Taming The Wolf. Deborah Simmons

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Prologue

       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....