Taming The Wolf - Deborah Simmons

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brown eyes growing huge in her delicate face. By faith, they were enormous, those eyes and rather...striking in their fashion. Was she frightened of him? Good, Dunstan thought smugly. Then perhaps she would listen to him in the future. “When I give an order I expect you to obey it,” he said gruffly.

      Her head bowed, and he thought she would nod submissively, but then she lifted her chin and spoke. “And I expect you to have better manners, Dunstan de Burgh!” she replied. Her voice was low and shaky, but the words were plain enough. They took him aback, and he stared at her. He could not recall the last time anyone had scolded him; no one possessed the audacity to talk back to him. The idea of this tiny female, this little wren, asserting herself, made him want to laugh. He released her arm none too gently.

      “I want this journey to pass swiftly and uneventfully. Heed me, and we shall have no further problems. Now, please accompany me, my lady,” he said. He snapped the polite phrases through clenched teeth and spread out an arm in an exaggerated gesture of cordiality. Although she shot him a brief look that hinted at barely suppressed outrage, she gracefully took her place in front of him.

      Dunstan decided he had imagined the fierceness in her glance and smiled smugly at her back. Already he had the woman well in hand. The little wren might have thought she could run roughshod over him, as she had his brothers, but he had effectively put her in her place. He had no intention of playing nursemaid, nor did he plan on becoming besotted like the rest of his family by one small, insignificant female with huge eyes.

      * * *

      Marion let a faceless soldier help her mount her palfrey, then she gripped the reins tightly and waited for the train to get under way. Having seen her to her horse, Dunstan had gone about other business, and Marion was heartily glad to see his back, for she liked him not. Whatever appeal he had initially held for her had disappeared with his unfeeling handling of her departure. He had shown his true nature quickly enough!

      Surprised to find her hands shaking with the force of her anger, Marion looked down at them, turning them over and over, as she assessed this unusual reaction. At Campion, she had never known such blood-coursing emotion, but somehow, it felt good. She let her hands tremble and her rage boil at the thought of Dunstan de Burgh’s behavior.

      On some level, Marion knew that Dunstan was not much different from his brothers. They had been gruff and rude and sometimes ill-mannered when she had arrived. Reynold still was difficult to reach, owing, she suspected, to his bad leg...and yet she knew that he cared for her.

      Dunstan did not. There was no excuse for the way he had grabbed at her, bruising her tender arm with his huge hand and subduing her with his overpowering strength. Marion lifted her chin. For him she would make no allowances. He was the one who had brought the bad tidings. He would steal her from the people she loved and wrest her from the only home she had ever known. He would take her to a place she did not want to go.

      Just the thought of this Baddersly made Marion stiffen. Happy at Campion, she had known no desire to discover her past, and whenever she tried to remember, she had been stricken with blinding headaches and cold, sweating dread that left her sick and shaken. How could she willingly travel back toward whatever horrors she had left behind?

      Dunstan’s sharp words came back to her, demanding in his smug, masculine way that she obey him, and Marion’s will wavered. She knew what she should do.

      She should remain in the middle of the train, riding her palfrey without complaint and avoiding any more confrontations with Dunstan. She should not disrupt the trip or call attention to herself. She should go calmly and quietly while he delivered her into the hands of her unknown guardian and into the dark mysteries of his castle.

      That would be the wisest course, and she sensed that whoever Marion Warenne was, Marion would definitely have stayed out of the way, meekly meeting her fate.

      But she was a different girl now. She had discovered a small spark of something in herself, something that had helped her bravely make a new life at Campion without a memory to call her own. She had nurtured that tiny flame, and it had helped her tame six de Burgh brothers, fierce as wolves, into accepting her into their home and their hearts.

      That spark, infinitesimal as it seemed now, would not allow her to sit back and let Dunstan bully her. Nor was it going to let him take her back to whatever awaited her at...Baddersly. The very name of the place was fraught with foreboding.

      Though she knew little enough about herself, Marion sensed that she was not an imaginative woman. Nothing else in her brief history had roused in her such tumultuous emotions as the mention of this purported holding of hers. Her entire being screamed a warning that she could not ignore.

      She could not go there.

      Her decision made, Marion felt an easing inside her, as if she had escaped the executioner’s block but narrowly. Now, her only problem lay in getting away from her escort, and that, she realized, would be no easy task.

      Dunstan would not be pleased.

      * * *

      Dunstan was pleased. They had traveled well their first day out and had camped peacefully off the road. He had seen little of the wench but a flutter of brown when she scurried to her tent to sleep, so he thought her well subdued.

      This morning had dawned fair and mild, and he decided to stop to take the late-morning meal under some large oaks. This was, after all, not a military trek, but a journey with a lady, Dunstan told himself, even if the lady was hardly noticeable.

      Eating his bread and cheese quickly, he quaffed some water and surveyed the train, checking the horses and carts and assessing the mood of his men. Accustomed to traveling with him, they were soon finished, too, and Dunstan had no intention of lingering. Although it was nearly summer, they could not count upon continued good weather. Today’s warmth could turn suddenly cool, and rainstorms could reduce the already bad road into a mire of muck.

      “Load up,” he said to Walter, who echoed his order. Then he glanced around, watching with a practiced eye the swift dismantling of the makeshift camp. His men mounted their horses, and all seemed in order, but for something that nagged at the edge of his thoughts.

      “Where is Lady Warenne?” he asked suddenly. Those who deigned to answer shook their heads. Dunstan stalked along the edge of the group until he found her palfrey. It stood, without its rider, next to another gentle beast ridden by an ancient servant. “Where is your mistress, old woman?” he snapped.

      Shrewd eyes peered out at him from a wrinkled face, and he was met with a nearly toothless smile. “I know not, master! Have you lost her?” The crone laughed then, a high, cackling sound that grated against his ears. Dunstan silenced her with a swift glare.

      “Walter, check the carts,” he barked. Females! Lady Warenne probably was fetching some possession from storage and delaying them all with her thoughtlessness. Clenching his jaw in annoyance, he settled his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. When he had last noticed her, the wren had been eating her meal under one of the trees. She might have slipped into one of the carts, but he was beginning to doubt that. Something did not seem right, and Dunstan had not achieved his knighthood by ignoring his presentiments.

      “She is not anywhere in the train, my lord,” Walter answered briskly, confirming what Dunstan already felt in his gut.

      Taking a long breath, Dunstan exhaled slowly and cleared his mind of the anger that threatened to cloud it. No brigands could have stolen her off with his small force surrounding her, and they were not deep enough into the forest to be threatened by wild beasts. If something had happened to the lady, Dunstan surmised, it was her own doing. With a scowl, he strode toward the oak where he had last seen her.

      “Perhaps she wandered off to heed nature’s call and became lost,” Walter suggested, peering into the woods. It was a possibility, Dunstan agreed, for the little wren certainly looked witless enough to do such a thing. If so, he would have to stop and search for her, a course of action that did not please him in the least.

      Dunstan followed Walter’s gaze, but he could see no sign of passage through the brush. He dropped to

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