Deborah Simmons - Taming The Wolf

“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.”