Dark Warrior (4 page)

Strangely this time she felt different with the compliment coming from Michael. It pleased her.

She wished she could thank him for the compliment and tell him that she thought him a brave and unselfish man. Instead she displayed her deep gratitude with a significant gesture, she pressed her fingers to her lips then pressed them to his lips, the black shroud feeling coarse against her fingertips.

They both stood rigid when the implications of her actions settled in. She had actually expressed her feelings with a kiss and the thought startled her.

She stepped away realizing her actions inappropriate, but he reached out and gently captured her wrist. “You are grateful for my help.”

She nodded vigorously.

“I understand and I am glad to be of service to you.”

Service
. She had to remember he worked with Magnus to protect her,
nothing more
. He rescued her and she was grateful,
nothing more
. There would be
nothing more
for her in life than keeping free of Decimus.

“We will rest here for a few days while your final destination is determined.”

She nodded and forced a smile; a yawn followed.

“You will sleep peacefully tonight. There is nothing to fear; you are safe here.”

She reached out to him but stopped before touching him, her hand suspended in air between them, uncertain what to do. Her gesture displayed a need for him. She did need his protection, but she desired his comforting touch. She liked the feel of his arms wrapped around her. She did not feel so alone, so isolated from the world with him beside her.

He took hold of it and drew her slowly into the safety of his dark embrace. They stood for a moment in silence, an odd pair joined together, shadow and light. Then Mary yawned again, her eyes grew heavy and her head drifted down on his shoulder. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. He gently laid her on the overstuffed straw mattress then slipped in beside her.

He pulled the blue wool blanket over her as she snuggled against him, closed her eyes and slept.

M
ichael sat on a decaying stump in the woods near the village. It was a secluded spot partially encircled by oak, birch, and elm trees. Birds chirped, squirrels raced up and down the trees in play, and rabbits sat feasting on freshly sprouted blades of grass. A new day had dawned, the brilliant sun chasing away the shadows of the night, but he was a shadow not easily chased away.

He removed his black leather gloves, rubbed his hands together and pressed a thumb to each palm, kneading the skin. It was his way of reminding himself he was flesh and blood. A man, not merely a shadow.

The kneading slowed until he stopped completely and touched his fingers to his lips.

A kiss.

He recalled Mary's fingers on his lips after touching her own. The pressure of her warm flesh had tingled his lips and sent a quiver through his body, undetectable to Mary, for he had displayed no response to her innocent gesture of gratitude.

He quickly dropped his hand from his mouth. He did not need to linger on nonsense. She was appreciative of his help and expressed in action what she could not express in words.

And yet . . .

He stood slipping his gloves on. She was so very beautiful, her long hair the color of honey, her face that of an angel with gentle blue eyes. A man could drown in this shapely body that felt so right in his arms.

He shook his head to chase away his dangerous thoughts. He could not allow himself to think of Mary in such an intimate manner. He was here to help her and see her to safety, yet he felt a compelling need to remain by her side. The thought of walking away from her when all was done caused his stomach to wrench.

He had helped many women, men, and children to safety. Each one was special in their own way, but Mary was different. He knew she would be when he first saw her, covered with dirt and grime and sitting in the shadows of her cell. His heart had reacted then.

He paced, attempting to make sense of his odd reaction. He had empathy for those who suffered the fate of torture. Those who inflicted such cruelty were certainly ignorant, spineless creatures.

But it was not empathy he felt when he first looked upon Mary.

She did not cry or grasp at him; she hesitated uncertainly and then with strength she attempted to step forward, though she was obviously in pain and fearful of him. With courage she accepted him and made her escape. He admired her tenacity, her bravery, and her beauty.

He shook his head. What was wrong with him? What foolish thoughts was he thinking? He could not allow himself to care too much and there definitely was no place in his life for love. He had forgotten what it was like to love, or perhaps he did not want to remember. He had hardened his heart after senselessly losing his mother and sister, the hurt too painful; he had replaced it with a thirst for revenge, and that thirst had turned to a hunger too ravenous to satisfy.

He sat again on the stump. He required focused thoughts to accomplish his mission. He had made a promise to himself and had sworn to allow no one to stand in his way. He had made a vow and would not break it. There was still so very much to be done and time was of the essence.

What would she say once she is able to speak to him?

He stood again, annoyed that his thoughts controlled him. Now was not the time to succumb to foolish musings. His mission needed his full attention. Thoughts of Mary in any way other than needing his help could not be given consideration. He had to make certain all was planned and timed perfectly so that Mary's escape would be permanent and she need not worry about being hunted ever again.

It would be necessary to confer with Magnus on the final plan. He had been the one to see to her safety after her parents' death, and he was certain to care for her as long as was necessary. Magnus and Michael's path had crossed through the years and they had become comrades more than friends. Each had their own pursuits and purpose, and while their lives paralleled each other they had kept their distance, until Mary. And though Magnus was infamous for his legendary exploits and skills, he was by no means a match for Decimus.

There was not a soul who could touch the man. The Church had given Decimus complete rein in tracking down heretics.

Many wondered if the Church Fathers themselves feared the man's power. He was relentless in his pursuit, and in his punishment and in the deliverance of those who did not abide by God's laws.

Michael turned at the crunch of twigs, knowing the soft footfalls belonged to Mary.

Her beauty startled him as it had the night before. Dirt and grime had disguised her loveliness in the daylight. He had given little thought to her features as they traveled through the woods toward safety, though he had caught a brief glimpse of her beauty when they stopped at the stream to drink. A quick handful of water to her face had removed some of the dirt and a twist of her blond hair pinned to her head had given him a slight indication that there was more to this woman then he had first noticed.

Now, however, seeing her in the bright sunshine was like seeing her for the first time. Her waist-length blond hair was scrubbed clean and it looked the color of rich golden honey. It was loosely tied near the end with a ribbon; the mass of curls laying over one shoulder. Her round face glowed and her full cheeks were rosy and bright like her full lips. Her blue eyes sparkled like a child eager to start the day.

But her body was all woman.

The village women had generously supplied her with clean garments, and Mary now wore a brown wool skirt and pale yellow linen blouse. The meager attire did not draw the eye, but the full rich curves of her body did. She had full breasts that gave way to a narrow waist that curved out to full hips. She was a woman of substantial form and beauty.

She waved to him and her smile grew.

If it were a different time, a different place, different circumstances perhaps, he could let himself care for her. But he could not and the thought was utter nonsense. It would not be safe for either of them.

He walked toward her, banishing all thoughts but her safety from his mind.

She pointed to the bright blue sky dusted with thick white clouds and a bright sun that was sure to help spring growth.

He commented on what she could not. “A beautiful day.”

She nodded, her smile strong. She motioned with her fingers to demonstrate that she had not eaten yet and would he care to join her.

“You resisted Glenda's delicious cooking to wait for me? You must be insane.” He attempted to tease, though his gruff tone made him sound surprised.

She nodded and held her hand out to him while she patted her stomach.

“You cannot wait another moment?”

Her expression turned serious and she shook her head, though there was a twinkle in her blue eyes.

“Then we must hurry and feed you.”

She nodded, eagerly agreeing, and they walked toward Glenda's cottage.

After the morning meal Michael excused himself, letting Mary know that there were matters that needed his attention and he would return by early evening.

She knew those matters concerned her and she wished she could go with him, learn more about her fate. Was he meeting Magnus? Would they discuss her future? Were plans being made that she should be aware of? She disliked being left out of decisions that concerned her. Perhaps it was because she had no choice when she was younger, forced to leave the only home she had ever known.

“I have chores to see to,” Glenda said, grabbing the handle of a basket brimming with dried herbs and covered crocks.

Mary pointed to herself then to Glenda, offering her help.

“Nay, you enjoy the sunny day. Rest in the sunshine and heal.”

Mary shook her head and fumbled in her attempt to make Glenda understand that she felt strong and rested after last night's sleep. She had thought she would sleep much later than she had but woke with the dawn and felt remarkably refreshed. Her one insistent thought was to chase away the hellish memories of her capture, confinement, and escape and live a normal day. She wanted to smile and laugh and share her momentary joy with Michael. Where the desire had come from she did not know. She only knew that she felt it strongly and that was why she had gone in search of Michael to share the morning meal with him.

Glenda's full pink cheeks puffed as she chuckled and her worn features took on a youthful glow. “Want to live do you?”

Mary sighed with relief that she understood.

“Come on with me, then,” Glenda said and Mary walked along beside her. “I understand how you feel, felt the same myself. Doing daily chores, baking bread, washing clothes, the feel of the sun on my face assured me, left not a doubt in my mind, that I was free. And with each chore I did I grew more and more thankful for my freedom. I have never taken a single day for granted since. I am grateful for every loaf of bread I bake and every garment I wash and the sun . . .

She paused a moment and turned her face up to the bright yellow circle in the sky. “I cherish the feel of it on my skin. It assures me that I am free.”

They continued walking.

“Everyone is grateful to the Dark One, known to us as to you as Michael. His rescues have allowed us all a chance to live a near normal life.”

Mary listened, wishing she could ask questions, but then silence usually proved useful in gathering information. She did wish to discover as many clues as possible. She hoped to piece them together and perhaps learn his true identity.

“We all understand the risks we take in helping him. And we have seen the results of what happens to someone believed to have helped the Dark One.” Glenda shivered.

Mary glared at her anxiously, wishing to hear more.

“One night the Dark One had brought a man to the village.” Glenda hesitated and shook her head. “It was terrible. We all knew the man would not survive the night. The only thing we could do for him was pray for a quick death to end his suffering. He had been accused of helping the Dark One and he suffered a horrible torture.” Another shiver racked Glenda's body. “He had been a simple farmer, ignorant of the Dark One until the day Decimus's men arrived on his land. At least he died surrounded by people who cared.”

The more Mary learned of Decimus the more fearful she grew.

“Michael offered us passage to safer land after that night, but our blood is Irish and our home forever Ireland. We could not leave here or those in need. And if, or when, necessary we have no doubt that Michael will make certain we are moved to safer territory.”

A tremendous burden for the Dark One, Mary thought, with so many depending on him for help. He forever lived in the darkness for others.

Glenda continued. “We do not know his true identity and that is fine with us. He keeps it that way for our own good, but if we did know there is not a one here who would betray him.”

The Dark One was truly loved here in this tiny remote village, and Mary thought it would not be a bad place to remain and offer her help. But she knew in her heart that was not possible. Decimus hunted her and he would not stop until he caught her. If she remained, the village would be in danger. And neither she nor Michael could let that happen.

Glenda stopped at a small cottage. A well-tended patch of budding flowers and a bright yellow sun painted on the wooden door welcomed visitors.

Glenda lowered her voice as they approached the closed door. “This is Agnes's home. She has been here three months and continues to heal. She keeps much to herself and only allows me to visit and tend her since I was the one who cared for her when she was first brought here.”

Mary nodded and motioned that perhaps she should wait outside.

Glenda knocked. “Nay, I think it fate that you and Agnes meet.”

Mary wondered over her words as she followed behind Glenda and entered the cottage.

A small, thin woman with white hair, her back to them, stood by the fireplace warming her hands. “I want no visitors.”

Her voice was clear and sharp and her stance straight, no curve or hunch to her shoulders to add to her advanced years.

“I think you are expecting this visitor,” Glenda said to Mary's surprise.

The woman turned and Mary was stunned by her lovely face and shocked by her blindness. It was not torture that had caused her blindness but an affliction at birth, for her eyes were creamy white.

“It is you,” Agnes said anxiously and hurried to Mary's side, reaching out and grasping her hand.

Mary stared at Agnes wondering how a blind woman moved as easily as one with sight.

“I see without seeing,” Agnes answered as if hearing Mary's thoughts.

Mary understood instantly. The woman was a seer; she predicted forthcoming events good or bad. And while seers were often sought and respected, the Church had different ideas and branded them cohorts of Satan. She had heard they suffered the most when tortured, for it was believed they needed to be banished of their evil ways and suffering, and death was the only way to be certain they were cleansed.

Yet this woman looked as though torture had not touched her. Had Michael rescued her before any suffering befell her?

“Leave us, Glenda, I must speak with Mary alone.”

“Mary cannot speak,” Glenda said as she walked to the door.

“I know,” Agnes said.

Mary nodded to let Glenda know she was fine.

“I will be at Brenda's cottage two doors down,” Glenda said and closed the door behind her.

“Your mind is clear and aware of much, this is good.” Agnes said. “You wonder about me, particularly about the sun painted on my front door. You assumed I painted it when you first saw it. But now you wonder, How does a blind woman paint a sun on her door?”

Mary squeezed her hand to let her know she was accurate in all she assumed.

“Good, you speak without speaking as I see without seeing, which is the way I painted the sun on my door.”

Mary smiled, pleased and somewhat perplexed that conversation flowed so easily between a blind woman and a woman who could not speak.