Dark Warrior Read online

  The sight of his hand dipping into the stream suddenly made her angry. It was the hand of the man who robbed her of her family and her life. She took notice of his lean fingers and a sapphire ring he wore, and the urge to see more of her enemy tormented her. If she inched over just a bit she might be able to have a look at him.

  He stood abruptly and she stilled.

  Had he heard or spotted her? She waited for her fate to fall.

  In seconds he mounted his horse and rode off and she remained in the cold water, shivering in relief. She would not dare leave its safety until she was sure Decimus was far away.

  She waited and waited, then finally pulled herself out, her body trembling. She walked as softly and soundlessly as possible, hugging the water’s edge. Every now and again she thought she heard voices and she quickly sought the protection of the stream or within the dense branches of a willow until she was certain no one was near.

  Was Michael safe? Did he know Decimus was near? The thought haunted her, but she had no time to worry over him; she had to make her way back to the castle, and then she had to warn Michael that Decimus was nearby.

  Relief sent a final shiver to rack her body as she spied her clothes on the ground by the tree. It was near to nightfall. She had stopped many times and waited endlessly to make certain no one was near. She hurried into her skirt and blouse and slipped into her boots.

  She shivered, feeling cold to her bones from the constant dunking in the cold stream and her close brush with the devil himself, Decimus.

  She was almost to the castle when Michael stepped out of the shadows and she jumped.

  “Where have you been?” His voice was harsh and filled with concern.

  Mary was so relieved that she had survived her ordeal and that Michael was safe that she wanted to throw herself into his strong arms, but she knew that it was imperative that he be made aware of Decimus.

  “Your hair is wet.” He grabbed hold of her hand. “Your skin wrinkled. You have been in the water.”

  She nodded, her eyes round with fright.

  He grabbed her by both arms. “What happened?”

  He did not wait for an answer. He hurried her along to the castle with a firm hold of her arm. He gently shoved her down to sit on the bench in front of the hearth.

  She quickly sought the fire’s heat, rubbing her hands together in front of the blazing flames. The warmth tickled her cold flesh and she shivered hard; it took several minutes before the flames’ heat began to penetrate her cold flesh and set to warming her.

  He handed her a branch. “Tell me.”

  Her hand shook as she wrote and he moved closer to her, wrapping his arm around her and pressing his body next to hers to share his heat.

  Briefly she described her fall into the stream.

  “You were naked in the water?”

  She stared at him for she had purposely omitted that fact.

  “Your garments are dry,” he said, explaining how he knew.

  Foolish, she wrote.

  “Very.”

  His blunt, terse response told her he was angry.

  “I told you to stay away from the stream.”

  Foolish, she wrote again.

  “More than foolish.”

  She did not want to hear any more about that. It was imperative he know the rest.

  Decimus. Men. Close by.

  “You came across Decimus and his men?”

  She nodded vigorously and explained as best she could what had happened.

  “Decimus travels north, thinking we have gone to seek safety from Magnus.”

  Her eyes widen with fear for her friend.

  “Do not worry for Magnus. He can well take care of himself. Worry for you.”

  Her eyes rounded with the harshness of his words.

  “Do you know what would have happened if he had found you?”

  She did not want to think of the consequences of Decimus finding her. She had no strength left, but she wanted to let him know that she had been brave and courageous. It was important to her.

  With few written words she tried as best she could to relate how she had hung by the branch as Decimus drank water just a mere few inches away from her. She let him know that she had caught a glimpse of Decimus’s hand and his ring, and she had been close to seeing his face.

  “You came that close to him?”

  She nodded then raised her chin to demonstrate her pride and courage.

  Michael growled low in his throat, sounding as though he was about to erupt. Mary’s eyes grew wide with alarm.

  The growl quieted, he shook his head and his glove-covered hand slowly stroked her face.

  “You are braver than I.”

  She shook her head and quickly wrote, No one brave as you.

  He took the stick from her hand, tossed it aside, and lowered his head.

  “I should not do this, I have no right to kiss you, but I must.”

  He grabbed the edge of his face mask.

  “Close your eyes, Mary, and give me your word as a brave warrior that you will keep them closed.”

  This was the second time she had been considered a brave warrior and it meant much more coming from Michael. She gave her word with a nod, accepting the distinguished honor of being a warrior in his eyes.

  She closed her eyes and waited for his lips, but first his cheek touched hers, and she sighed with the pleasure of his warm flesh resting against hers. He was no longer a mere shadow. He was a man of flesh and blood.

  Chapter 11

  He could remain as he was, cheek against cheek, and not move, not kiss; just feel. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel, allowed himself emotions, allowed himself to care. He wanted to linger in the beauty of those long forgotten feelings, relish in their return and grasp them firmly if only for a brief time.

  Mary rubbed her cheek against his and sighed softly.

  “You feel so very good,” he whispered.

  She kept her eyes closed as she had promised and smiled, letting him know she felt the same of him.

  Michael discarded his gloves and hesitated for a moment, reluctant and uncertain to touch her. He feared that once he did he would not want to stop. He took a deep breath and brought his hand to her neck; his fingertips gently grazed her silky skin.

  She responded, tilting her head to the side, allowing him complete access to her neck.

  She trusts me.

  The thought sent a rush of emotions through him, heating his flesh and his loins. He wanted to protect her, love her, and worship her for she surrendered to him with the purest of hearts and emotions.

  He slowly brought his lips to her neck and followed the path his fingertips had traveled. The taste of her was exquisite, soft, sweet and silky.

  Her body surrendered with each kiss and he slipped his arm around her waist for support and to bring her closer to him; he wanted her as close as possible. He wanted to feel her body’s response—a simple shiver, a tingle, a movement; he intended to feel all of her emotions.

  He continued to enjoy the taste of her, feeling like a starving man who had gone much too long without sustenance. The more he tasted the more hungry he grew, and with a hasty grab of her chin but with reserve, he claimed her lips.

  His kiss was filled with unbridled passion, and if he were not careful he would soon have her up in his arms and on the sleeping pallet. And that he could not do; he could not take from her that which should one day belong to her husband.

  She was innocent and trusting and he had vowed to protect her, even if it meant protecting her from him.

  He lingered in the kiss, knowing that was all they would share yet wanting to fill himself with the taste of her. He would at least have the memory of her on his lips to keep long after they parted.

  He reluctantly brought their kiss to an end but she refused to let him go.

  He wanted to rejoice, smile, laugh, and cry with the joy of knowing love once again, and he surrendered to her nervous and quick atte
mpts to kiss him.

  Michael eased his mouth from hers and whispered, “Easy and slow like this.”

  He taunted, teased, and tempted with his lingering kisses and when he was done, she smiled and patted her chest to let him know it was her turn.

  She learned fast, much too fast, for in mere seconds her kisses had his blood racing and his loins swelling most uncomfortably. He eased away from her and pulled his black mask down over his face with much regret. If only . . .

  If only he were free.

  He pressed his glove-covered hand to her face. “Open your eyes.”

  They drifted open with a smile.

  How could she be happy about kissing a faceless man? She had placed her trust in a stranger, in a shadow, in darkness where light never shined.

  She motioned with her hands to let him know how much she enjoyed their kiss.

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “I have never known such a beautiful kiss until yours.”

  She smiled wider and her shoulders sagged as she released a heavy sigh. She then hurried to tell him, her hand motions frantic, that he was her first; she had never been kissed before.

  The knowledge reared a protective instinct in him that he knew would be hard to control. He was her first, the only man to ever claim her lips. The thought that someday another would kiss her lips filled him with anger.

  He captured her waving hands in his. “I am honored to be the first to have kissed you. These lovely moments will live long with me.” He turned her hand to kiss her palm and stopped when she winced.

  He looked at the red welts crisscrossing her palm, then at her.

  She attempted to free her hand so that she could demonstrate how she received her injury, but he would not let her go.

  “I know how you came by these injuries. There are slivers of bark within the wounds that need removing.”

  She winced again.

  “I will be gentle,” he reassured her.

  Michael placed a crock of water by the fire to warm and retrieved a knife from somewhere within the confines of his shroud. He held up his knife, the metal blade gleaming in the fire’s light.

  She frowned and skittishly presented her hand to him.

  “I will be gentle, trust me.”

  She nodded, her eyes growing wide, letting him know that trust was not a question with him.

  He kept a firm hold on her hand as he brought the tip of the knife to her wound. She squeezed shut her eyes and braced herself for the pain.

  His hesitation made her wonder if he feared hurting her, and the thought touched her heart.

  “Done,” he said and trickled warm water over her wound, then patted it dry with the end of his robe.

  Her eyes sprang open in disbelief. She stared at her hand to make certain he had removed the slivers, having felt not a prick or a pain. They were gone. She smiled and pressed her cheek to his.

  They lingered against each other for a moment, then she moved to the table while keeping a hand on his arm. She pointed to the food.

  “I set the bird to cooking when I returned,” he said, “and went in search of you, intending to admonish you for leaving the castle grounds. I found no sign of you, though I expected to find you at the stream.”

  After stripping a large piece of meat from the bird, Mary tried to explain that he had not seen her garments in his search because she hid them beside the large willow tree.

  “You hid your garments?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “You hid them so I would not see them if I should return before you were done.”

  She shook her head again.

  “Aye, you did,” he said. “You knew I would glance past the tree line and if I did not spot you, I would go no farther. Your actions were born of intelligence and I commend you.”

  Her eyes rounded in surprise.

  “Though I admonish you for disobeying my orders.”

  She sighed and nodded.

  Foolish. She had been foolish.

  Then she shook her head to let him know she would never disobey him again.

  “Promise me, Mary. Promise me you will heed my orders for it may endanger your life as it did today.”

  She placed her hand to her heart and nodded.

  “It is a warrior’s honor that you give me?”

  She stuck her chin up and then gave a firm nod.

  “Good, then I will say no more about it.”

  They slept well that night wrapped in each other’s arms, knowing time was their enemy. It would end and they would part, both understood the necessity of it, and both prayed for a miracle.

  Early the next morning they sat on the bank of the stream fishing for their breakfast. Poles were made of thick willow branches and old frayed rope with rusty hooks fashioned from scrap metal. The fish seemed to ignore the hook, instead feeding on the tiny fish that swam near the surface.

  “They taunt us,” Michael said, humor edging his harsh tone.

  Mary nodded and motioned that she was not that hungry. She reached for a stick and wrote in the dirt. Speak with me.

  “Of what do you wish to speak?”

  You when a lad.

  That caused a pause and Mary hoped she had not stirred painful memories. Then she heard a soft rumble of laughter as though he had attempted to conceal it but failed.

  Tell me, she urged, emphasizing her desire to hear about him with a deep underscore drawn beneath the words.

  “Adventure,” he said and she thought she could feel his smile; he sounded happy. “I was forever getting myself lost in the woods or stranded in a boat in the middle of a loch, or stuck in a tree that seemed far taller once I had climbed it. But no one or nothing could stop me from exploring and I was fortunate to have a family who encouraged my exploits.”

  Siblings?

  A lengthy pause proceeded. “A sister.”

  She waited, the hesitancy in his voice making her wonder if he would speak no more about her.

  Then as if he opened a door long closed and locked tightly, he began to talk.

  “Cathleen was my little sister.”

  His voice swelled with emotion and Mary wondered if a tear touched his eye.

  “She forever followed me around and I looked after her as an older brother should. I was there whenever she needed me. If she fell down, I picked her up and tended her wounds. If she cried I wiped her tears. It was my duty to see to her care, my father reminded me of that on his deathbed. I was to take care of my mother and sister, but it was no chore for me. I loved them both and would do anything for them.”

  It was not difficult to realize that something had happened to his family. Mary waited, hoping he would continue to share his past and his pain with her, hoping perhaps it would help heal him.

  “Cathleen loved and trusted everyone. Her constant smile was born of a joyous and generous heart. And she was so very beautiful.”

  Was. What had happened to her? Mary wondered if somehow his sister was connected to the reason that he became the Dark One.

  “She thirsted for knowledge.”

  Mary smiled and tapped her chest to let him know she felt the same.

  He grabbed her hand so tightly that she winced, but he did not release it.

  “Seeking knowledge can cause you harm.”

  She nodded and eased his fingers off her wrist before writing: I know, but knowledge is power.

  “What power does it bring peasants? What good does knowledge do them?” He sounded angry.

  Mary remained patient, aware that his anger came from a painful memory. It frees us.

  “They continue to labor. How does that bring freedom?”

  It frees the mind.

  “And if peasants speak, they are persecuted.”

  No hope in silence. No hope. No life.

  “It is dangerous to think that way. The peasant is taught to serve lord and master. That is his lot in life: service.”

  Who do you serve?

  “Some say the devil.”
<
br />   She shook her head.

  He held out his arms. “Darkness is born from the depths of hell.”

  Darkness is born of ignorance.

  “Who taught you such dangerous knowledge?”

  She stuck her chin up then wrote, My father.

  His tone softened. “He must have been a brave man.”

  Sadness and sorrow filled her; she missed her father very much. Very brave.

  “Then you truly are your father’s daughter.”

  She smiled. Thank you.

  “He would be proud of you.”

  She nodded, recalling how just before her father had been taken away, he had expressed his pride in her bravery. She was barely eleven years old yet was proud of her; it had shined in his eyes and smile whenever he had looked at her. Those memories kept her father alive in her mind.

  “He was accused of heresy?” Michael asked reluctantly.

  She nodded and asked her own question. Your sister?

  “Her innocence caused her to suffer.” His anger returned. “She trusted, she believed in good and gave no thought to evil. She would care for the ill, help the injured animals, and love those others would shun. She had an angelic heart and soul.”

  Precious woman.

  “To me she was precious.” He shook his head and turned to stare at the stream. “I was as precious to her as she was to me. She loved me, believed in me, and—”

  With a vicious toss the fishing pole went flying into the stream. “She loved me, trusted me, and I failed her.”

  Mary placed her hand on his arm and he turned his head abruptly to see her shaking her head, denying his admission.

  “She loved me and I failed her,” he reiterated adamantly.

  Mary shook her head just as adamantly.

  “You know not of what you speak. She suffered and I did nothing.” Anger and pain punctuated his words. “She loved me and I failed her. I will not see that happen again.”

  Mary understood now why he refused to love, but she refused to allow him his pity. She swallowed hard, recited a silent prayer, squeezed his arm and said aloud, “I love you.”

  Chapter 12

  Michael 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.”