Deborah Simmons - Taming The Wolf

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my own brother, Robert W. Smith

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

England 1270

The sound of approaching riders made Marion freeze, her hands still upon the reins and colder than the autumn winds that whipped against her cloak. Although they were nearly two days gone from Baddersly Castle, she still feared pursuit from her uncle and his soldiers. When both he and his steward were away, she had made her escape, ostensibly to go on a pilgrimage, but even a journey taken in the Lord’s name would ill please Harold Peasely. He would track her down, and when he found her...Marion shuddered at the thought.

If only she could reach the convent, she would have sanctuary, for even her uncle could not touch her there. She could live a selfless, holy existence, locked inside the walls safe from harm, with a group of women who would be a family to her—because she would never have one of her own.

Marion swallowed thickly at the cost of her asylum. Once she had entertained dreams of a husband and children, but her uncle had no intention of giving over his wardship of her lands and wealth to another man. He had kept her hidden away, subject to his wild tempers and so often alone....

With a piercing glance, Marion focused her attention on the oncoming travelers, relaxing slightly when she saw that they did not wear her uncle’s colors. Closer inspection revealed that they were a dangerous-looking, ill-kept group, however, and Marion worried anew.

Although the Church proclaimed that pilgrims were not to be harmed, assassins and outlaws roamed the roads, and the group of young serfs and freedmen Marion had hired to accompany her were poor protection. Little more than boys, the Miller brothers might wield clubs, but they would be no match for armed brigands.

As if to confirm her worst fears, the men ahead suddenly spurred toward them, thundering forward on great horses and raising cruel weapons. Marion gasped as they smote the leader of her train, John Miller, with one mighty blow. Her palfrey balked, and beside her, her servant, Enid, screamed wildly, drawing the attention of one of the attackers, a bearded giant who was soon looming over them. Before Marion could draw a breath, the fellow dragged the shrieking Enid from her seat.

Marion’s heart contracted in horror, and for a moment she simply stared, immobile, as the man pawed at her servant. Then, forcing her limbs to action, she drew her small dagger with calm deliberation. She moved as if in a dream, the world about her seemingly slowed, the clank of weapons and the screams of her companions fading to a low buzz, while she urged her mount toward the fiend who held Enid.

Marion knew she must aim her blade at his heart, and she poised to strike, but years of submission to those bigger and stronger stilled her hand and she remained motionless as the nightmare unfolded around her.

Finally, it was too late. The brute saw her. Laughing at the sight of her puny knife, he lifted an arm to knock her aside like a pesky fly. Marion fell to the ground below, landing hard on her back, the wind knocked from her and her head spinning and spinning....

Campion. Marion drew in a breath at the sight of the massive stone walls, rising high in the air and marching majestically into the distance. Its myriad towers looked so fine, so great and strong, that a tingle of apprehension ran along her spine. What awaited her here?

Anxiously, Marion glanced toward the dark-haired knights who led the train, and she felt her tension ease. Over the past weeks of travel, she had grown to trust the men who had found her in the roadway. But then, she had little choice in the matter, for they were all she knew.

She remembered nothing else.

It was because of her head injury. Geoffrey, the learned one, said that sometimes a blow to the brain could steal one’s memory, and she had to believe him, for she knew naught of herself or her past. All that had happened before the de Burgh brothers appeared in her life was a vast, empty—and rather chilling—void.

Although she lived and breathed and walked and talked, it was eerie, this lack of history. Hearing the song of a bird, she could easily identify it as a sparrow. She could even recall a recipe for roasting the creatures, but how and when she had learned the ingredients escaped her. Her past was a blank.

They called her Marion. It meant naught to her, but they had found the name inscribed in what they thought was her psalter. They said that she was a lady, and only a lady would have such possessions as they discovered—fine clothes, a mirror, books, coins and jewelry. Then they took her with them, for they did not know who she was, and were in a hurry to return home.

“Come, lady!” Geoffrey called. Obviously happy to have finally reached his destination, he urged her on, through the outer bailey and inner bailey toward massive doors, flung open in welcome. He helped her dismount quickly, and Marion smiled at his eagerness as he led her inside. Although a knight, Geoffrey was a gentle, scholarly man, and she liked him readily.

Then Marion looked around, and her eyes widened in wonder at the enormous hall, the like of which she could swear she had never seen before. Light poured in through the tall, arched windows set high in the walls, and chairs and settles were scattered among the benches as evidence of the de Burgh fortune.

It was very impressive—and very dirty. Marion tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of overripe food, stale rushes and dogs, which the chill air could not dispel. Even with her faulty wit, she could tell that Campion was in need of a chatelaine.

The thought made Marion pause, while tiny prickles trickled up the back of her neck, along with a sense of discovery. She could do it. She knew it with utter certainty, and with that certainty came a swell of longing and excitement. Not only could she do it, but she would do it well and find happiness in the task.

“Ho! Simon! Geoffrey!” Suddenly, there was such a din that Marion nearly covered her ears. The party was set upon by various large dogs, barking their heads off, followed closely by several large, dark-haired men, shouting even louder. She stepped back as the giants joined the equally big Geoffrey and Simon and jostled and hugged and swung at them in what she hoped was a friendly fashion.

They all seemed to talk at once in shouts and grunts while she watched, amazed by the affection apparent beneath all the gruff bellowing. And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, the noise ceased and all turned to face an approaching figure.

He was not as tall, or nearly as broad as his sons, but Marion immediately guessed that the man who drew near was their father, the earl of Campion. His hair was still as dark as theirs except where it was streaked with silver. His face was more gaunt, his mouth less generous, but the resemblance was there, marking him as an attractive man, despite his years.

Marion watched him closely, her eyes flicking away only to gauge the reaction of others to his presence. Though a patriarch and a nobleman, he did not appear to be a cruel lord and master, nor did he seem full of his own importance. He moved very gracefully, with a dignity that commanded respect, not through brute force but through wisdom, and Marion felt the tightness that had settled in her chest ease at the sight of him.