Dark Warrior (9 page)

M
ichael was too stunned to speak. He had ached to hear her voice and had never expected these words to be the first to spill from her lips. They tore at his heart; his soul wept with sorrow—for upon hearing her words, her voice, his response was not what he had thought it would be. “You cannot love me.”

She smiled and raised a defiant chin. “Aye, I can.”

He reached out and stroked her neck. “It does not pain you?”

“Nay, I think I have finally healed.”

The beauty of her voice was like a gentle lyric to his senses, and he smiled though she could not see it.

“I will hear your voice much now.”

“Is that a plea I hear or regret?”

Peels of gentle laughter poured from her, and he favored the sound that seemed to rain down around him.

“I have yet to decide.”

“I knew I detected humor in you,” she said and coughed, clearing her throat of a sudden tickle.

He gently massaged her throat. “I know how much you must want to talk but be careful. Your voice probably still mends.”

“Wise advice, which undoubtedly I will have difficulty following.”

“There is nothing that important that needs immediate discussion.”

She reached up to touch his face. “Aye, there is. I love you and I think you love me.”

He stood abruptly and paced in front of her, the hem of his robe growing wet from the water's edge.

“Love is not possible for us.”

“Why?”

A simple enough question requiring a much more complicated answer, of which he was uncertain. “You do not know who I am.”

“Then show me,” she challenged. “Though it will not matter.”

He stopped pacing and with regret said, “I cannot.”

“Are you ugly, scarred, reprehensible?”

“I think that would be for another to answer.”

“Then let me answer.”

He shook his head. “Nay, and that is the end of it.”

Mary stood, then laughed softly. “You have much to learn about me, Michael. Lord, it feels good to say your name.
Michael. Michael. Michael.
” She whirled around, raising her hands to the sky. “I love
Michael.
”

He remained silent, secretly pleased with hearing her declaration sung to the heavens. He knew she should not love him or that he should not feel the same about her, but for now, for this moment, he would take pleasure in hearing of her love for him.

She stopped and stared at him.

“You wait for what?” he asked after several minutes passed in silence.

She walked up to him and tapped at his chest directly over his heart.

He understood. She waited to hear how he felt about her. Could he deny her? Could he deny himself?

Mary was patient, not moving, remaining silent, waiting: she would have an answer.

Michael finally surrendered; he had no choice, he simply could not deny his love for her. “Lord, help me. Mary, I love you with all my heart and soul.”

She smiled, tilted her head, closed her eyes; she wanted a kiss.

But then so did he.

Their arms wrapped around each other simultaneously and together they surrendered to a breath-catching kiss. Lips touched, a hunger fed, a need filled, and love quenched. They nibbled at each other's lips unwilling to part, wanting to continue tasting and touching, never wanting to let go. When it was done, silence reigned, for neither of them could speak, but both worried about the day when they would kiss for the last time.

That evening after supper Mary went to the stream to wash their eating utensils. She felt content and at peace. She could speak again, but most importantly he did not deny his love for her. He admitted it freely; of course she asked, but how else was she to know? He intended not only to protect her from Decimus but also from his love, and she would not have that. She trusted him enough to know he would not lie to her; he would speak the truth.

Her smile was wide as she scrubbed the plates with sand from the bottom of the stream. And before long, without realizing it, as she had so often done when she was young, she began to hum a tune that turned quickly into a song.

Michael had followed her to the stream, though kept his distance giving her time alone, time to think and be sensible about their love. But then love was not sensible, as his mother had often warned him.

The soft tune she hummed delighted him, but when she broke into song he was astonished. He had never heard such a beautiful voice in all his years. It was like listening to an angel.

When she finished the song of finding first love he felt a sense of disappointment. He wished for her to continue singing; her voice soothed his soul.

He watched as she stretched her hands up to the heavens. “Thank you. Thank you for the return of my voice and thank you with all my heart for Michael's love.”

He had thought she could not surprise him any more than she already had, but he was wrong. To hear her give thanks to the heavens for his love tugged at his heart and shivered his soul.

“One day you may regret loving me.”

Startled, she turned—but she wore a smile.
“Never.”

He walked over to her. “You give your love to a stranger, that is not wise.”

“You are not a stranger to me. You are my hero; you saved me and delivered me to freedom, and now you protect me.” She walked to him and tapped his chest. “And
you
love
me.
”

“You will not let me forget that.”

“Never.” She laughed. “I will remind you until your dying day and then beyond.”

He reached out and slipped his arms around her waist. “I shall never be free of you.”

“That is my plan.” She drifted into his tender embrace and rested her head on his chest. She loved hearing the soft steady rhythm of his heart and feeling the strength of him wrap around her. And though her plan might be nothing more than a dream, she refused to allow her dream to die. She would keep it strong in her heart and mind and pray for a miracle.

A strike of lightning and clap of thunder moved them apart, though they clasped hands, then stared up at the night sky wondering where it had come from. There was no sign of a storm.

Was it an omen?

Mary shivered.

Michael tugged at her hand and led the way back to the castle. She scooped the plates up and hurried along with him. The dark sky suddenly grew darker and heavy clouds raced like avenging warriors across the starless sky.

The first drop of rain fell before they reached the safety of the castle. Once inside, Mary dropped the plates on the wooden table and they ducked beneath the partial roof covering their sleeping pallet.

The rain fell hard and fast; lightning struck, followed by a deafening thunderclap.

Mary rubbed the gooseflesh that ran down her arms.

Michael stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her, his shroud completely encasing her, and rested his face next to hers.

She wished she could feel his warm flesh, but would that be wise? Once his skin touched hers she would want to feel more, touch more, and kiss endlessly.

The wind howled, screeching horribly.

“The banshees will ride this night,” Mary said, her voice a mere whisper, and then she crossed herself in protection.

Michael laughed, a sound as chilling as the banshee's call. “You sleep with the Dark One. Do you believe the banshees would dare to disturb us?”

“You do not fear the night creatures?”

He pressed his lips near to her ear and whispered, “There is little I fear.”

“Do you fear the light?”

“Perhaps the light fears me.”

“Darkness and light, as one is born the other dies,” she whispered.

“I am forever.”

She turned in his arms and pressed her palm to his cheek, again wishing she felt his flesh and not the black shroud. “You cannot live in darkness forever.”

“Darkness has been my companion for many years and has served me well. I warn you, Mary, do not ask of me what is better left unspoken. Do not look to see what is better left concealed. Do not attempt to save what has already been lost.”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “And do not deny what we know to be the truth. The truth is always victorious.”

He abruptly stepped away from her and she heard the anger in his voice. “The truth is never victorious. Truth causes pain, sorrow, suffering.”

“Truth is an ally and is always there to help.”

“Your father's teachings?” Michael asked more calmly.

“My father's belief and one that he lived by.”

He shook his head. “And brought him sorrow.”

Mary reached out to take his hand and tugged for him to join her as she lowered herself down to their sleeping pallet. Michael followed.

“Nay.” Mary was quick to argue though her tone was neutral. “My father was a happy man. He spoke the truth as he believed it and would have it no other way.”

“And the truth earned him what?” Michael regretted his words. He did not wish to raise painful memories.

Mary did not take offense. The memories of her father had been good ones.

She smiled. “Truth earned him admiration, respect, honor, and a life that he cherished and loved.”

Michael remained silent. He wanted to remind her that truth also earned him his death, but he did not wish to hurt her.

“You hold your tongue so as not to cause me pain.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Truth did not kill my father, it was ignorance.”

“An ignorance that spreads like wildfire destroying all in its path, including the truth.”

She disagreed. “The truth cannot be destroyed. It may linger in silence for many years, but it eventually rises victorious as it will one day rise victorious over Decimus.”

He laughed. “You think a man as vile as Decimus will one day be destroyed?”

She thought on his words and recalled the seer's words to her.
You will be the demise of Decimus
.

“His end will come,” she said confidently.

He took her hand and squeezed gently. “I wish it to come soon, though I doubt my wish will be granted.”

She smiled. “Wishes can only come true if you believe in them. They do little good if you do not hold your desire strong in your heart.”

He brought her hand to rest at his heart. “I wish with all my heart that I would kiss you.”

She giggled softly. “You better hold that wish tightly and believe with all your heart or it will not come true.”

“I believe,” he said, his gruff tone making his plea sound like a strange litany. “I believe, I believe, I believe.”

With each plea his face drew closer, and her eyes closed, and they kissed as they lay back on the sleeping pallet. His hands were at her waist, he did not dare move fearing that once he began he would not stop, and he sensed she would want the same.

Nothing mattered at that moment, not the storm, not their hunters, not Decimus, only the two of them and this moment in time.

They kissed and they hugged and settled deeper into each other's arms with sleep.

“W
ill you be gone long?” Mary asked, concerned over the sudden news of Michael's departure the next morning.

“A week perhaps, but you will be in good hands.”

They walked out the castle door, a beautiful spring morning having greeted them.

Michael took hold of her hand. “A good friend of mine will arrive shortly after I leave and will remain with you until I return. His name is Roarke. He is a large Scotsman and you can trust him. He will protect you with his life.”

“You know him well?”

“We are true friends. I would have no other watch over you.”

“And what of you?” she asked. “Where do you go, if I may inquire?”

“I go to speak with Magnus and make plans for your final destination.”

“I should go with you.”

“For your safety it is better you remain here,” he said.

“But it is my future that Magnus and you are deciding. What of my choices?”

“Safety and freedom are your only choices,” he reminded. “Your destination will be born of necessity.”

“You will be careful?” She did not want to admit he was right and she did not want him to go. She wanted more time with him. Time to discover, time to love, time for a miracle.

He cupped her chin. “Worry not about me. I will be fine.”

She smiled. “I love you.” And her eyes drifted close, waiting for him to kiss her.

After a gentle kiss they parted and with a wave Mary watched him disappear into the woods. She sighed and sat on the castle's broken stone wall, already missing Michael.

He made such a difference in her life or perhaps it was love that made the difference. She had often wondered if she would ever find love, but then how could she not. Her parents had made certain to lavish her with love. At an early age she understood that love was unselfish, love was patient, love was security, and love was . . .

A tear trickled from the corner of her eye. And love was forever, even if that person was no longer with you.

Mary wiped at the tear with determination. She had lost her parents; she refused to lose Michael. Her life had been in the hands of others since her parents death, and it was time she took charge and made her own decisions.

Michael would be gone a week or more and his absence would give her time to ponder her options. But what were her options?

Run or face Decimus
.

Neither was the answer she was looking for.

Could she find something in between?

A sharp crack of a branch caught her attention, and she immediately sought the safety of the castle. She hid behind a section of the crumbled wall and watched to see who approached.

A man stepped out of the woods, looked around, and then walked toward the castle. He was huge, tall as a tree, with the girth of a tree trunk and flaming red hair and a beard to match. His sword was strapped to his back and a sheathed dirk fastened to his belt. He wore a pale yellow linen shirt beneath his blue, red, and yellow plaid, and he carried himself with a confidence born of strength. And while he was not a handsome man, there was something about his features that appealed to the eye.

He stopped before reaching the castle door and looked about, then announced his arrival. “I am Roarke; Michael sent me.”

Mary stepped into sight with a smile. “Welcome, Roarke, it is pleased that I am to have your company.”

His grin was wide. “And pleased I am to be here, though tell me you can cook and I will be more pleased.”

Mary laughed. “My food has been known to bring smiles.”

“Then I am a happy man, Mary.”

He stepped forward as Mary approached him and offered his hand. She took it, and the strength of his handshake caused her eyes to widen.

“You are an army of one.”

“Aye, so you need not worry over your safety.”

“I have been in good hands,” she said. “And I remain so.”

“Good, now tell me if there is anything you need of me before I hunt for our midday meal.”

“Nothing at the moment, though the wood for the cook fire is growing low.”

“I will see to that when I am done hunting.” He turned, then paused and looked back at her. “Michael told me to remind you that you are not to go to the stream alone.”

“He has told me that many times.”

“Your near capture frightened him, and I have never known Michael to be frightened.”

Mary watched the large man walk off and a soft smile slowly surfaced. She was part of Michael's heart and he a part of hers. Their hearts were one and must remain so. They could not survive without each other.

She looked to the heavens.

I need a miracle. Help me
.

Mary made a fine stew from the rabbits Roarke snared. He did not stop praising her food, and promised to keep her well stocked with fresh game so that she could work her magic with food.

She, however, intended to work her magic on discovering what she could about Michael. She learned soon enough that Roarke liked to talk. The subject did not matter; he talked on anything and found interest in it.

“How long have you known Michael?” she asked.

“Some time.”

“Did he rescue you?”

His grin prompted her to redefine her question.

“Did you rescue him?”

He shrugged, giving her no definitive response.

“He has a good heart.”

Roarke nodded and his sudden silence warned her he would not be forthcoming. He protected Michael and she could not fault him for that, but she wanted to know about the man she loved and she was certain Roarke could provide insight.

Mary decided that being blunt might make a difference. “I love Michael.”

Roarke misunderstood. “Everyone Michael helps loves him.”

“I am sure they do, but
I love him
,” she clarified.

Roarke was about to take a bite of a piece of meat but stopped to stare at her.

“I want to know about Michael,” she insisted.

He dropped the piece of meat to his plate and shook his head. “I will not betray Michael's trust.”

“I do not ask that of you.” She pushed her plate aside, her food barely touched, and leaned her arms on the table. “I want to know the man behind the mask.”

“You are serious.”

“Yes.”

“It cannot be.” Roarke wiped his hands on a cloth. “You and Michael can never be.”

“You repeat his words, but I pray that it can be.”

“He speaks the truth and I am sorry to say you waste your time.”

“Michael loves me,” she said with confidence.

“Then I feel sorry for my friend for he knows the truth of the situation.”

“Is he not allowed to love?” Mary heard her own frustration.

“I would want nothing more than to see Michael happy. But he chose a path to follow, a difficult path, and he knows the price of his decision.”

“He can change his path.”

Roarke sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “He would not do that. He made a vow and he is an honorable man.”

Sadness gripped her heart. Was there not even a small chance for them?

“I wish I could explain, for I see it causes you pain, but it is not for me to tell you,” Roarke said with sympathy. “It is Michael you must speak with.”

“Can you tell me nothing?” She sounded as though she begged like an animal for a small scrap of food, for anything that would feed her need. Her weakness annoyed her but she understood it came from deep inside, where feelings nestled and grew.

Roarke took pity on her and leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table and looking ready to tell her a tale.

She waited with hope in her heart.

“Michael knows the ills of the suffering for he suffered greatly himself.”

“He was tortured?”

“Ask me no questions, Mary. Listen and take what little I can offer you.”

She quickly nodded, impatient for him to continue.

“His own suffering brought with it a vow of vengeance, a vow that would serve the greater good. He committed himself to that vow; it is his life.”

“But what of love? Is he not entitled to love?”

“He surrendered his life when he took that vow.”

“You are telling me that I cannot be selfish and expect him to forsake his vow for our love.”

“Aye,” he admitted. “I want you aware of the pain your love may cause the both of you.”

“But—”

“Wait, let me finish. I have watched Michael endlessly give with no thought to himself. And I, as his friend, know that he cannot go on like this forever. It is a lonely, isolated existence . . .” He paused a moment and, almost in a whisper, as though he were not sure if he should voice his thoughts, said, “I sometimes think he punishes himself over and over—”

“For his sister's death.”

“And his mother's.”

“His mother?”

Roarke shook his head. “This is why it is better I say nothing. Once I start talking I do not stop.”

“But he told me of his sister,” she reminded him.

“If he had told you the whole story then he would have told you about his mother. They are the reason he became the Dark One.”

“I want to love him, help him, free him.”

“I wish that were possible,” Roarke said sadly, “but Michael must free himself.”

“Sometimes we need help.”

“Trust me, Mary, there is nothing you can do to help him.”

“I do not believe that.”

“You do not want to believe that,” Roarke said. “And I admire you for your courage, but it will do you little good against the strength of the Dark One.”

“I have survived much suffering myself, and I would not have done so if it were not for my parents. They taught me courage and they taught me strength, and that both could not be gained without love.”

“I know of your father and his beliefs. He was respected and admired by many, and his teachings continue to live on.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Mary said. “And I would not be my father's daughter if I did not fight for my own beliefs. And I believe that Michael and I will one day share a life and love.”

“I would like to believe the same,” Roarke said. “But believe me when I say you do not know the reality of what you face.”

“Decimus?”

“Rest assured, he will stand in your way.”

“Then I will have to move him out of my way.”

“It is said he is pure evil,” Roarke said as though warning her.

“Do you not believe that love can conquer evil?”

“I would like to think it were possible, but I have seen Decimus's wrath and what is left in its wake.” He shook his head. “I do not know if love is strong enough to deal with such terror.”

“Do you know much about Decimus?”

“Want to know your enemy?”

“How can a warrior enter battle and expect victory with no knowledge of his enemy? I have been protected since I was young and it has done me little good. I must know this man who chases after me if I am ever to be free.”

“The Dark One will make certain you get to freedom.”

“The Dark One,” she repeated with a sad smile. “Not Michael?”

“You must leave Michael behind to do what he must.”

She shook her head. “I cannot do that. I will not do that.”

“There is nothing you can do for Michael.”

“I believe there is. Will you tell me about Decimus?'

“I do not see what good it will do.”

“Then you have nothing to lose by telling me what you know of the man.”

“You are stubborn.”

“Nay, I know what I must do to free not only myself but Michael.”

“How will you, a woman with no battle skills, free Michael?”

Mary shook her head. “I do not know. I only know I must try.”