffrey put in, “and on fine horseflesh, far better than you would expect such men to own.”

Simon snorted his dispute. “They fought to the death, as the bastards will when cornered, ‘tis all.”

The earl glanced back at Geoffrey, but the boy said nothing further, deferring instead to his brother, as usual. It was not Geoffrey’s way to argue, and yet Campion knew that his scholarly son was probably speaking the truth. Geoffrey might not be as bold as Simon, but he noticed things. He sat back, watched, assessed and made his plans accordingly. That was his strength, and that was why Campion often sent him to accompany his more single-minded brother.

“Some members of the attacked train fled into the woods,” Simon said with a scowl of contempt. “They appeared to be youths hardly fit for working in the fields, let alone escorting a female of any consequence. The only remaining survivor was the woman. When we revived her, she could not tell us who she was, nor did she or the caravan have any colors or clues to identify them.”

Geoffrey spoke up again. “‘Tis plain she is a lady, sir, by the quality of her clothes and by her bearing and speech. I talked with her at length on the road, and she is well educated. She can read and write and has some knowledge of accounts, too.”

“And yet she does not remember her own name?” Campion asked.

“No, sir,” Geoffrey said. Campion held his gaze for a moment, a silent question passing between them, but Geoffrey did not flinch. Without putting the query into words, Campion knew his son believed the woman spoke the truth. Campion then glanced at Simon, to get his opinion, but the older brother obviously did not think the lady worthy of further conversation. He was already fiddling with his scabbard, impatient to be off.

“And who christened her? You?” Stephen asked, laughing at his own jest. Campion shot him a look and did not miss the replenished wine cup in his hands. Stephen was becoming difficult.

“We have called her Marion,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Stephen’s contemptuous chuckling, “for we found the name in one of her books.”

“Oh! And are you smitten with her, brother?” Stephen taunted.

“Geoffrey’s in love!” Nicholas shouted. A round of jeering followed that announcement, and Campion let it play itself out. He could tell with one glance at Geoffrey’s disgusted expression that his son had no interest in the girl other than compassion.

“No?” Stephen said. “Then perhaps ‘tis our Simon who has felt Cupid’s prick?” There was some laughter at Stephen’s play on words. Lord, he was a clever boy. If only he would use it to advantage, instead of wasting it. “Our good brother likes his women short and well rounded, I see!”

Suddenly, the room quieted as Simon shot to his feet. “Wish you a fight?” he growled, looming over Stephen, who leaned back against the wall in a casual pose.

“Lord, no,” Stephen replied. He affected a yawn. “It has been positively peaceful without you about—crowing like a cock at the veriest whim.”

“That is enough,” Campion said. “Simon, sit down. And Stephen, you will be kind enough to keep a civil tongue in your head concerning our guest.” Stephen’s penchant for finding fault with anything and everything was beginning to annoy his father. The girl might not be breathtaking, but she was pretty in an arresting way.

If Stephen could have seen past the current fashion for boyish figures and golden ladies, he might have noticed that the unruly brown curls framing her heart-shaped face would be a riot of thick locks when freed. He might have noted that her skin, although not as ghostly white as some, was pale and pure, and that those great dark eyes could hold their own against another’s of brighter hue.

Campion kept his thoughts to himself, however, having no wish to watch his sons battling one another for the favor of their visitor. Let them ignore her comeliness, but he would not have them treat her rudely, and the look he gave them made that clear.

After a long, threatening moment, Simon sat down, sending a scowl at his black-sheep brother, who grinned shamelessly. One day, Stephen would get his deserts, Campion thought to himself with a flash of premonition, then he focused his attention on the matter at hand. “We shall continue to call her Marion,” he said. “Now, tell me where you found her. Perhaps she was only going to a village or visiting amongst her neighbors.”

“Nay, sir,” Geoffrey said. “A cart held supplies for a long journey, perhaps a pilgrimage.” He paused, as if uncertain how much to say, and then continued on determinedly. “I wanted to go back along the road and ask about her, but Simon...did not feel the issue warranted a delay.”

Campion nodded, but said nothing. Geoffrey’s words held no censure, but Campion knew that the two must have been at odds over the fate of the lady. Simon had no use for women and would have put the return of his company before the mystery of a lone female. And who was to say he was wrong? Perhaps, if they had probed the area, they could have returned her safely to her home. Perhaps not. And with the unpredictable weather and poor state of the roads to contend with, Campion hesitated to second-guess Simon.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It could not hurt to discover who lives in the area and to send out inquiries, but with winter nigh, I am not certain how much success we shall have. Ask the lady for something of her own, something identifiable—a piece of her jewelry, perhaps—and we shall send it along with a messenger to court.”

Campion sighed softly, his decision made, and put his palms on the table. “Until we discover her identity, however, the lady shall stay with us and shall be treated as such,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the circle of his sons.

He noted, with chagrin, that the members of this womanless household did not look very well pleased by his verdict. Only Nicholas seemed intrigued by the idea of a visiting female, and Campion could see a wealth of problems in the youth’s healthy curiosity. Simon and Reynold looked positively dour, Robin and Stephen rather amused, and Geoffrey somewhat pained. He obviously was feeling sorry for the poor girl.

Campion, on the other hand, had no fears for the lady. Though small, she looked strong enough to withstand much—even the fierce pack of de Burghs—without flinching. There was more to the mysterious Marion than met the eye, he would swear to it. He remembered her huge eyes, soft as a doe’s, and he sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Perhaps, he wondered, smiling himself...perhaps she might even tame the wolves to her hand.

* * *

What beautiful beasts, Marion thought, admiring her own handiwork. It had taken her all winter, but she had finally finished the tapestry last week, and now it brightened the great hall with its bold colors.

It was her own design, a rendering of eight wolves—the de Burgh device—rampant across a field of green, with Campion Castle rising behind them. Of course, the work had been greeted with much humor by the brothers, who taunted Nicholas for being depicted as the runt of the litter and complained loudly about being turned into creatures of various hues. The only de Burghs who did not voice their disapproval were the earl, who was as polite as always, and his eldest son, Dunstan, who did not live at Campion.

For the past week, the hall had been filled with mock howling that would have deafened another woman, but Marion was undisturbed. She took in stride Simon’s grunts, Stephen’s baiting, Robin’s tricks, Reynold’s sharp words, and Nicholas’s curiosity, for they were like brothers to her now.

Seated by the fire with some sewing, Marion mused on her good fortune. A total stranger, without name or fortune or family, she had been taken in by the de Burghs and accepted. She now served as chatelaine in almost every capacity, and the joy of purpose in her life was heady. But Campion and his handsome, dark-haired sons had given her more than a home and a position—they had given her their grudging affection. That was what made her smile and kept the smile upon her face so much that they teased her unmercifully about it.

Startled from her pleasant thoughts by the sound of the great doors banging open, Marion looked up, the needle still in her hand, to see a giant of a man stride into the hall. He was dressed as a knight and accompanied by others similarly garbed, though none was quite as imposing as the man who led them.

Mercy, but the fellow was huge, Marion thought. He looked to be even bigger than the de Burghs, who towered over everyone at Campion. Who was he? He walked into the hall as if he owned it, arrogance apparent in every step.

Suddenly, Marion felt an odd sensation of recognition. There was something familiar about that gait, strong but graceful, and yet it was like none she had ever seen before. While she watched, trying to place the massive warrior, he lifted his helm to shake out a head of dark hair that gave away his identity in an instant.

Dunstan.

For a moment, Marion remained in her seat, studying him with blatant interest. Although the family often spoke of Campion’s firstborn, he lived at his own holding and Marion had never seen him before. She began to stare openly as her curiosity gave way to admiration. Although a good distance from him, she could see his features plainly enough. But no one, no one could ever use the word plain in association with Dunstan.

The eldest de Burgh was the handsomest man Marion had ever seen. He was huge, taller and broader even than Simon, and wore his heavy mail with ease. He looked like a predator, dark menace emanating from his formidable form, but Marion did not shy from the sight. In fact, she was surprised to find her heart increasing its pace, for the first time in her short memory, at a pair of wide male shoulders and muscular legs.

But that was not all that stirred her. The hair that fell to his shoulders was nearly the color of a raven’s wing; his face was broad, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm, and his lips...they were neither too full nor too thin, but just right. She gaped.

Oh, Marion knew the de Burghs were a glorious group of specimens, with their thick hair and striking features, but the others had never affected her in this way. They were men, and they were dear to her, but Dunstan rose above his brothers like cream to the top of the crock.

Although he looked to be hard, even more of a soldier than Simon, his face held none of his younger brother’s tautness, and his mouth, even pulled tight, looked warm and beckoning.... Mercy! Marion lifted a hand to her throat, for she had never before looked at a man and felt the ground give way beneath her feet.

As if drawn by her perusal, he suddenly looked toward her, and Marion realized just how much she had been neglecting her duties. She shot to her feet, forgetting the handwork in her lap, which promptly fell to the floor. “Arthur!” she called to a passing servant in a shaken voice. “Some wine and food for my lord Dunstan.” Then she stooped to retrieve her materials, flustered as she had never been before and all too conscious of her own clumsiness.

She was even more dismayed when a mail-clad knee appeared in front of her. With something akin to amazement, she raised her head to find the object of her admiration before her, holding out the fallen thread. Silently, breathlessly, Marion looked at his hand for a long moment. He had removed his gauntlet, and she gawked at his flesh as if she had never seen such before. And, truly, she had never noticed how appealing such a simple appendage could be.

For one so big, his fingers were neither stubby nor meaty, but long and relatively slender. They were callused and rough, as befitted a warrior, but they held the object gracefully in a light grasp. Marion’s attention shifted to the dark hairs sprinkled on the back of the hand, and she felt herself blushing, as if she were glimpsing some intimate part of his great body, and her heart thudded wildly. Her gaze fled to his face.

He was not really smiling because the corners of his lovely mouth were not curved upward, but it was not a frown, either. It seemed to tease her, that mouth of his, and the sight of his lips this near to her made Marion tingle all over, as if she had just been dropped, shivering, into a hot bath. She lifted her eyes to his.

“They are green!” she murmured, with pleased surprise.

“What?” His voice was a deep one, befitting his size, and had a husky sound to it that made Marion tingle all the more.

“Your eyes. They are different from your brothers’. I always wished for green eyes, instead of plain brown,” she explained. And no ordinary green were Dunstan’s, but the color of the deepest, darkest forest, shrouded in mystery...and promise.

He looked confused. Thrusting the thread at her, he straightened and gave her a peremptory look. “Who are you?”

“Marion,” she answered simply, rising to her feet. When they both stood at full height, she had to lean back her head to look at him.

“Marion, who?” he asked a trifle churlishly.

“I have no other name,” she answered softly. And then she smiled at him. It was easy to do, for he was a beautiful man—even when he was studying her suspiciously, as he was now.

“And you are a visitor to Campion?”

“A guest,” Marion corrected, for a visit implied eventual departure, and she had no intention of leaving.

She watched him slant a glance at the servant, who returned to set out ale and food upon the high table for Dunstan’s men. She nodded her thanks to Arthur, who then withdrew, and turned to find Dunstan’s curious gaze upon her again. “When did you come to Campion?” he asked.

Marion smiled even wider. Did he think she had done away with his father and six brothers? Usurped someone’s position here? Exceeded some unwritten authority on guest behavior? “Nigh on six months ago, my lord. ‘Tis hard for me to believe that I have seen you not. Can it be you did not attend to your lord father for such a time?”

Marion saw a spark of annoyance in his eyes and noted that he was not a one to be teased. “My own lands keep me busy, lady,” he said brusquely. “If you will excuse me.” With a dismissive nod, he turned to join his men, and Marion stifled an urge to reach out and tug on his sleeve. She wanted to call him back, to hold him to her side, but she realized, unfortunately, that whatever earth-shaking thing was between them, it was obviously one-sided. Dunstan did not seem the slightest bit interested in her, beyond normal inquisitiveness.

And why should he? Marion asked herself. She was no court beauty, no sophisticated lady, or even a fresh, young thing in her first flowering. She was short, unremarkable and past marriageable age. For the first time since her arrival at Campion, Marion did not feel at home.

She went back to her sewing and tried to concentrate upon its intricate design rather than the exact hue of Dunstan de Burgh’s eyes, but she kept sneaking surreptitious glances at him. Since he was seated far away at the high table and surrounded by his men, all she could see was a pair of broad shoulders and a mane of dark hair, but it was enough...or too much, depending upon one’s outlook, Marion thought gloomily.

She had often longed to meet Campion’s heir, but now that he was here, she found herself wishing for his speedy departure. She was too old to begin harboring the girlish fancies that his appearance seemed to inspire. Sometimes she wondered if there had ever been a man in her life, but afraid to truly look into her past, she could only rely on her senses. And they told her that there had never been anyone like Dunstan de Burgh.

A sudden burst of noise heralded the entrance of Dunstan’s younger brothers, and Marion felt her errant smile return. They rushed to greet their sibling with a loud volley of rather dubious exchanges: grunts from Simon, insults from Stephen, compliments from Geoffrey, and jests from Robin. Campion followed his sons in at a more stately pace, but he had no reservations about pulling his towering heir into a rough embrace. “‘Tis good to see you,” Marion heard him say, and then they all talked at once.

Listening absently, Marion waited for a formal introduction, but it did not come. The men held a low conversation and then filed up the stairs, presumably to the solar, for a private conference.

What was it about? Marion did not like the urgency of their meeting, nor could she imagine the reason for such grim manners. Was there a threat to Campion? Although the castle seemed impregnable, war was always a possibility, and she did not want to imagine the de Burghs going off to battle.

Moving closer to the fire to ward off a chill, Marion realized that for the first time since entering the safety of Campion’s walls, she felt uneasy, a prickly sense of dread disturbing the hairs upon her neck. Whether it denoted danger to herself or to her newfound family, Marion did not know, but she had to fight an urge to rush to the solar and throw herself into someone’s arms...preferably Dunstan’s.

Chapter Two

Looking up from the papers that had been delivered to him, Campion leaned back and sighed, his heart heavy with their contents. It had been a long and bitter winter with little activity, but the queries he had sent out months ago had borne fruit, and now... Now he wished they had not.

The earl regretted those simple actions, taken before the snows, but it was too late to call them back now. He was well aware that a man often set in motion events that traveled beyond his control, and such had been the case in the autumn when he had asked after a lost lady with no memory.

Reaching a decision, Campion laid his hands upon his knees and surveyed his sons. He felt pride at the sight of them gathered around him in the solar. It had been some time since they had met together. Was it last summer, or had it been spring the last time he had had the pleasure of seeing them all before him?

Campion was glad that the court courier had traveled first to Wessex, with messages for Dunstan. Otherwise, his firstborn might never have come. He felt a small measure of doubt as he wondered if there might be another reason for Dunstan’s visit. Campion was unsure, for his eldest son had become distant and close-mouthed ever since taking over his own holdings.

He is a grown man, keeping his own counsel, Campion noted with a mixture of respect and loss. Although his sons had their faults, they were good men, decent, well educated and capable. The matter at hand returned swiftly to mind, and he hoped that he could depend upon one of them to do what was right.

“It seems we have a problem,” he said without preamble. “You may remember that after Lady Marion arrived, I sent a ring belonging to her to court with the hope that someone there might identify it.” Campion paused, noting, with approval, that he had their undivided attention.

“It was recognized by one Harold Peasely, who claims the ring belongs to his niece, Marion Warenne. The lady, who owns quite a bit of land to the south, has been missing since she undertook a pilgrimage in the fall. Peasely is her guardian, and he wants her back—immediately.”

Campion looked about, assessing the reaction of his audience. Some faces, such as Reynold’s, were taut and grim, while others showed anger and dismay. Good. Obviously, none of his sons wanted the girl to leave. Now, if only he could convince them to keep her here....

“But why does Marion not remember this?” Simon asked sharply. “When we found her in the roadway she knew nothing, and she still claims not to know her own name.”

Campion rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I do not think the lady wants to be restored to her former life,” he answered slowly. “She has always seemed distressed by efforts to help her remember. I would speculate that she is happier here.” Campion saw Robin nod in agreement, while the others released sighs, grunts and mutters as they mulled over that pronouncement.

“If she does not wish to return, do not send her back,” Stephen said with a casual gesture that belied his concern.

“Unfortunately, we are in a rather awkward position,” Campion said. “This Peasely has threatened to bring a force of arms against us if we do not return Marion to her home at once.”

Robin whistled and shook his head.

“I would like to see him try to take Campion,” Simon snarled.

“Who the devil is he?” Reynold asked.

“He is a minor landholder, brother to Marion’s mother, but he holds sway over her extensive properties, her large fortune and her future, according to the messenger.”

“I say let the bastard come and be damned. He shall know whom he threatens!” shouted Simon, slamming his fist against his palm for emphasis.

“‘Tis not as simple as that, boys,” Campion said, holding up a hand to stem the tide of angry voices. He glanced toward Dunstan, thinking that his eldest might contribute to the discussion, but Dunstan only lounged against the wall with a detached air and an expression of disgust on his face. Obviously, he had no interest in the lady’s disposition and viewed his brothers’ concern as a waste of energy. Campion sighed, for he would have no help from that quarter.

“We have no legal right to the girl,” Campion explained. “Even if she wants to stay with us, we cannot keep her.” Outraged mutters met his words, and he lifted his hand again for attention. “Peasely is Marion’s guardian. There is naught we can do to change that, unless, of course, we were to gain the right to her in a perfectly lawful manner.”

Campion paused to assess each man in the room, hoping that one of them would come to Marion’s aid. They all looked at him expectantly, with the exception of Dunstan, who uttered a low snort and pushed off the wall with a grimace. Campion paid him no mind, for Dunstan did not even know the girl. One of his brothers would have to make the decision that Dunstan so rudely disdained.

“How?” piped up Nicholas.

“By marriage,” Campion said simply. He studied them seriously. “Which one of you shall take her to wife?”

Dead silence met his question.

Campion’s gaze swept the assembly, taking in each son, in turn, though none would meet his probing eyes now. Simon, the born warrior, scowled his denial, while Reynold grunted his dismay. Stephen, as was his way of late, immediately poured himself another cup of wine, Campion noted with a frown.

Robin was studying the tips of his boots with extreme concentration, while Nicholas fiddled with the knife in his belt, and Geoffrey looked torn, as always, between compassion and common sense.

“Will none of you have her?” Campion asked. He could not keep the disappointment from his voice, for he had come to care for the girl. He had hoped that this hastily formed plan would keep her with them, but no one said a word. “Are all my sons unnatural that they will not marry and give Campion heirs?”

Eyes downcast, they all refused to answer, except Simon, who flashed his silver-gray ones like steel. “Why is it that she is not already wed? She looks of an age.”

“‘Tis not difficult to imagine that her uncle covets her lands for himself. If so, he will never willingly let her marry. The messenger hinted as much. ‘Tis more than likely that our Marion was little more than a prisoner in her own castle,” Campion said, hoping that guilt might move his sons when duty and affection had failed to do so.

“He treated her badly,” Nicholas said, his head hanging, his misery impossible to disguise.

“Why do you say that?” Simon asked sharply.

Nicholas shrugged. “Just things that she has said about how wonderful it is here and how she always feels safe and part of a family. She gives me that great smile of hers and says how lucky she is that we took her in.”

Ashamed, furtive glances were exchanged, but still no one volunteered to wed Marion. It was his own fault, Campion decided. He should have remarried long ago, so that the boys would know the company of women. But after his second wife had died birthing Nicholas, a grief-stricken Campion had been loath to give his heart again.

Unfortunately, the result was that his sons had grown to manhood without the tender touch of female hands. Now he was cursed with a grown group of bachelors who thought nothing of easing themselves on a bit of bought flesh, but who would never give him grandchildren.

Could they not see the change in Campion and in themselves, wrought by Marion’s presence? In a few short months, she had made herself indispensable to the household, improving the hall and the rooms and the meals. Campion thought of the girl’s smile, so rich and full of warmth, and he felt a pang of loss.

He ought to marry her himself, Campion thought suddenly, and then sighed at his own foolishness. Although past the age when most girls were wed, Marion was far too young for him, and he was too old to begin a new family. The winter had not been kind to him, and his joints were bothersome. He did not let on to his sons, of course, but he was finding it harder to wield a sword with his previous skill. Fond as he was of Marion, that fondness made him want her to have a robust husband to give her many sons.

And he was looking at seven healthy candidates who refused to take her. Campion let them see his displeasure. “Very well, then. If none of you will have her to wife, she must go home. Who will take her back to Baddersly?”

Again, dead silence met his words. The toes of his boots still interested Robin, Nicholas still fiddled with his knife, and Stephen concentrated on the bottom of his cup. Reynold rubbed his bad leg, as he often did when he was disturbed, and Simon scowled out the window, as if an answer would strike him from the heavens.

“Well?” This time, Campion’s tone left no doubt that he was angry.

Reynold glanced up. “Geoffrey is her favorite,” he pointed out.

Geoffrey looked startled—and appalled. “Nay! I cannot. Make Simon go.”

“Aye. He is best equipped to guard her,” Stephen said, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Enough,” Campion said, calling a halt to the bickering. Yet they muttered on, sending black looks at one another, none of them willing to do the deed. Campion felt his pride in them melt away. By the rood, he faced a room full of cowards! He was about to chastise them as such, when suddenly the voices trailed off. They all looked at one another, brows lifted in surprise. Then, six heads swiveled toward the wall behind him, as they spoke as one.

“Send Dunstan!” all of them cried at the same time.

“Aye! Dunstan is better equipped than I!” Simon said. His words made Campion pause, for normally Simon would rather have died than admit such a thing.

“Aye. He knows her not and would as likely feel nothing even if he did,” Stephen added with a contemptuous sneer.

Campion glanced at Dunstan, who was watching the furor with a detached frown, and he wondered what the boy was thinking. When had his eldest son grown so distant? With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “Dunstan is a good man on a journey,” he noted.

“Aye! He knows his way throughout the whole country!” Nicholas said.

Campion ignored the youngest de Burgh’s enthusiasm for his eldest brother and considered the idea further. Perhaps Dunstan would be the best man for the job. He was a fine knight and could easily handle any trouble that Peasely might serve him. He was also a baron in his own right, possessing some of the diplomacy that Simon so sorely lacked. And he was not involved with the girl’s affections; it would cause him no suffering to give Marion over to her uncle.

Laying his palms upon the table, Campion made his decision. “If Dunstan is willing, then so be it.”

“Aye, father.” They answered as one, and Campion realized that for once his sons were in agreement, all relieved to escape the task that they had dreaded. Campion sighed, his disappointment heavy as they rose to their feet, eager to be gone, only to halt at the sound of Dunstan’s low voice.

“Stay,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Although the boys rarely listened to one another, they were indebted to their sibling this day, so they deferred to him and remained where they were.

“Fetch the girl, and say your farewells, for we leave within the hour,” Dunstan said.

Campion glanced at him in surprise. “But you just arrived. Surely, you will want to rest before beginning another journey.” Campion felt a sting in his chest at the thought of Dunstan’s swift departure. It had been a year since his firstborn had been home. Why would he go so quickly?

“If you wish me to take on this errand, I would hurry, for I am needed back in Wessex,” Dunstan said tersely. He appeared none too happy to be saddled with the task, and yet he had accepted it readily enough. Campion eyed him closely, trying to see inside the man his boy had become, but Dunstan’s dark eyes glinted dispassionately, revealing nothing. Campion felt another prick of sadness at the knowledge that Dunstan preferred his own castle, his own home now....

Campion turned back to his younger sons. “Have Wilda bring Marion to us,” he said. Then he looked around the room. If the de Burghs had appeared uncomfortable before, they were practically squirming now. Not one of them wanted to face Marion—the cowards. Campion’s shame for them was tempered with a bit of sympathy, for even he knew some trepidation at the coming confrontation. After all, he, too, had come to care for the lady he had taken in.

Now how, by the rood, was he going to tell her she had to leave?

* * *

Campion’s summons stunned Marion. Panic such as she had not known since waking up bewildered in the roadway seized her, and for a long moment she could not even move. Slowly, firmly, she told herself that the earl only wanted to order a special feast in honor of Dunstan’s visit or to introduce his eldest son to her, but her memory loss had forced Marion to rely on her senses. And they told her that something was amiss.

Marion tried to compose herself as she followed Wilda to the solar, but the sight that met her brought on a new rush of dread. Although all the de Burghs were there, the room was silent as a tomb, Campion’s seven sons engaging in none of their usual boisterous banter. The six whom she had grown to love as brothers were arranged around their father, yet not one of them would meet her eyes. Only Dunstan, who was lounging against a wall like a dark, brooding presence, appeared to be watching her, his handsome face in shadow.

“Lady Marion. Please sit down,” the earl said. Campion met her gaze openly, but something in it—a hint of sadness or regret—made her heart contract. She sat down on the edge of a settle, nodding calmly while her mind rushed ahead, pondering what harrowing news might be forthcoming.

“Marion,” Campion began. “You know that we have been happy to have you with us. You have filled a need here, not only by acting as chatelaine, but by cheering us with your smiles. If we could, we would have you stay with us always.”

Marion froze, her body immobile while the outcome that she feared most became a reality. He was sending her away! Where would she go? What would she do, a lone woman without friend or family to take her in, without even a memory of her own past?

“However, it appears that we are not the only people who care about you. Although you may not remember, you have at least one relative who has not forgotten you—your uncle.”

Campion waited, as if expecting her to respond in some way, but how could she? Uncle? What uncle? “I know no uncle,” Marion said finally, her words hardly audible above the pounding of her heart. Forcing her limbs to move, she folded her hands neatly in her lap, affecting an outward appearance of serenity.

“I know this all seems strange to you, my dear,” Campion said. “But I am sure that your memory will return in time, perhaps more quickly when you are home.”

Panic, renewed and ferocious, rushed through her, and Marion gripped her fingers together. It was one thing to be cast out, alone. It was quite another to be thrust into the custody of a stranger from a past that filled her only with dread.... Marion struggled for air while she sought to follow Campion’s words.

“You are Marion Warenne, and you are quite an heiress,” he was saying. He smiled slightly, as though he expected her to be cheered by the news, but she was not. The name meant nothing to her, the wealth even less.

“But, my lord, you told me that I might stay as long as I wish,” she protested, trying to keep her voice steady.

Sympathy washed gently over the earl’s face, frightening her far more than indifference. “I know that, my dear, and I am truly sorry. If you were still alone and unknown, I would most certainly extend my hospitality to you indefinitely. But you have a home of your own, and your uncle is most anxious for your return.”

Through the blind haze of horror that had descended upon her, Marion tried to find words to deny the earl, but she could not. She could only stare at him wide-eyed, while she fought to keep her agitation in check. It came to her from nowhere, this knowledge that she must hide her fear, mask her emotions and keep her soul to herself. She had obviously learned it well, sometime back in the murky past that escaped her.

As if sensing her despair, Campion leaned forward. “Do not worry, Marion. We shall not let any harm come to you.” Fixing his gaze steadily upon her, he spoke over his shoulder to where Dunstan leaned against the wall. “My eldest son, Dunstan, baron of Wessex, will escort you home, and he will make sure all is well.”

Marion suspected that Campion was directing an order at his son, while trying to reassure her, but it mattered little. She knew that once she left the safety of these walls, the de Burghs, from the earl down to young Nicholas, would hold no sway in her life, and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise.

Her champions had deserted her.

Marion marshaled all her resources for one last effort. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lord, for I cannot plead my case very coherently. ‘Tis true that my past is a mystery to me, but I know this much—something there was very wrong. I cannot even try to remember but that I am filled with dread. I beg you, my lord, do not send me back.”

She let the plea hang in the air while Campion rubbed his chin and studied her thoughtfully. Although panic threatened to consume her, Marion betrayed nothing and made no movement. Her back remained straight as a rod while she perched on the edge of the settle, her hands in her lap.

Finally, the earl sighed regretfully. “I am sorry, Marion, but news of your stay here has reached your uncle, and he has threatened war if we do not return you to Baddersly at once.”

War! Marion’s heart sank, along with the very last of her hopes, for she could not blame Campion for his decision. Despite her distress, she had no wish to endanger the men who had taken her in and treated her so kindly. She could not see their blood spilled simply because she felt more at home here than at a castle she no longer recalled.

“Although I am not moved by his intimidation, I fear, my dear, that we have no legal right to you,” Campion explained.

Marion listened, still and quiet, as she felt blackness descend, taking her to a place where she had not been for many months. When she spoke, it was from a distance, detached from them all. “I see,” she said softly. She did not nod or smile, but only eyed the earl gravely. “When do we leave?”

For the first time since Marion had known him, the dignified Campion looked uncomfortable. “As soon as your things are packed,” he answered. “Dunstan is eager to be off. He is well versed with the roadways, having served Edward for many years before receiving his own barony. He will see that you come to no harm.”

As if in answer, Dunstan stepped out of the shadows, a huge, intimidating presence. He was as big as the bole of an oak tree, and right now he looked to be just about as feeling. He moved in front of the window, so that Marion blinked, unable to see him well. And in that instant, she hated him.

“Come, Lady Warenne,” he said, eyeing her disdainfully. “We had best be on our way.”

Marion rose to find the other de Burghs crowding around her. Robin and Geoffrey exchanged glances, both of them looking guilty and ill at ease.

“Dunstan will take good care of you,” Geoffrey offered.

“Yes. He is the very best,” Robin said. He held out his hands to take hers. “Godspeed.”

“Keep well,” Geoffrey added.

Marion nodded, then turned to Stephen, who raised his cup in salute. “Goodbye, Stephen,” she said, surprised at the lump in her throat. She sought again the numbness that would shield her, reaching into the blackness for a place she had been to before coming to Campion.

“Marion.” Simon’s face was taut, his farewell terse.

Reynold did not even speak, but jerked his head and rubbed his bad leg. “Reynold,” she said.

Nicholas stepped toward her then, hanging his head and looking miserable. “I am sorry, Marion,” he muttered. “Dunstan will take care of you, though. He will not let any harm come to you!”

“Thank you for your kindness, all of you,” she said evenly.

Campion took her hands. “Farewell for now, Lady Marion. I hope that we shall meet again soon.”

Despite her best efforts, Marion felt a pressure behind her eyes as she pulled away. Then Dunstan moved forward to escort her out of the room, and she was spared the ignominy of losing her control. A swift glance at his hard features set her own, so that she left the others behind without a glance.

* * *

Since Marion did not turn back, she did not see the de Burghs fling themselves down in disgust. For long moments, silence reigned in the solar. Then Stephen finally spoke. “I would have preferred ranting and raving to that noble acceptance,” he noted before taking a long drink from his replenished cup.

“Aye,” said Campion, frowning thoughtfully. “‘Twould have been easier if she had cursed you all for the cowards that you are.”

“Aye,” Geoffrey whispered softly. And for once, no argument ensued. The de Burghs were all in agreement again.

Chapter Three

Dunstan was not pleased. He had come to Campion for...well, he was not sure exactly why he had come, but it was not to be saddled with such a ridiculous errand. Not now, when there was so much to be done at Wessex. He rubbed the back of his neck and strode into the yard without even glancing at the woman at his side.

While the wench was packing, he had hastily washed, changed his travel-stained garments and devoured some food. Now, he looked toward a few of his father’s men to supplement his own force before leaving. Although they would make only a few miles before sunset, that would put them a few miles closer to their destination—and the completion of his task.

“Dunstan!” He turned at the call from his vassal. Walter Avery, a beefy blond knight who had been with him since his first days serving King Edward, loped across the yard, looking decidedly annoyed to have been snatched from his leisure.

“Wait here,” Dunstan curtly told the woman. Without staying for an answer, he walked over to meet his vassal.

“What is afoot?” Walter asked. “Have you news of Fitzhugh?”

“Nay,” Dunstan said, frowning at the mention of his bastard neighbor. “Campion would have me escort one of his guests back to her home,” he explained curtly.

Walter’s heavy brows lifted in surprise. “And you agreed?”

Dunstan glanced at the walls of the keep that rose behind them and realized, belatedly, that he could have refused his father. But that course had never even crossed his mind. As the eldest, he had always shouldered the most responsibility; as a de Burgh, he bore it without complaint.

“It should not take long, a few weeks, no more,” Dunstan said absently. Walter shook his head. Obviously, he could not understand why a baron with his own property and its attendant problems would take on a commission from Campion—especially when there were at least five other brothers who could do the job.

Dunstan was wondering the same thing himself.

“See that we have sufficient men for the trip,” he ordered. “I want to travel quickly and light, but most of all, I want this to be a safe, uneventful journey.”

When Walter nodded grudgingly and stalked across the yard to see to the men, Dunstan turned back toward the girl, but she was not where he had left her. Unaccustomed to having his orders disobeyed, Dunstan clenched his jaw in annoyance and looked around. Although he soon spotted her not far away, surrounded by a group of urchins, his temper was unappeased. A lifetime of hard work, skilled fighting and book study, and he was playing nursemaid to a female!

And what a female! As Dunstan strode toward the brown daub of a creature, he wondered how she had ever wormed her way into his family’s good graces. He had little use for women himself and had never known his brothers to claim aught but carnal interest in them, either. And yet he had witnessed the battle-hardened de Burghs fawning over this one in wrenching farewells that had made his stomach turn.

As he approached her, she reached down to pat one of the children, and he studied her in earnest. The woman was not even beautiful! She was short and dark and too voluptuous for his taste, which ran more to willowy blondes. A certain widow from Edward’s court, who had been free with her favors, came to mind. Yes, Melissande, pale and cool and glittering with expensive gems, was to his liking—not this moppet. He scowled at her.

She was stooping, making herself even smaller to speak to the children who crowded happily around her, when Dunstan reached her. He did not pause or wait for her to acknowledge his presence. He simply grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up. “I told you to stay put!” he snapped.

For an instant, she seemed startled, her big brown eyes growing huge in her delicate face. By faith, they were enormous, those eyes and rather...striking in their fashion. Was she frightened of him? Good, Dunstan thought smugly. Then perhaps she would listen to him in the future. “When I give an order I expect you to obey it,” he said gruffly.

Her head bowed, and he thought she would nod submissively, but then she lifted her chin and spoke. “And I expect you to have better manners, Dunstan de Burgh!” she replied. Her voice was low and shaky, but the words were plain enough. They took him aback, and he stared at her. He could not recall the last time anyone had scolded him; no one possessed the audacity to talk back to him. The idea of this tiny female, this little wren, asserting herself, made him want to laugh. He released her arm none too gently.

“I want this journey to pass swiftly and uneventfully. Heed me, and we shall have no further problems. Now, please accompany me, my lady,” he said. He snapped the polite phrases through clenched teeth and spread out an arm in an exaggerated gesture of cordiality. Although she shot him a brief look that hinted at barely suppressed outrage, she gracefully took her place in front of him.

Dunstan decided he had imagined the fierceness in her glance and smiled smugly at her back. Already he had the woman well in hand. The little wren might have thought she could run roughshod over him, as she had his brothers, but he had effectively put her in her place. He had no intention of playing nursemaid, nor did he plan on becoming besotted like the rest of his family by one small, insignificant female with huge eyes.

* * *

Marion let a faceless soldier help her mount her palfrey, then she gripped the reins tightly and waited for the train to get under way. Having seen her to her horse, Dunstan had gone about other business, and Marion was heartily glad to see his back, for she liked him not. Whatever appeal he had initially held for her had disappeared with his unfeeling handling of her departure. He had shown his true nature quickly enough!

Surprised to find her hands shaking with the force of her anger, Marion looked down at them, turning them over and over, as she assessed this unusual reaction. At Campion, she had never known such blood-coursing emotion, but somehow, it felt good. She let her hands tremble and her rage boil at the thought of Dunstan de Burgh’s behavior.

On some level, Marion knew that Dunstan was not much different from his brothers. They had been gruff and rude and sometimes ill-mannered when she had arrived. Reynold still was difficult to reach, owing, she suspected, to his bad leg...and yet she knew that he cared for her.

Dunstan did not. There was no excuse for the way he had grabbed at her, bruising her tender arm with his huge hand and subduing her with his overpowering strength. Marion lifted her chin. For him she would make no allowances. He was the one who had brought the bad tidings. He would steal her from the people she loved and wrest her from the only home she had ever known. He would take her to a place she did not want to go.

Just the thought of this Baddersly made Marion stiffen. Happy at Campion, she had known no desire to discover her past, and whenever she tried to remember, she had been stricken with blinding headaches and cold, sweating dread that left her sick and shaken. How could she willingly travel back toward whatever horrors she had left behind?

Dunstan’s sharp words came back to her, demanding in his smug, masculine way that she obey him, and Marion’s will wavered. She knew what she should do.

She should remain in the middle of the train, riding her palfrey without complaint and avoiding any more confrontations with Dunstan. She should not disrupt the trip or call attention to herself. She should go calmly and quietly while he delivered her into the hands of her unknown guardian and into the dark mysteries of his castle.

That would be the wisest course, and she sensed that whoever Marion Warenne was, Marion would definitely have stayed out of the way, meekly meeting her fate.

But she was a different girl now. She had discovered a small spark of something in herself, something that had helped her bravely make a new life at Campion without a memory to call her own. She had nurtured that tiny flame, and it had helped her tame six de Burgh brothers, fierce as wolves, into accepting her into their home and their hearts.

That spark, infinitesimal as it seemed now, would not allow her to sit back and let Dunstan bully her. Nor was it going to let him take her back to whatever awaited her at...Baddersly. The very name of the place was fraught with foreboding.

Though she knew little enough about herself, Marion sensed that she was not an imaginative woman. Nothing else in her brief history had roused in her such tumultuous emotions as the mention of this purported holding of hers. Her entire being screamed a warning that she could not ignore.

She could not go there.

Her decision made, Marion felt an easing inside her, as if she had escaped the executioner’s block but narrowly. Now, her only problem lay in getting away from her escort, and that, she realized, would be no easy task.

Dunstan would not be pleased.

* * *

Dunstan was pleased. They had traveled well their first day out and had camped peacefully off the road. He had seen little of the wench but a flutter of brown when she scurried to her tent to sleep, so he thought her well subdued.

This morning had dawned fair and mild, and he decided to stop to take the late-morning meal under some large oaks. This was, after all, not a military trek, but a journey with a lady, Dunstan told himself, even if the lady was hardly noticeable.

Eating his bread and cheese quickly, he quaffed some water and surveyed the train, checking the horses and carts and assessing the mood of his men. Accustomed to traveling with him, they were soon finished, too, and Dunstan had no intention of lingering. Although it was nearly summer, they could not count upon continued good weather. Today’s warmth could turn suddenly cool, and rainstorms could reduce the already bad road into a mire of muck.

“Load up,” he said to Walter, who echoed his order. Then he glanced around, watching with a practiced eye the swift dismantling of the makeshift camp. His men mounted their horses, and all seemed in order, but for something that nagged at the edge of his thoughts.

“Where is Lady Warenne?” he asked suddenly. Those who deigned to answer shook their heads. Dunstan stalked along the edge of the group until he found her palfrey. It stood, without its rider, next to another gentle beast ridden by an ancient servant. “Where is your mistress, old woman?” he snapped.

Shrewd eyes peered out at him from a wrinkled face, and he was met with a nearly toothless smile. “I know not, master! Have you lost her?” The crone laughed then, a high, cackling sound that grated against his ears. Dunstan silenced her with a swift glare.

“Walter, check the carts,” he barked. Females! Lady Warenne probably was fetching some possession from storage and delaying them all with her thoughtlessness. Clenching his jaw in annoyance, he settled his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. When he had last noticed her, the wren had been eating her meal under one of the trees. She might have slipped into one of the carts, but he was beginning to doubt that. Something did not seem right, and Dunstan had not achieved his knighthood by ignoring his presentiments.

“She is not anywhere in the train, my lord,” Walter answered briskly, confirming what Dunstan already felt in his gut.

Taking a long breath, Dunstan exhaled slowly and cleared his mind of the anger that threatened to cloud it. No brigands could have stolen her off with his small force surrounding her, and they were not deep enough into the forest to be threatened by wild beasts. If something had happened to the lady, Dunstan surmised, it was her own doing. With a scowl, he strode toward the oak where he had last seen her.

“Perhaps she wandered off to heed nature’s call and became lost,” Walter suggested, peering into the woods. It was a possibility, Dunstan agreed, for the little wren certainly looked witless enough to do such a thing. If so, he would have to stop and search for her, a course of action that did not please him in the least.

Dunstan followed Walter’s gaze, but he could see no sign of passage through the brush. He dropped to one knee and studied the ground. Although the grass was trampled near the bole, there was no evidence of impressions away from the tree. A little thing like her would probably have a light step, though, Dunstan acknowledged.

“Lady Warenne!” Dunstan called out loudly, only to receive no answer. “Lady Warenne! Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” Silence met his words. With a low oath, Dunstan ordered his men to look in ever-widening circles until the stupid woman was found. She was, unfortunately, the sole reason for this trip, and he could not return to Wessex until she was delivered to her uncle.

As he mounted and turned his horse toward the woods, Dunstan tried not to think of the delay she was costing him. He tried not to think of how he would like to shake the foolish chit until her teeth rattled. He tried, valiantly, to control his temper.

After an hour, Dunstan was furious. They had combed the forest, the road and the fields, and had found nothing of Lady Warenne. It was as if she had disappeared without a trace. Gritting his teeth, Dunstan reined in his destrier near the spot where they had originally stopped and forced himself to admit the truth.

He did not like escorting foolhardy women to their homes, but even less did he like being bested by them. And that was what he was sure had happened. Somehow, the lady had fled of her own free will!

Dunstan chided himself for not taking his mission more seriously, for letting his thoughts drift to his own troubles at Wessex when they should have been focused solely on the business at hand. He knew the wench did not want to return to her uncle, so he should have kept a closer eye upon her. But who would have thought the little wren would rather brave the wilds of the countryside than go back to Baddersly?

Her flight had been so swiftly arranged that Dunstan could not even blame her success on outside assistance. No, he realized, the minx had outwitted him all by herself. Under normal circumstances, Dunstan might spare a fleeting moment of admiration for such a trick, but not today, when each minute spent looking for her delayed him further.

Instead, he stared at the now-familiar eating area, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the facts before him, trying to puzzle an answer from them. Finally, with one last glance at the clearing alongside the road, Dunstan shouted to Walter. “Come! Let us gather the train together and head toward Campion. Perhaps she is making her way there.” Grim-faced, his men began turning the carts around and taking their places for the trek back.

Waiting while the others rode ahead, Dunstan caught the swift look that Walter sent him, a look that said, What will your father do when you return without the lady? But his vassal knew better than to voice such concerns, and Dunstan refused to consider them. He never failed in his tasks, and he did not intend to start now.

A mile down the road, Dunstan told his men to fan out again, while he turned back toward where they had camped. When he neared the site, Dunstan slipped from his horse and walked silently, making his way in a circle through the woods until he reached a point where he could see the tree under which Lady Warenne had taken her meal. Then he leaned back against an oak, crossed his arms against his chest and watched.

He did not have long to wait. Soon there was a peculiar rustling up in the branches, and Dunstan moved forward soundlessly. By the time he saw a green slipper descending, he was underneath the tree. A shapely ankle, encased in dark hose, revealed itself, followed by a swish of emerald skirts. With a rather gleeful malice, Dunstan doffed his gauntlets, reached up and closed his fingers about her calf.

“Eeeek!” Lady Warenne shrieked like a captured fowl, lost her footing and tumbled directly into his arms.

Dunstan would never have believed that anyone so small could put up such a fight, but the little wren struggled like a falcon. Finally, he was forced to pin her up against the bole of the tree, her wrists pressed to her sides and her body stilled by the pressure of his own. “Cease, Lady Warenne,” he ordered grimly.

Her large eyes flashed recognition, and she finally stilled, but in that instant the shape of their encounter altered subtly. Those incredibly huge eyes were not a dull brown, as Dunstan had first thought, but the gentle, warm hue of a doe’s and fringed with the thickest dark lashes he had ever seen. He found himself caught by them, and, at the same time, he became aware of the feel of her against him.

She was soft and lushly curved. Her abundant breasts pressed into his chest, and his fingers grazed her generous hips. Her ever-present hood had fallen to release a mass of heavy, mahogany curls that tumbled about her shoulders as if she had just risen, tousled, from her bed. Her cheeks were flushed, a compelling, deep rose, and her lips, full and wide, were parted in silent startlement. A pulse beat at the base of her throat, and Dunstan could feel the rise and fall of her breath.

With vague surprise, he found himself spring to life against her belly. He looked down at her, trapped like a wild bird by his form, and he felt something indescribable. Without thought, he moved against her, and the tantalizing press of her body against his groin made him hot as a flame.

Dunstan closed his eyes against a realization that he would rather deny, but it formed nonetheless: he wanted her. He wanted her with a fierce desire that astonished him in its intensity. His head felt as if the blood was rushing from it, and like a man dazed, he released one of her wrists, sliding his hand along the sumptuous curve of her hip to her waist and then...

Day of God, he wanted to touch her! He wanted to slip his palm inside her bodice and cup her bare breasts, to feel the heft and weight of them. Dunstan smoothed his thumb along her ribs, underneath one fat mound, letting its heavy softness ride him, and he shuddered, his fingers poised but a hairbreadth from the taut material that covered her chest.

She made some sound, and he opened his eyes to gaze into hers, wide with some unnamed emotion. She was not afraid of him. He sensed that, but she was afraid nonetheless. Freeing her other wrist, he raised his left hand slowly, so as not to startle her. He wanted to curve it around her neck and take those parted lips with his mouth....

With a growl, Dunstan stepped back, releasing her, and she slid down the bole of the tree to collapse at his feet. Refusing to look at her, he turned and whistled for his horse. By faith, he had never taken a woman against her will! He had rarely taken one outside of the confines of her own perfumed bed. What in God’s name had possessed him to nearly force himself upon a lady his own father had entrusted to him?

Dunstan grimaced in disgust. Obviously, he had been too long without sex to react so heatedly...and to the wren, of all women! Instead of wanting to take her, he should want to strangle her after the dance she had led him!

Anger, long-suppressed, rushed through him, sluicing away the last vestiges of his desire. Just what had possessed her to try to escape him in the first place? The whole business was so ludicrous. Dunstan did not care to admit how close she had come to succeeding. He whirled on her suddenly.

“Why the devil were you up the tree?”

She stopped dusting herself off to gaze directly at him, and Dunstan noticed, not for the first time, that she possessed an oddly affecting grace. Even after such treatment as he had just given her, she held herself calmly, displaying no distress. The color in her cheeks was still high, but she gave no other sign of their strange encounter. “I...I saw a wild boar and climbed up to get out of its path.”

For a moment, Dunstan just stood there staring at her, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he threw back his head and laughed uproariously. She watched him serenely the entire time, just as if her explanation had not been the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

“Perhaps you would care to tell me why no one else saw or heard this animal? Or why a lady such as yourself would not scream and run away, but instead crawl up a tree? A decidedly unladylike response, I would say,” Dunstan said.

She was looking at him curiously, those enormous eyes of hers wide with something he could not identify, but that obviously had nothing whatsoever to do with what he was saying. “Well?” he prodded her.

“I was too afraid to scream,” she answered without demur. The forthright manner in which she spoke nearly made him doubt his own presumptions, but Dunstan knew better. He put his hands on his hips and assessed her.

“And how is it that we spent a goodly time searching for you and calling for you, directly beneath this very same tree, and you made no response?”

“I believe I must have fainted dead away from sheer fright,” she said, blithely meeting his gaze.

“I see.” Dunstan eased out the words with no little effort. She was an audacious wench, if nothing else. “And you have been up there all this time, precariously balanced, but not awake—even to our cries?”

She nodded sweetly. What a liar! And she looked so innocent, too. No wonder she had easily gulled his brothers. From what Dunstan understood, she had convinced them she did not even know her own name. Who could tell what game the girl was playing? Dunstan fully admitted that he did not, nor was he particularly interested in discovering the truth. As tempting as it was to join in the play, he had neither the time nor the energy at this point in his life. He frowned as he studied her closely. “And this muteness that affects you occurs whenever you are frightened?”

“Oh, yes, my lord...Dunstan. May I call you Dunstan?” she asked, as nicely as if they were ensconced in a cozy solar exchanging sweetmeats and he had not just wasted precious hours dangling after her. He nodded curtly, then turned to his approaching horse.

He stood there for a moment, his feet apart, and then slanted a glance toward her. She was trying, uselessly, to better her hair, which he suspected resisted constraints of any kind. He grinned, certain she was not watching him, and let loose a battle cry that had been known to freeze the blood of his enemies.

His companion jumped and shrieked—loudly. With a smug smile, Dunstan mounted his horse and held out a hand to her. “It seems, my lady, that your voice has returned—in full force.”

“That is hardly fair, Dunstan,” she said, accepting his aid grudgingly. “I was not frightened by your mean-spirited gesture, merely startled.”

He grinned wider. “Do not lie to me, my lady. And do not run away from me again, or I shall make you regret it,” he warned. Then he grasped her fingers, lifting her up in front of him as easily as a child, and tucked her between his thighs.

He was going to elaborate on his threat, but she moved, settling herself comfortably against him, and desire flared again in his loins, much to his annoyance. With a grunt, he kicked his horse to a gallop along the road.

She must be some kind of witch, Dunstan told himself, for she was trying to enchant him as surely as she had his brothers. He could just picture her wiggling that generous bottom like a lure, and all of them, led by the all-too-randy Stephen, jumping to the bait.

Suddenly Dunstan wondered if she were still a maid. She was, after all, past marriageable age, and she had been living with six robust males for the past winter.... With a grimace, Dunstan shook aside such thoughts as unimportant. It mattered not to him if she had bedded all of his brothers. His job was simply to return her to Baddersly.

At that moment, a movement of the horse brought his groin up against her even more tightly, and Dunstan gritted his teeth. So far his hopes for an uneventful journey had been dashed, and now, from the feel of things, it was not going to be very peaceful trip, either.

Chapter Four

Marion could not get comfortable. Nestled in between Dunstan de Burgh’s heavy thighs, her back bumping against his hard chest, she felt...disoriented. Although she could not remember her past, Marion suspected that she had never been pressed up against a man’s body before. It was strange. It was disturbing.

It was exhilarating.

Leaning forward, she tried to ignore it. After all, she was not enamored of the man. Quite the contrary! Dunstan, with his arrogant attitude and bullying tactics, was responsible for all her misfortune. It was bad enough that he had found her, foiling her clever escape, but to taunt her and scare her with that ferocious roar...That was beyond pardon. And so, the fact that she was riding in front of him, his body touching hers until his presence surrounded her, enveloping her like a cloak, should have no effect upon her at all.

But it did. It would help if he were not so deliciously warm, Marion decided. Heat seemed to pour from the man like a forge. He smelled of it even—of warm skin, horses and leather, and some kind of soap. Marion, who was always cold and could ever be found in front of a fire, felt blessedly toasted for the first time in her life.

Suddenly pulled more tightly against him, Marion was awed by the hardness of him, the steel of his thighs and arms and alien form. Dark male strength was apparent in every inch of him, in every breath he took. It was daunting. Almost frightening.

Definitely thrilling.

Like a swimmer about to dive beneath the surface, Marion closed her eyes, took a deep draft of air and leaned back into that massive chest. For a few brief moments, she seemed to merge with the eldest de Burgh, drawn into his heat and scent and vigor as the great beast beneath them surged forward. And then, like a fleeting but vivid dream, it was over. Too quickly.

In what seemed like an instant, Dunstan’s destrier reached the others, and Marion found herself the object of attention. Although none asked where she had been found, she caught questioning looks from some of the men and unkind glances from those who had not liked searching for her.

Ignoring them, Marion lifted her chin, secure in the protection of Dunstan’s embrace. The eldest de Burgh might be more her enemy than her friend, but who would not feel safe before him? Despite their discord, Marion sensed that he would let no harm come to her, and she stayed where she was until the boy who served as Dunstan’s squire darted forward to assist her down.

Marion told herself she was not disappointed to leave the haven of Dunstan’s arms, especially when he thrust her away none too gently, just as if she were a hedgehog that pricked him sorely. “Put her back on her palfrey. And keep watch upon her,” he ordered his squire curtly. Then, without another word or glance, he was off, barking orders to his men, a remote, dark figure atop his massive warhorse.

Annoyed that he could so quickly forget her when the touch of him still lingered on her skin, Marion stared after him until the young squire touched her arm gently. “Please, my lady, we had best hurry.”

Yes, better hurry, better dance to Dunstan’s tune, Marion thought churlishly. When the boy helped her mount, she concentrated very hard on just how much she disliked the eldest de Burgh brother. The biggest and fiercest of Campion’s boys was nothing but a brute, she told herself. And yet...

“Well, a fine chase you led us all!” said Agnes. Although Marion heard the elderly servant Campion had sent along to attend her, she did not respond. Apparently, the old woman was the only female the earl could recruit for the journey, but Marion thought them ill-suited. Agnes seemed to doze most of the time, even while riding, and she was far too outspoken for Marion’s taste. Disregarding the rude comment, Marion looked away.

But Agnes was not to be deterred. “You look no worse for it. Did he not beat you?” she asked, in a shrill, penetrating voice.

Marion’s eyes flew back to the servant. “Beat me?” she squeaked.

“Aye! A big giant of a man, dark and fierce, is the earl’s eldest. He looks like he would give no quarter. Did he beat you?”

Appalled by Agnes’s loud questions, Marion tried to put the conversation to rest. “My lord Wessex has no right or reason to abuse me.”

The old woman made a noise and then blew her nose. “Mayhap he is not so ferocious as he looks then, if he let a wee slip of a thing like you rile him so and did not lay a hand on you.”

Lay a hand on you. The words hung in the air, making Marion turn her face away, for Dunstan had put his hand on her. Color, bright and hot, raced up from her throat at the memory. He had touched her, had gripped her wrists and pinned her up against the tree with his body, and then...

Marion’s breath came quickly at the recollection of his palm skimming her waist and his hard thighs rubbing against her stomach. Mercy, but when his hand had moved, his thumb had brushed underneath her breast!

For one, long, incredible instant she had thought he might kiss her. Had she ever seen the hot flash of desire in a man’s eyes? Marion doubted it, but she suspected that was exactly what had darkened Dunstan’s green gaze, holding her in thrall. She could not have moved or protested if she had wanted to, and she had not wanted the moment to end. Ever. Marion shut her eyes against the wave of strange, restless yearning that consumed her.

“Ah, so he did do something!” Agnes’s cackling laugh brought Marion out of her thoughts abruptly.

“Enough!” she said, blushing even more brightly at the old woman’s astute guess. “Tend to your business and leave me in peace.”

The cackling became a gravelly chuckle. “Many a maid’s head has been turned by that one,” Agnes said. “‘Tis said at court that they call him the Wolf of Wessex, and not just because of his family’s device.”

Marion drew in a deep breath. This was something she did not care to hear!

“Why, a man that big—”

“Enough!” Marion’s voice rose. “I am not interested in Lord Wessex’s reputation or aught else about him! He is a mannerless brute, and he will not bend me to his will!” Just saying the words aloud seemed to strengthen Marion’s resolve.

And why not? She was not chattel to be driven before him. The loss of her memory did not make her stupid. She had been clever enough to nearly escape him once. Just because she had failed this time did not mean she must meekly accept her fate.

She would try again. And again and again—until she succeeded. Marion felt that small spark in her ignite as new plans, half-formed, danced before her. She glanced over at Agnes. Apparently, her sharp words had been heeded, for the old woman was slumped in the saddle, as if dozing again. Marion relaxed—until she heard Agnes speak again.

“Do not tell me what you are about, lady, for I do not wish to know,” the old woman said. She opened one eye to gaze at Marion cannily, then closed it again, a smile cracking her lips.

Biting back a sound of dismay, Marion looked away, ruing the day that Campion had given her such a companion. Apparently, Agnes saw much more than she should have. But the servant would not stand in her way, Marion told herself firmly. Despite Agnes’s often astute comments, the old woman knew nothing and could not inform anyone of her schemes.

And scheme Marion did. Unfortunately, she had lost the advantage of surprise, so she would have to manage her escape under more attentive escorts. At the thought of those green wolf’s eyes following her, Marion nearly shivered. But Dunstan had already forgotten her. She need only worry about the squire, and she knew that somehow she would manage to elude him.

Once away, she would find the nearest convent. For some reason, Our Lady of All Sorrows sprang to mind. Was it not close to Baddersly? The thought made her pause. If only she could remember! Closing her eyes, Marion tried again to see into the well of her memory, but she was met only with blackness, and the harder she concentrated, the faster her heart began to pound.

Her palms grew moist, and, although she was cold, Marion could feel sweat beading on her temple. Her mind thrummed, her head throbbing with the effort to concentrate as she sought an answer in the emptiness. Baddersly. The dire name rang like a death knell, and a chill sense of dread washed over her, drowning her, sucking her down....

With a start, Marion opened her eyes and drew in a ragged breath. She lifted a trembling hand and pressed her fingers to her aching forehead. They were becoming more grueling, these attempts of hers to remember, with each one worse than the last, until she was forced to admit that her history was closed, unavailable to her whether for good or ill. All she ever came away with was a confirmation of her own fears of Baddersly—and a grim determination that to go there would be to risk her life.

Sighing soundlessly, Marion straightened and told herself that she must get along without her memory. Whether Our Lady of All Sorrows or some other convent, the good sisters would no doubt take her in, especially if she presented them with the fat purse of money and jewels that she had carried with her since the day the de Burghs had found her.

If they did not, well, then she would simply disappear into a city, creating a new life for herself—as a widow perhaps. The thought made Marion’s lips curve in amusement, for surely few maids of her age knew less about being a wife than she did. Her smile faded as Dunstan de Burgh suddenly invaded her thoughts.

The Wolf of Wessex they called him, and Marion acknowledged that the name fit him well. She suspected that he could teach her much of what transpired between a man and a woman, married or not. Absently rubbing her wrist where he had bruised her with his fierce grip, Marion told herself that she did not such crave such knowledge.

All she wanted of Dunstan de Burgh was to be away from him. And soon.

* * *

“Well? Where was she?” Walter asked.

Hearing the barely restrained humor in his vassal’s voice, Dunstan scowled. “You do not want to know,” he answered curtly, urging his mount to the head of the train.

Walter’s laugh followed him, and soon his most skilled knight was riding alongside. “Admit it, Dunstan. The Wolf of Wessex has been bested by a mere wench.” Walter’s loud guffaws grated on Dunstan’s sorely tested temper.

“Nay, Walter,” Dunstan argued. “I was nearly bested by a woman. ‘Tis not quite the same thing.”

“Oh, aye,” Walter said, snorting.

“I found her, did I not?” Dunstan demanded angrily. “‘Tis more than I can say for my vassal.”

Walter’s laughter abruptly ceased. He looked as if he might say something further, but stopped, his mouth curving into a sneer. “I stand rebuked, my lord,” he mocked. Then he shrugged carelessly. “But I am still curious. Where did she go, and why? Did she lose her way?”

“No,” Dunstan answered. “She hid from us because she does not want to return home.”

“What?” Walter looked genuinely surprised—and intrigued. “I thought she was some sort of heiress.”

“She is, but apparently she was happier at Campion.” Weaving her spells around my brothers, Dunstan thought to himself. “She does not fancy going back to a guardian, who might keep her to heel. ‘Tis my opinion that ‘twould do her good.”

Walter chuckled, his blue gaze turning back toward where Marion rode. “An unusual woman,” he mused aloud.

Dunstan did not like the way Walter’s eyes gleamed with interest. Disinclined to whet that interest further, he did not concur. Nor did he add that Marion Warenne could look as innocent as a child while spouting lies worthy of a hardened jade. And what lies! If all were as transparent as those she had given him this day, Dunstan would have no difficulty seeing through them.

In fact, Dunstan suspected he could find a great deal of pleasure in trying to coax the truth from her. His thoughts strayed to the feel of her against him, and he promptly turned them back to the roadway. Marion Warenne was nothing to him but a package to be delivered, soft and luxuriantly curved, perhaps, but a package nonetheless. He pitied the poor fool who thought of her as aught else.

With an angry grunt, Dunstan urged his destrier forward, content to leave the woman under the watchful eye of his squire, Cedric. She had brought him naught but trouble since he had first set eyes upon her at Campion, staring at him from across his father’s hall. By faith, he should have never accepted this task! He had his own problems, and right now they preyed upon his mind more fiercely than ever.

Two years ago when Edward had gifted him with the Wessex property, Dunstan had thought himself finally rooted after years on the road, making his bed wherever he might find it. But disputes with his greedy neighbor, Clarence Fitzhugh, had kept him from his hall. Now, it seemed that he was always on the borders, fending off raids and thefts. Yet Dunstan had no proof that Fitzhugh was behind his problems, and he could not retaliate against his neighbor’s holdings without drawing the king’s ire. He was neatly cornered.

Wessex itself had needed improvements and further defenses that had badly depleted Dunstan’s coffers, and the small number of villeins had forced him to supplement their labor with that of his own soldiers. Last year’s crops had been poor, stretching his resources to the limit....

With a grimace, Dunstan realized that his visions of taking his ease in his own hall, like his father, were but a youth’s foolish dream. His life seemed destined to be that of a knight struggling to keep his lands, forever on the move, forever watching his back. Rubbing his neck in a reflexive movement, Dunstan sought to ease the weight that rested there, trying to crush him.

By faith, but he could use the help of his brothers and a loan of men or money from his father! But Dunstan would rather be damned than beg. He had gone to Campion, hoping for an offer of aid, and look where it had gotten him! Instead of returning to Wessex with reinforcements, he was wasting his precious time playing nursemaid to a runaway wench.

At the thought of Marion Warenne, Dunstan knew an urge to rein in and find her among the train. He told himself he would be wise to check upon her himself, and for a moment he hesitated, then he grunted angrily and rode ahead, determined to keep both his body and his mind away from his charge.

* * *

Dunstan avoided her all day. When it came time for supper, he glanced in her direction—just to make sure that she was there, he told himself firmly—but all he saw was a flash of brown cloak as she slipped into her tent to eat alone. What cared he? Dunstan thought with a surly scowl. By faith, just the sight of her would probably put him off his food!

He was able to finish his meal quickly, and in peace, but he returned later, seating himself not far away. Absently, he watched her lair for signs of movement, even though Cedric was stationed at the entrance, keeping guard.

“Why does she hide herself away?” his squire asked, and Dunstan jerked his head, annoyed to be caught staring.

“Mayhap she is ashamed of wasting our time this day in our merry chase after her,” Dunstan growled. As rightfully she should be, he thought. Ridiculous wench!

“She ate but little,” Cedric noted. It took a moment for the words to sink into Dunstan’s distracted mind. Then, with slow deliberation, he lifted his head and gave his squire a look that questioned the significance of such news.

Coloring brightly, Cedric hurriedly glanced away, while Dunstan’s eyes narrowed at the discovery of his squire’s weakness. Already the boy showed signs of succumbing to Lady Warenne’s mysterious spell. Did Cedric think the woman was in danger of wasting away? Dunstan snorted. From the looks of her lush form, Lady Warenne was in little danger of becoming skinny—like some of those bony women at court....

With another snort, Dunstan realized that he was actually comparing those ladies unfavorably to a runaway wench.

And yet, there was more to the little brown wren than one might expect, Dunstan mused. Just what would make such a dab of a female climb a tree? And why would anyone brave the dangers of the wild rather than return as mistress of a rich household? Foolishness, that was the only answer, Dunstan thought. Shaking his head at the senseless foibles of women, he settled himself more firmly in the saddle and fought the memory of soft curves pressing into his body and huge doelike eyes framed by a wild mane of dark hair.

* * *

For the next couple of days Dunstan saw little of his charge, though she plagued his thoughts. She and the old serving woman were quiet and kept to themselves, a situation that could not have pleased him more. No doubt the lady regretted her ridiculous stunt in the tree and was becoming reconciled to the journey.

Dunstan had lost none of his personal resentment at his task, however, for he was still anxious to return to Wessex. They were making good progress now, even over the poor roads, and he had to admit that all was, once again, going smoothly. At this rate, they should reach Baddersly in only a few more days. But his absence from his holdings still chafed at him, and the errand could not be finished swiftly enough for his taste.

So he drove the train on, stopping only for the midmorning meal. Dunstan caught sight of her then, accidentally, as she sat alone with Cedric, the sunlight gleaming on her unbound hair. For a moment, he stared after her, wondering why she seemed to grow lovelier each time that he saw her.

Then, snorting in disgust, Dunstan turned on his heel to nearly run headlong into his vassal. Stopping just short of collision, Dunstan glared at the knight, who assessed his lord with a speculative gleam in his eye.

“Why do you not simply join her, or ride with her? Or perhaps ‘twould be better just to ride her,” Walter said with a smirk.

“What?” Dunstan looked at his trusted knight as if the man had spoken some foreign tongue.

Walter smiled slowly. “The lady, Dunstan. You have been avoiding her for days, while you snarl at everyone. Why not simply draw her out so that you may satisfy your...curiosity?” The words were spoken with sly innuendo, and Dunstan growled menacingly.

“I have no interest in Lady Warenne other than to make certain she reaches her home, Walter.”

This time, his vassal laughed outright. “Then why the bristling, my friend? Everyone is talking about how the lady is making our lord testy as a boar with a toothache.” He grinned wickedly. “Or is the pain located elsewhere?”

Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. “That female has naught to do with my mood,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I like not this errand and would rather be at home, keeping Wessex safe from the bastard Fitzhugh.”

Walter’s smile fled. “Wessex is in good hands.”

“Aye,” Dunstan said softly, thinking of the head of the castle guard, Leonard Collins. Leonard and Walter had been with Dunstan a long time, going back to the days of their youth when they served Edward together. Dunstan trusted them both, but he still felt a deep desire to be at Wessex, protecting his own, instead of on the road with a exasperating wench.

“Come,” said Walter, banging him roughly on the back. “Sit and take your meal with me, and I shall ease your mind.”

Dunstan nodded curtly, and the two ate companionably together, as they had countless times before. They spoke of Fitzhugh and Wessex’s defenses, but Dunstan did not mention the crops that he hoped were being well tended in his absence. Strictly a soldier, with no head for farming, Walter would not understand. Dunstan had more to concern him than his next battle, however, and he felt the weight of his own responsibilities distance him from his old friend.

Perhaps because his mind was occupied with thoughts of Wessex, or perhaps because he had taken Walter’s gibes to heart, Dunstan did not so much as glance toward Lady Warenne during the meal. It was only afterwards, when the train was again preparing to leave, that he looked to her palfrey. When he did not see her, Dunstan felt a vague apprehension.

He quelled it immediately, thinking that he might be acting testy after all—simply because of the insufferable woman he was forced to escort. Dunstan did not see Cedric either, so, obviously, the two had not rejoined the group yet. Their absence was probably easily explained, but Dunstan felt an odd sense of foreboding. Where were they? Slowly he turned, his eyes raking the area for his squire, but when he found the boy, he was not encouraged. Cedric stood near the edge of some bushes with a worried look on his thin countenance.

And Lady Warenne was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Five

By the time Dunstan reached him, Cedric was red-faced and stammering. “She...she said she needed to...to take a few moments to...to attend to herself, but it has been some time, my lord. Should I...”

In no mood to take pity on the youth, Dunstan gave him a furious glare that halted his speech. “Come, then, and help me look for her!”

At least she could not have gotten far this time, Dunstan told himself. He was in no mood to spend the rest of the afternoon searching for her again. A hot rush of anger swept through him, and he set his jaw hard. He always kept a cool head in battle and never lashed out at his servants or villeins, but this slip of a woman was sorely pressing him.

Dunstan glanced up at the trees, looking for the telltale flash of a slipper or gown, but he doubted that she would try the same trick. While his eyes flicked over the surrounding area, he tried to make himself think along the convoluted lines that the lady’s mind followed.

She would not just walk through the woods; she had proved that before. Would she double back and sneak around the wagons? Was she, even now, on the other side of the roadway? No, Dunstan swore his men would not be that remiss. He had placed guards all around the perimeter of the camp, and she would truly have to be a witch to weave her way among them.

With the swift judgment that was his ally in battle, Dunstan decided his course and moved deeper into the forest as quietly as possible. He was certain that he would find her somewhere up ahead, but he was just as certain that she would use her wiles to try to hide from any pursuit.

Dunstan’s long strides ate up the ground, giving him an advantage, if only she did not veer off in another direction. A straight, fast walk carried him through a dry riverbed where a broken branch made him smile grimly. He was on her trail, all right, and would soon overtake her.

He was surprised by the strange thrill of victory that rushed through him at the knowledge. It was as if he had won a skirmish through strategy alone, and yet there was something more to it, an unknown component that added heady pleasure to his triumph. Ignoring the strange pulsing of his blood, Dunstan concentrated on the ground, which ended abruptly in a great outcropping of rock. It rose before him, barring his way and forcing him to choose a new path.

Cedric came up behind him, breathing fast, but saying nothing while Dunstan surveyed the landscape. In a glance, he took in the surface of the stone, and rather than strike left or right, Dunstan continued on, moving closer to the face. Slowly, he began to walk along in front of the ridge, a sly smile lifting his mouth just as a certain suspicion entered his mind.

“Caves. There must be caves here,” he murmured.

“Caves?” Cedric echoed.

“Aye. There will be caves,” Dunstan said. And she will be in one of them. Knowing what he did of the lady, he suspected this was just the sort of trick she would try. Dunstan moved forward, his practiced gaze running along the rock until he found the branches of a bush that had obviously been disturbed, with the deep black of a telltale hole behind it. “There,” he said softly to a dumbfounded Cedric. “She will be there.”

Pushing the growth aside, Dunstan stooped to peer into the darkness, but he could see nothing. The foolish chit, to crawl around in there without even a light! Caves could be dangerous places, liable to drop off into fathomless caverns without warning, not to mention the vermin, vipers and beasts that might be harbored there. Dunstan shut out a sudden vision of the little wren lying broken or mauled upon the cold stone.

“Make me a torch,” Dunstan ordered curtly, and Cedric quickly gathered a fistful of rushes and bound them together. While Dunstan peered into the hole, the squire produced a piece of flint from the supplies at his belt and struck a spark against the steel of his dagger.

“Lady Warenne?” Dunstan shouted into the space. Nothing greeted him but silence. With a grimace, he took the makeshift light from his squire and pushed aside the bush.

“Wait here,” he told Cedric over his shoulder. “If I do not return, summon Walter, but do not follow me.” He thrust the fire inside the cave and saw that the floor was solid. “Lady Warenne, I am coming in after you,” he announced. Stepping inside, Dunstan finally heard a sound ahead, and he moved toward it impatiently, determined to beat the woman soundly when he found her.

“Dunstan! Watch out for the—” Smiling grimly as he recognized her voice, Dunstan lunged forward, banging his forehead firmly against a jagged ledge. “Overhang,” Lady Warenne finished lamely.

Dunstan staggered back a moment, fury blazing as pain shot through his head. He would kill her. He was going to kill her. Righting himself, he stretched out an arm to lean against the cave wall and tried to contain his rage. He had never lifted his hand to a woman in his life, had never even been tempted, but Lady Warenne was something else entirely. “Come here now,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I am sorry, Dunstan, but I cannot,” she answered, her voice musical in the enclosed chamber.

He counted to ten, something he had not done since he had lived at home and his younger brothers’ pranks had driven him beyond endurance. “Why not?” he growled.

“I am afraid that I have twisted my ankle and cannot walk very well. I suppose I could crawl...” Her words trailed off forlornly just as though she were put upon, and Dunstan let astonishment wash over him for a moment before he swallowed the worst of his ire.

With a grunt, he stepped forward, stooping until he was nearly bent double and all the time cursing her under his breath. The cave dipped and turned and then there she was, a huddled heap in the glow of the torch, only a few yards from the entrance really, but hidden by the twist of the tunnel. She was seated upon the floor of the cave backed up against the wall, looking pale and anxious, and Dunstan felt more of his anger slip away.

For a moment, he considered handing her the fire, but something told him that she would probably set his hair ablaze—accidentally, of course—should she gain possession of it. Giving the tight quarters one last look, Dunstan dropped the flame and reached for her. She was light and warm in his arms, like a wounded bird.

He was surprised to feel the wild beating of her heart, which gave away her distress even though her manner did not. So, the lady was not so calm as she pretended! That discovery did something to Dunstan’s insides, but he ignored it, and, crouching low, made his way the short distance back to the entrance, remembering to duck especially deeply at the outcropping.

Fighting past the bushy growth, Dunstan finally straightened, glad to see the light of day once more.

Without sparing a glance at his squire, he pulled the form in his arms up closer to his chest and studied her with a fierce glare. She looked perfectly composed, if a bit dusty, and she had the gall to assess him in return.

Before he could launch into a diatribe about reckless, runaway women, her gaze lifted to his brow. “You are injured!” she cried softly. He felt her fingers, infinitely gentle, against his skin, and without thought, Dunstan leaned into the touch. Her face was but inches from his own, her huge eyes fixed on his forehead, her wide mouth parted, and Dunstan felt an ache that had nothing to do with his injury.

He noticed the curve of her cheek and the way her pale skin glowed with a slight rosy flush. Only when she lifted up her cloak to dab at the blood, did Dunstan realize he was staring. “‘Tis but a scratch,” he grunted.

“Nay. You must let me tend it,” she protested. Her voice was low and melodious, like the purr of a kitten he had once held as a boy, and Dunstan was drawn by it. The hood of her cloak had fallen, revealing that wild riot of dark curls as a perfect frame for a heart-shaped face that was so vivid, so remarkable.... She is not beautiful, he told himself.

Or was she? Dunstan found her as intoxicating as spiced wine, an interesting mixture of sweet and tangy and heady. He pulled her closer, enjoying the soft roundness of her small body, and saw her take in a sharp breath in response. Her eyes flew to his own, the concern in them changing to surprise, then something dark and alluring, like wanting.... He pressed her hip against his groin, where he had grown suddenly hard, and watched her gaze drop to his lips. Day of God!

Some sound from Cedric drew Dunstan out of his daze, and he deposited the lady on the ground just as though she were a thorny branch that threatened to prick him. By faith, she was weaving some sort of spell upon him!

“Run on ahead, Cedric,” he snapped at his squire. The boy scrambled to do his bidding, spurred on by the tone of Dunstan’s voice, no doubt, but Dunstan wasted no more thought on his squire. It was time to settle accounts with the world’s most troublesome female.

Taking a step forward, he towered over her with a scowl that had frightened more than one man, but Lady Warenne did not seem one whit intimidated. She simply looked up at him with those great, wide eyes as though she were as dazed as he had been. Dunstan shook his head, realizing suddenly that it throbbed, as did his groin, and he grunted in annoyance.

“Do not tell me. Let me guess,” he said, resting his hands on his hips. “The self-same boar that sent you up a tree chased you out of camp and all the way into this cave.”

She actually frowned at him. “Do not be silly, Dunstan. ‘Twas a man who grabbed me and dragged me here against my will,” she said, her brown eyes guileless as they gazed directly into his own. “He forced me into the cave and bade me not to leave or call out for fear of my life.”

Dunstan stared at her for a long moment, then threw back his head and laughed so hard it hurt. “Do not jest with me,” he said, grimacing, as he lifted a hand to his brow.

“You are hurt,” she said, rising to her feet.

“No,” he said shortly. “Now, describe this man to me.”

“What man?” she asked, appearing genuinely, innocently puzzled.

Dunstan’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted. “The man who abducted you, wren.”

“Wren? I am told it is Warenne, not Wren.”

Dunstan swallowed back an exasperated growl. “Describe him.”

“He was short and dark,” she answered, her eyes meeting his own without hesitation. “Perhaps he is my uncle’s man, up to some devilry.”

“What nonsense!” Dunstan snorted. “If you wish to have me believe that your guardian threatens you in some way, you must give me facts, not vague conjecture.”

“I cannot! Do you think I have not tried to remember, Dunstan?” she asked, poking a tiny finger at his chest. “I have tried! I have tried so hard that the dread overwhelms me, but that is all there is—dread. I cannot tell you what awaits me at Baddersly, only that ‘tis not the life of a pampered heiress that you de Burghs would have for me!”

The fire that sparked from her was becoming, and Dunstan realized he much preferred this lively creature to the little wren. Her words, however, were as ridiculous as usual. Female whimsy at best—more probably lies. And if they were not? Dunstan did not care to consider that possibility, for if she told the truth, what then of his errand?

“My dear lady Warenne,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have had enough of your tales and tricks. So, unless you want to travel the rest of the way home in chains, I suggest you cease your foolish antics and stay where I can see you at all times.”

Obviously her brief show of spirit was spent, because she stepped back from him until she was pressed against a rock. Dunstan eyed her up and down and then suddenly noticed what had somehow escaped his attention during their heated exchange. Fresh anger at being duped once again by the wench came on him so swiftly that he felt his face flush with it.

“There is naught wrong with your ankle!” he growled. He raised his hand, an involuntary gesture, and she grew still—absolutely still.

It pained him, that stillness. It was as if she were no longer there, and he realized, standing there holding his arm in the air, that she thought he would strike her. Muttering a profanity, he dropped his hand. As if he would ever hit a woman! “I have never abused a woman in my life and never will—no matter how sorely tempted.”

The lady did not answer. Those great brown eyes were empty, and she was far away. Dunstan cursed again, feeling an absurd sense of loss. “Come!” he snapped. “I am in a hurry, and each hour you delay us costs me dearly.”

She moved then, walking in front of him with that quiet grace of hers, and Dunstan stared after her, feeling sorely disgruntled. The lying witch had led him a merry dance through the woods and deserved to be beaten soundly for her mischief. Why, then, did it seem as if he were the one who had taken a blow?

He grunted, urging her on, but it was not long before the rhythmic sway of her hips moving in front of him made his mouth water. He had been too long without a woman, that was the problem, and it would be easily remedied once he finished this errand, Dunstan told himself. He moved beside her in an effort to change his view, but she stumbled at the sight of him. He steadied her with an arm around her waist, and she looked up at him with eyes so wide and startled that he stepped back to follow her again.

By faith, Dunstan thought with a scowl, the camp seemed to be leagues away! They had only now reached the dry riverbed. The wren had a stride the length of a bird’s, Dunstan noted, convinced that such dainty legs could not carry her far. Studying her walk a bit too closely, he caught a glimpse of a shapely ankle at just the moment that the lady, having pushed aside some brush, let it fall back.

It struck him directly in the face.

Dunstan erupted with a thunderous roar that made Marion jump and shriek. “Dunstan!” she gasped, backing away from him, her hand at her throat. “What? Oh! Did I do that? Oh, I am sorry.”

If she had laughed, he might very well have strangled her and let his high-minded ideas about ladies go hang. But she did not laugh. She did not even smile. She rushed toward him with eyes so bright with concern that Dunstan was momentarily transfixed. Had anyone ever looked at him that way before?

The sounds of shouts and movement from the direction of the camp made him break whatever spell held him in her gaze. With a grunt, he grabbed her arm and stalked toward the noise. An anxious and breathless Cedric appeared, followed by a grinning and definitely unworried Walter.

“I heard the screams, my lord, and thought you were being set upon,” Cedric explained nervously.

“I am being set upon,” Dunstan muttered. Dragging the wren along beside him, he strode back toward camp.

“You found her in a cave?” Walter asked, amusement evident in his tone.

Dunstan sent his vassal a look that told him to save his breath, but Walter, never too good at obeying orders, merely chuckled. “What happened to your face? Did she attack you?”

Dunstan grunted in annoyance while Marion gasped. “Your face, Dunstan! You simply must let me tend it!” She continued babbling in such a vein as she ran to keep up with him.

“‘Tis nothing but a few scratches,” Dunstan finally growled. Thankfully, they had reached camp, and hopefully, an end to all arguments.

“Perhaps,” Marion answered when they stopped. She gazed up at his bloody forehead dubiously. “But even scratches fester. Why, think, Dunstan, what would happen if it should putrefy! It might even swell your brain,” she warned ominously. “And then your poor brothers would be saddled with a great witless man to take care of. Surely, you would not wish that upon them.”

Did the wren have the audacity to toy with him? Dunstan eyed her sharply, but she simply stared directly at him with those huge brown eyes, innocence plastered all over her heart-shaped face. Something tugged at the edges of his mind, out of reach. By faith! He did not believe that a small head wound could lead to madness, but he was rapidly becoming convinced that Marion Warenne could drive a man to the brink.

“Get to your mount,” he said through gritted teeth. Then he turned on his heel and strode away from her as rapidly as possible.

Walter sidled up to him immediately. “A little rude, are we not? ‘Tis not like you, Dunstan!” his vassal teased.

“That woman is a menace!” Dunstan growled, lifting a hand to his throbbing head.

Walter laughed. “Because she wants to see to your wounds? I wish that I were menaced so terribly!”

Dunstan snorted and gave his vassal a threatening look. “Perhaps I shall set you to watch her then.”

Walter smiled and shrugged. “‘Twould suit me well enough.”

Dunstan’s eyes narrowed. Somehow the idea of his vassal fawning over Marion did not sit well with him. Walter had been with him for years before rising to his right hand; he was a good soldier and a friend. However, the wren’s property was rich enough to tempt a saint, let alone a landless knight. With a grimace, Dunstan pictured Walter seducing the heiress and presenting himself to her uncle as the father of her child.

“No,” Dunstan said, finally. “‘Tis bad enough that we must all serve as errand boys for my father. I will not have my best man act as nursemaid to the parcel. Let Cedric do it.”

The boy was at his side, stammering apologies in an instant. “Enough,” Dunstan said, cutting him off. “I will give you another chance, Cedric, but do not fail me this time. Keep watch upon the lady at all times. If she wants to attend to herself, as before, make sure that you keep a part of her in sight, and do not let her stick her cloak upon a bush and leave you staring at it!” Dunstan advised. “Make sure you see the top of her head and her hair. We are dealing with a very clever lady here.”

Cedric listened, his face a study of surprise and awe. Obviously, the youth was not accustomed to hearing a woman described in such terms, and Dunstan realized that he had never used them. But the wren was something altogether different. “Have Benedict spell you,” Dunstan ordered, glancing toward an elderly knight whom he trusted to keep his hands off Marion.

“Yes, my lord,” Cedric said, and he rushed after his charge, his face somber and alert.

Dunstan turned away and strode toward his waiting horse. He did not fault Cedric for being fooled. Day of God! She had tricked them all—twice now! But once stung, a wise man would beware the bee. Dunstan decided he had better keep an eye on Marion, too. He had no intention of letting her flee again or of seeing her work her wiles upon his men to their detriment.

And, keeping wiles in mind, Dunstan judged that it might be well to post an extra watch this night, just in case her uncle really did present a threat. Of course, the woman spouted nothing but nonsense, yet it could not hurt to be more vigilant.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dunstan sighed. The simple errand his father had entrusted to him was becoming more complicated than he could ever have imagined.

* * *

“Back again, are you?” Agnes cackled with glee when Marion mounted her palfrey. “What did the Wolf do to you this time?”

Despite all that had happened between Dunstan and herself in the past hour, Marion’s mind, directed perhaps by Agnes’s chortling, dredged up only one image. Her face flooded with color as she remembered, all too vividly, when Dunstan had held her in his arms. Warmth and strength had surrounded her, and his face had been so close to her own that she could see the darkening of his eyes—as deep and green as the thickest forest. For a moment, he had seemed to devour her with his gaze, and Marion could have sworn that he took a hungry glance at her lips. But then he had practically dropped her to the ground in his haste to be rid of her!

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.