Deborah Simmons - Taming The Wolf

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.

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.