Taming The Wolf

Campion sighed softly, his decision made, and put his palms on the table. “Until we discover her identity, however, the lady shall stay with us and shall be treated as such,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping the circle of his sons.

He noted, with chagrin, that the members of this womanless household did not look very well pleased by his verdict. Only Nicholas seemed intrigued by the idea of a visiting female, and Campion could see a wealth of problems in the youth’s healthy curiosity. Simon and Reynold looked positively dour, Robin and Stephen rather amused, and Geoffrey somewhat pained. He obviously was feeling sorry for the poor girl.

Campion, on the other hand, had no fears for the lady. Though small, she looked strong enough to withstand much—even the fierce pack of de Burghs—without flinching. There was more to the mysterious Marion than met the eye, he would swear to it. He remembered her huge eyes, soft as a doe’s, and he sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Perhaps, he wondered, smiling himself...perhaps she might even tame the wolves to her hand.

* * *

What beautiful beasts, Marion thought, admiring her own handiwork. It had taken her all winter, but she had finally finished the tapestry last week, and now it brightened the great hall with its bold colors.

It was her own design, a rendering of eight wolves—the de Burgh device—rampant across a field of green, with Campion Castle rising behind them. Of course, the work had been greeted with much humor by the brothers, who taunted Nicholas for being depicted as the runt of the litter and complained loudly about being turned into creatures of various hues. The only de Burghs who did not voice their disapproval were the earl, who was as polite as always, and his eldest son, Dunstan, who did not live at Campion.

For the past week, the hall had been filled with mock howling that would have deafened another woman, but Marion was undisturbed. She took in stride Simon’s grunts, Stephen’s baiting, Robin’s tricks, Reynold’s sharp words, and Nicholas’s curiosity, for they were like brothers to her now.

Seated by the fire with some sewing, Marion mused on her good fortune. A total stranger, without name or fortune or family, she had been taken in by the de Burghs and accepted. She now served as chatelaine in almost every capacity, and the joy of purpose in her life was heady. But Campion and his handsome, dark-haired sons had given her more than a home and a position—they had given her their grudging affection. That was what made her smile and kept the smile upon her face so much that they teased her unmercifully about it.

Startled from her pleasant thoughts by the sound of the great doors banging open, Marion looked up, the needle still in her hand, to see a giant of a man stride into the hall. He was dressed as a knight and accompanied by others similarly garbed, though none was quite as imposing as the man who led them.

Mercy, but the fellow was huge, Marion thought. He looked to be even bigger than the de Burghs, who towered over everyone at Campion. Who was he? He walked into the hall as if he owned it, arrogance apparent in every step.

Suddenly, Marion felt an odd sensation of recognition. There was something familiar about that gait, strong but graceful, and yet it was like none she had ever seen before. While she watched, trying to place the massive warrior, he lifted his helm to shake out a head of dark hair that gave away his identity in an instant.

Dunstan.

For a moment, Marion remained in her seat, studying him with blatant interest. Although the family often spoke of Campion’s firstborn, he lived at his own holding and Marion had never seen him before. She began to stare openly as her curiosity gave way to admiration. Although a good distance from him, she could see his features plainly enough. But no one, no one could ever use the word plain in association with Dunstan.

The eldest de Burgh was the handsomest man Marion had ever seen. He was huge, taller and broader even than Simon, and wore his heavy mail with ease. He looked like a predator, dark menace emanating from his formidable form, but Marion did not shy from the sight. In fact, she was surprised to find her heart increasing its pace, for the first time in her short memory, at a pair of wide male shoulders and muscular legs.

But that was not all that stirred her. The hair that fell to his shoulders was nearly the color of a raven’s wing; his face was broad, his cheekbones high, his jaw firm, and his lips...they were neither too full nor too thin, but just right. She gaped.

Oh, Marion knew the de Burghs were a glorious group of specimens, with their thick hair and striking features, but the others had never affected her in this way. They were men, and they were dear to her, but Dunstan rose above his brothers like cream to the top of the crock.

Although he looked to be hard, even more of a soldier than Simon, his face held none of his younger brother’s tautness, and his mouth, even pulled tight, looked warm and beckoning.... Mercy! Marion lifted a hand to her throat, for she had never before looked at a man and felt the ground give way beneath her feet.

As if drawn by her perusal, he suddenly looked toward her, and Marion realized just how much she had been neglecting her duties. She shot to her feet, forgetting the handwork in her lap, which promptly fell to the floor. “Arthur!” she called to a passing servant in a shaken voice. “Some wine and food for my lord Dunstan.” Then she stooped to retrieve her materials, flustered as she had never been before and all too conscious of her own clumsiness.

She was even more dismayed when a mail-clad knee appeared in front of her. With something akin to amazement, she raised her head to find the object of her admiration before her, holding out the fallen thread. Silently, breathlessly, Marion looked at his hand for a long moment. He had removed his gauntlet, and she gawked at his flesh as if she had never seen such before. And, truly, she had never noticed how appealing such a simple appendage could be.

For one so big, his fingers were neither stubby nor meaty, but long and relatively slender. They were callused and rough, as befitted a warrior, but they held the object gracefully in a light grasp. Marion’s attention shifted to the dark hairs sprinkled on the back of the hand, and she felt herself blushing, as if she were glimpsing some intimate part of his great body, and her heart thudded wildly. Her gaze fled to his face.

He was not really smiling because the corners of his lovely mouth were not curved upward, but it was not a frown, either. It seemed to tease her, that mouth of his, and the sight of his lips this near to her made Marion tingle all over, as if she had just been dropped, shivering, into a hot bath. She lifted her eyes to his.

“They are green!” she murmured, with pleased surprise.

“What?” His voice was a deep one, befitting his size, and had a husky sound to it that made Marion tingle all the more.

“Your eyes. They are different from your brothers’. I always wished for green eyes, instead of plain brown,” she explained. And no ordinary green were Dunstan’s, but the color of the deepest, darkest forest, shrouded in mystery...and promise.

He looked confused. Thrusting the thread at her, he straightened and gave her a peremptory look. “Who are you?”

“Marion,” she answered simply, rising to her feet. When they both stood at full height, she had to lean back her head to look at him.

“Marion, who?” he asked a trifle churlishly.

“I have no other name,” she answered softly. And then she smiled at him. It was easy to do, for he was a beautiful man—even when he was studying her suspiciously, as he was now.

“And you are a visitor to Campion?”

“A guest,” Marion corrected, for a visit implied eventual departure, and she had no intention of leaving.

She watched him slant a glance at the servant, who returned to set out ale and food upon the high table for Dunstan’s men. She nodded her thanks to Arthur, who then withdrew, and turned to find Dunstan’s curious gaze upon her again. “When did you come to Campion?” he asked.

Marion smiled even wider. Did he think she had done away with his father and six brothers? Usurped someone’s position here? Exceeded some unwritten authority on guest behavior? “Nigh on six months ago, my lord. ‘Tis hard for me to believe that I have seen you not. Can it be you did not attend to your lord father for such a time?”

Marion saw a spark of annoyance in his eyes and noted that he was not a one to be teased. “My own lands keep me busy, lady,” he said brusquely. “If you will excuse me.” With a dismissive nod, he turned to join his men, and Marion stifled an urge to reach out and tug on his sleeve. She wanted to call him back, to hold him to her side, but she realized, unfortunately, that whatever earth-shaking thing was between them, it was obviously one-sided. Dunstan did not seem the slightest bit interested in her, beyond normal inquisitiveness.

And why should he? Marion asked herself. She was no court beauty, no sophisticated lady, or even a fresh, young thing in her first flowering. She was short, unremarkable and past marriageable age. For the first time since her arrival at Campion, Marion did not feel at home.

She went back to her sewing and tried to concentrate upon its intricate design rather than the exact hue of Dunstan de Burgh’s eyes, but she kept sneaking surreptitious glances at him. Since he was seated far away at the high table and surrounded by his men, all she could see was a pair of broad shoulders and a mane of dark hair, but it was enough...or too much, depending upon one’s outlook, Marion thought gloomily.

She had often longed to meet Campion’s heir, but now that he was here, she found herself wishing for his speedy departure. She was too old to begin harboring the girlish fancies that his appearance seemed to inspire. Sometimes she wondered if there had ever been a man in her life, but afraid to truly look into her past, she could only rely on her senses. And they told her that there had never been anyone like Dunstan de Burgh.

A sudden burst of noise heralded the entrance of Dunstan’s younger brothers, and Marion felt her errant smile return. They rushed to greet their sibling with a loud volley of rather dubious exchanges: grunts from Simon, insults from Stephen, compliments from Geoffrey, and jests from Robin. Campion followed his sons in at a more stately pace, but he had no reservations about pulling his towering heir into a rough embrace. “‘Tis good to see you,” Marion heard him say, and then they all talked at once.

Listening absently, Marion waited for a formal introduction, but it did not come. The men held a low conversation and then filed up the stairs, presumably to the solar, for a private conference.

What was it about? Marion did not like the urgency of their meeting, nor could she imagine the reason for such grim manners. Was there a threat to Campion? Although the castle seemed impregnable, war was always a possibility, and she did not want to imagine the de Burghs going off to battle.

Moving closer to the fire to ward off a chill, Marion realized that for the first time since entering the safety of Campion’s walls, she felt uneasy, a prickly sense of dread disturbing the hairs upon her neck. Whether it denoted danger to herself or to her newfound family, Marion did not know, but she had to fight an urge to rush to the solar and throw herself into someone’s arms...preferably Dunstan’s.

Chapter Two

Looking up from the papers that had been delivered to him, Campion leaned back and sighed, his heart heavy with their contents. It had been a long and bitter winter with little activity, but the queries he had sent out months ago had borne fruit, and now... Now he wished they had not.

The earl regretted those simple actions, taken before the snows, but it was too late to call them back now. He was well aware that a man often set in motion events that traveled beyond his control, and such had been the case in the autumn when he had asked after a lost lady with no memory.

Reaching a decision, Campion laid his hands upon his knees and surveyed his sons. He felt pride at the sight of them gathered around him in the solar. It had been some time since they had met together. Was it last summer, or had it been spring the last time he had had the pleasure of seeing them all before him?

Campion was glad that the court courier had traveled first to Wessex, with messages for Dunstan. Otherwise, his firstborn might never have come. He felt a small measure of doubt as he wondered if there might be another reason for Dunstan’s visit. Campion was unsure, for his eldest son had become distant and close-mouthed ever since taking over his own holdings.

He is a grown man, keeping his own counsel, Campion noted with a mixture of respect and loss. Although his sons had their faults, they were good men, decent, well educated and capable. The matter at hand returned swiftly to mind, and he hoped that he could depend upon one of them to do what was right.

“It seems we have a problem,” he said without preamble. “You may remember that after Lady Marion arrived, I sent a ring belonging to her to court with the hope that someone there might identify it.” Campion paused, noting, with approval, that he had their undivided attention.

“It was recognized by one Harold Peasely, who claims the ring belongs to his niece, Marion Warenne. The lady, who owns quite a bit of land to the south, has been missing since she undertook a pilgrimage in the fall. Peasely is her guardian, and he wants her back—immediately.”

Campion looked about, assessing the reaction of his audience. Some faces, such as Reynold’s, were taut and grim, while others showed anger and dismay. Good. Obviously, none of his sons wanted the girl to leave. Now, if only he could convince them to keep her here....