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.”
She let the plea hang in the air while Campion rubbed his chin and studied her thoughtfully. Although panic threatened to consume her, Marion betrayed nothing and made no movement. Her back remained straight as a rod while she perched on the edge of the settle, her hands in her lap.
Finally, the earl sighed regretfully. “I am sorry, Marion, but news of your stay here has reached your uncle, and he has threatened war if we do not return you to Baddersly at once.”
War! Marion’s heart sank, along with the very last of her hopes, for she could not blame Campion for his decision. Despite her distress, she had no wish to endanger the men who had taken her in and treated her so kindly. She could not see their blood spilled simply because she felt more at home here than at a castle she no longer recalled.
“Although I am not moved by his intimidation, I fear, my dear, that we have no legal right to you,” Campion explained.
Marion listened, still and quiet, as she felt blackness descend, taking her to a place where she had not been for many months. When she spoke, it was from a distance, detached from them all. “I see,” she said softly. She did not nod or smile, but only eyed the earl gravely. “When do we leave?”
For the first time since Marion had known him, the dignified Campion looked uncomfortable. “As soon as your things are packed,” he answered. “Dunstan is eager to be off. He is well versed with the roadways, having served Edward for many years before receiving his own barony. He will see that you come to no harm.”
As if in answer, Dunstan stepped out of the shadows, a huge, intimidating presence. He was as big as the bole of an oak tree, and right now he looked to be just about as feeling. He moved in front of the window, so that Marion blinked, unable to see him well. And in that instant, she hated him.
“Come, Lady Warenne,” he said, eyeing her disdainfully. “We had best be on our way.”
Marion rose to find the other de Burghs crowding around her. Robin and Geoffrey exchanged glances, both of them looking guilty and ill at ease.
“Dunstan will take good care of you,” Geoffrey offered.
“Yes. He is the very best,” Robin said. He held out his hands to take hers. “Godspeed.”
“Keep well,” Geoffrey added.
Marion nodded, then turned to Stephen, who raised his cup in salute. “Goodbye, Stephen,” she said, surprised at the lump in her throat. She sought again the numbness that would shield her, reaching into the blackness for a place she had been to before coming to Campion.
“Marion.” Simon’s face was taut, his farewell terse.
Reynold did not even speak, but jerked his head and rubbed his bad leg. “Reynold,” she said.
Nicholas stepped toward her then, hanging his head and looking miserable. “I am sorry, Marion,” he muttered. “Dunstan will take care of you, though. He will not let any harm come to you!”
“Thank you for your kindness, all of you,” she said evenly.
Campion took her hands. “Farewell for now, Lady Marion. I hope that we shall meet again soon.”
Despite her best efforts, Marion felt a pressure behind her eyes as she pulled away.
