Decimus would enter her life again. No matter how well Michael protected her, there would come a time that she faced Decimus; he was her fate.
She had hoped Agnes would tell her more, but the old woman offered her only an apology. Usually she could see far beyond, but her vision of Mary’s future was limited and there was no more she could tell her. Her words worried Mary for if Agnes saw no more, then perhaps her own demise came with Decimus’s.
She was too frightened of the answer to ask Agnes.
Mary ached to share this burden with another. Her bruised throat had yet to heal. Her thoughts were to remain unspoken.
She heard a shout and turned. Three lads were racing into the woods, shoving and jabbing as they each attempted to be the first to climb a large tree.
She had believed there would be a time when she would have a family of her own. She would be a good wife and mother, loving her children with a generous heart, tending to their needs, teaching them as her parents taught her.
She choked back tears, refusing to cry.
An arm draped in black gently took her waist and eased her back to rest against a hard chest. She went without protest, surrendering to Michael’s solid embrace.
“You are troubled?”
She shook her head and thought how comforting it was resting it on him, surrendering her momentary weakness to his strength. But he had done much for her already; she would not burden him more.
His arm hugged her waist tightly as he placed his face next to hers and whispered. “You wear no smile, your eyes wrinkle with concern, and you fight back tears. Do not tell me you are not troubled.”
He was much too observant, and where had he come from? He appeared as if from nowhere. She had heard not a sound, not a footfall, not a breath.
“Tell me,” he urged.
He held her with a protective confidence that made her feel safe and secure. No harm would come to her when he was near; she wanted to believe that with her heart and soul, but there was Decimus to consider.
“Mary.”
She placed her hand on his arm and felt hard muscle beneath. He was a man of solid substance, not at all a shadow. She pointed to the lads who had managed to climb up into the tree and now pretended to sword fight with branches.
Then she brought her hand to her heart and shook her head, hoping he would understand her inadequate attempt to offer an explanation of her feelings.
“You wish for children of your own and fear you will have none.”
She nodded slowly and a small bit of her disappointment faded, though she could not understand why. Perhaps it was the comfort of his strong arms and the knowledge that he protected her.
“Keep your wish strong in your heart, Mary, and it will see fruition.”
She wanted to believe him but who would dare love a woman who Decimus hunted tenaciously? This disturbing thought surfaced with a shiver and shake of her head.
“You will love.”
She stepped out of his embrace and turned to face him, motioning anxiously with her hands to her ears, to him then to her head. Did he hear her thoughts? He knew too well her feelings, but how? Was he skilled in magic?
“I understand.”
That was not enough for her. She motioned with her hands again, growing agitated as she demanded more.
Michael remained calm, his voice losing its harsh edge. “You say much without speaking.”
She titled her head, her befuddled glance alerting him to her confusion.
He raised his hand slowly and placed a glove-covered finger to her brow. “Your brow wrinkles when you have a question.” His finger drifted ever so lightly down around her eye. “You squint your eyes when you are confused.” His finger lazily trailed down her cheek to delicately stroke her mouth. “Your smile . . .”
He paused and Mary waited with bated breath and a thumping heart.
“Your smile tells me you are well and your frown defines your concern. And,” he said, reaching to take her hand, “you speak volumes with your hands.”
She tried to respond by motioning with her hands but made little sense, even to her. Then he reached out and clasped her flailing hands in his. She thought that for a brief moment her heart stopped beating.
“I know that you are grateful that I understand you. You need not worry; I will always understand you.”
He released her hands and moved his face closer to her, or was it her imagination or the wishful thinking of a young lonely woman? She remained perfectly still, waiting.
A sudden scream and fit of laughter caused them to jump apart and their attention was drawn to the lads scurrying down out of the tree, tormenting each other as they returned to the village.
Mary turned to Michael but he was gone. He had stood to her side, directly behind her, a mere whisper away from her—and yet she had not sensed his departure.
He had entered her life when she needed him and he would leave her when his presence was no longer necessary. They would be brief acquaintances sharing a brief time together, offering comfort to one another—nothing more.
She shook her head and returned to the village to find Glenda. She needed to think on something other than Michael and her foolish thoughts.
Michael, behind a large oak tree, watched her walk away, annoyed that he hid from her. Or was he hiding from his own feelings? He had thought his emotions died with those he loved many years ago. Or had he buried them thinking them dead? Had Mary found a way to resurrect his feelings?
He turned away when Mary was no longer in sight, braced his back against the tree and slowly slid down to sit on the hard ground. He took his gloves off and rubbed his chin.
It was not only his heart he had buried; he had buried himself. The moment he slipped on the black shroud he had lost his identity. He was no more and it took a touch to his own skin to remind him that he was real.
Mary, however, had made him feel more than real; her simple touch also reminded him he was a man. She made him feel alive. She brought out feelings that he had thought dead and long buried.
He again rubbed his cheeks, then his neck before rubbing his hands together.
Mary was a woman of substance in many ways. Even though he sensed her full of fear, he saw she refused to surrender to it; she remained courageous and did what was necessary even when difficult. She was a remarkable woman who had withstood hardship and had grown in strength, character, and conviction.
And he found himself admiring her more each day.
He slipped his gloves on quickly and stood.
Admire.
He would do well to remember that he admired her and no more. He marched off into the woods muttering several oaths beneath his breath.
Michael did not return for supper, still Mary shared an enjoyable meal with Glenda, Terence, and Patricia. She listened as the three exchanged stories of their childhoods and talked of the future with a certainty that brought a smile to Mary’s face.
It was a pleasant evening that reminded her of her own dreams of the future with family and friends, so that when the evening came to an end she felt a sudden sadness.
She climbed into bed alone and, though a fire heated the cottage, she felt chilled huddled under the covers warding off not only the cold but loneliness.
She had no one, her family was gone, the loving couple that had cared for her was lost to her forever, and Magnus would find somewhere safe for her but keep his distance as before, for her protection. Where did that leave her but alone? She shivered against her forced isolation.
Even sleep refused to befriend her, and she did not know how long she lay there. It seemed like an eternity, and whenever a shadow drifted into the room she thought Michael had returned. When she realized he had not, she felt disappointment. As the night went on she concluded that Michael would not join her. Was he busy tending to matters? Or had he simply chosen not to share the bed with her any longer? Both thoughts concerned her; after all, he was all she had at the moment and she missed him beside her.
Sh
e attempted to remind herself that self-pity did little good and perhaps it was better this way. She feared becoming dependent on him or perhaps she feared she might grow to care for him. It was so easy with him always around, making certain she was safe and secure. Perhaps she could get used to his presence, dark and ominous as he was, find a light inside him. She could, if they had more time together.
“Mary.”
Michael startled her and she jumped, then she smiled.
He slipped in beside her, and they lay next to each other barely touching, but it did not matter. He was finally there with her and she felt at ease, and so very relieved. She convinced herself that her growing dependence on him was born out of uncertainty and fear and that once her fate was known she would release him into the shadows from where he had come.
She drifted off to sleep and her dream came fast and swift.
She was running on a long stretch of barren road, her breathing labored as if she had run a long distance when suddenly her parents appeared on either side of her.
They looked healthy and strong as they did in life, though younger.
“Keep alert to your senses,” her father said.
“Trust your heart.” Her mother smiled.
“You must fight,” her father said.
“You have the strength,” her mother said.
“Love will be your only weapon,” her father warned as he reached out and grabbed her hand.
Mary woke with a start; Michael had tight hold of her hand.
“I am sorry to wake you, but we must leave at once.”
She shook away what little sleep remained and turned wide eyes on him.
He answered her silent query as he helped her out of bed.
“Decimus has found our trail; he is not far from the village.”
Chapter 7
Mary did not know how long she slept but it mattered not, for she was startled fully awake by the terrifying news. A sack of food and her freshly washed garments were wrapped in a plaid cloth and fashioned into a sack that Michael flung over his shoulder.
With her eyes wet with unshed tears, Glenda draped a brown wool shawl around Mary’s shoulders as she hugged and kissed her cheek and said, “Godspeed.”
Mary nodded and placed her hand on her heart and then to Glenda’s heart offering her appreciation for the woman’s generosity. Then, within a blink of an eye, they were gone from the village, slinking away under the cover of darkness.
Mary feared that the village would suffer for harboring them and attempted to express her concern to Michael. She tugged firmly on his black shroud to get his attention since he refused to heed to a simple nudge.
He finally stopped. “We have no time to spare.”
She frantically motioned her concern, pointing toward the village.
“They will be fine,” Michael assured her. “They are experienced at this sort of thing. But”—his emphasis was meant to get her attention and it did—“if we do not make haste and place distance between us and the village, there will be trouble for all.”
She understood, pointed her chin up, and waved him to follow her, as though he were the one delaying their escape. Before she even realized that she had no idea were they where or where they were going, Michael moved past her to take the lead again. His pace was swift and she kept up with him though visibility was difficult. The moon was new and its faint glow left their path mostly in darkness.
Michael walked the trail with confidence; Mary felt little of her own. The night shadows rushed along the ground, making it appear as if night demons scurried after them. She jumped more then once when large ominous shadows crossed her path.
They continued their journey, dawn near breaking on the horizon, when they came upon a mound of brush, which Michael moved aside to reveal a cave-like dwelling.
“No one will know we are here; we can rest. I doubt anyone has been following us.”
Mary agreed, squatting to enter the small dwelling. No one on horseback could have followed their path, and to track them at night would be impossible. As Michael pulled back the brush to cover the entrance, cutting off the increasing light of dawn, she realized not a soul would know of their secluded nest. They were safe for now.
Michael opened the sack and offered Mary the bread and cheese that Glenda had packed for them. Mary gratefully took the generous pieces and ate, their long walk having fueled her appetite.
She was not surprised when he took a leather drinking pouch from the sack and offered it to her. The moment she tasted the sweet cider she blessed Glenda threefold for her thoughtfulness. But then Glenda had been where she now was, and she had known what it meant to be hungry and thirsty.
Sleep was ready to claim her as soon as she finished her food and drink. She looked at Michael—her heart suddenly ached for him.
She pointed to his mask. He had not removed it since they first met. Her hand signaled that he should remove it. She attempted to convey that his secret was safe with her.
“I cannot,” he said, “for your safety and mine; I cannot.”
She caught disappointment in his voice as though he wished to do as she suggested. Did he wish for her to know him as much as she wished to know him?
Or was she exhausted and not making an ounce of sense?
“Sleep,” he ordered. “We still have much distance to travel.”
With a raised hand she circled the air around her, tossed her hands in frustration, pointed to her feet, crinkled her face, and shook her head while waving her finger.
To her surprise he laughed, though it was a low rumble, restrained. “You are never going to walk long distances when this is over.”
She nodded, confirming his understanding of her fumbling attempts at sign language. Then with one hand covering her yawn, she tugged with her other hand at his shroud for him to lie down and rest as well.
With little space they had no choice but to snuggle against each other. In an instant Mary was fast asleep, her arms tucked in against his chest, her head to his shoulder, her body pressed firmly against his and his shroud used as a blanket to keep her warm.
Michael however found sleep difficult. His body was tired, but much too aroused to sleep. It had all been so innocent the first night he found her in his arms out of necessity. She needed warmth and he had provided it. But that need for heat from a chilled night was not necessary when they stayed at the cottage.
And still . . .
He sought her bed. Why? He could convince himself it was out of protection that he had remained by her side, though if he were honest he would admit it was his own need that made him seek a tiny bit of intimacy with her. It felt good to lie beside her, to hold her, to feel her warmth. Her tenacious nature, her smile, her endless attempts to speak with her hands, her willingness to trust him when he was nothing more than a shadow, made her a remarkable woman. And she had kissed him, if only with her fingers.
He grew annoyed with himself. She was grateful and dependent on him, nothing more. He had seen countless women to safety who had been just as grateful.
But how many women, fearing his darkness, had kept their distance no matter how grateful?
Mary had accepted his ominous presence from the beginning. She had not shied away in fright or feared being near him. And she appeared to have grown even more comfortable with him as the days continued.
She thought nothing of taking hold of his arm or expressing herself with a touch to his chest. And with each simple touch, he began to respond; it was a brief stirring of emotions at first, growing more evident with each contact until . . .
He took a deep breath and willed his mind to banish the crazy thoughts, but his emotions warred with him. His feelings had been locked away in a prison of his own making and somehow Mary had found a way to pry it open, if only an inch.
It had been too long since he had been touched with kindness and concern. He had forgotten what it felt like and the stirring of emotions it created. It was a brief spark at first, a faint flutter o
f recognition he could not quite grasp and it faded as swiftly as it had been born.
He had paid it no heed until the spark returned and finally ignited a response. He suddenly realized that he favored her hand on his arm, her head on his shoulder, her body snuggled next to his. He actually waited for her to move nearer to him, and found that his arms instinctively comforted her without thought or concern for his unusual actions.
Lonely.
He had been very lonely these many years, missing his family, remembering his mother’s tender love and the joy and laughter he shared with his younger sister. Mary reminded him of his sister, young and courageous, an angelic smile. Their hearts were peaceful. Sometimes he would think of home and picture his mother and sister waiting eagerly for his return, but there was no home and he knew better than to think he could live a happy life once again. And love? He had no time to spare for love. He had been dedicated to his purpose, his intent to save the innocent. There was no time for love, family, children—and he had seen in Mary’s eyes how she wished for children, wished for a fulfilling life.
He could give her none of that. He would only bring her heartache and sorrow. One day it would be necessary for him to walk away from her never to see her again. The thought stabbed like a knife in his stomach and he moved her closer to him.
He would cherish the brief time that was theirs. He would allow himself to feel and gather memories, but he would keep his distance for her sake as well as his own. When all was done between them, he wanted no heartache for her and no regrets for him.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head and closed his eyes to sleep.
They walked for three more days taking shelter during the day and continuing their journey from dusk till dawn. They kept a steady pace taking brief rests and forging ahead with determination.
On the sixth day, as dawn claimed the land, they came upon the ruins of an old castle. It was strange to look upon: the thick wooden front door, scarred with blows from a battle-ax, was shut solid as if to warn away visitors while the remainder of the castle lay crumbled around it.
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