Taming The Wolf. Deborah Simmons

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