Deborah Simmons - Taming The Wolf

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.