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
