Taming The Wolf. Deborah Simmons

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