She shook her head. As long as Decimus lived she would not be safe. She stretched out on the bed of pine.
“Your fatigue brings disillusionment. You will feel stronger in the morning.” He lay down beside her.
Strength. Her parents’ death had given her strength. One night she was a young girl with a loving family, the next night she had no one and faced torture and death. She remembered how she had cried when Magnus told her they were dead, that she would have to leave her village, go far away. She had cried until there were no more tears to cry, and then she got angry. She swore that one day she would make Decimus suffer for what he had done, but that was a young girl’s hurt and pain speaking.
How would she make him suffer? Perhaps she has been, by eluding capture. The thought gave her comfort.
“Sleep, Mary,” Michael said and turned on his side to drape his cape over her. “I will let nothing happen to you.”
She sighed softly, pressed her fingers to her lips and then pressed them to his lips, an innocent gesture of gratitude.
And as she drifted off to sleep she thought she smelled a familiar scent again, one she could not identify but which seemed to be the key to a special memory.Chapter 4They slept well into the next morning and it was not until midday that they continued their journey. Clouds hurried overhead only minutes after they began walking, and Mary hoped the rain would wait; a muddy path made travel all the more difficult.
A good night’s rest had helped and her legs felt strong today. Michael had told her that if they kept a steady pace they could reach their destination after nightfall. There they would have hot food and a soft bed. The thought gave her strength and she was determined to keep pace with him.
He was agile for a man who appeared burdened with heavy garments and a mask. If she was not aware that the face-covering was of a thin material, she would have wondered if it were magic that allowed him to walk the road so confidently. And his harsh voice allowed for no insight into his true nature, and often fostered fear.
He hid his identity well. There was no telling who this man was, even his true height went undetected; a slight hunch always with him.
Yet Mary could not help but wonder over her rescuer’s identity. Were his facial features also harsh? Was he so hideous that people recoiled in fear?
She knew nothing of him and attempted to piece together what she could. He was brave and unselfish, placing himself in danger to help her. But he was also confident in his ability to protect her. She wondered how often he protected the innocent and if it was a service he provided for a fee. Keeping his identity hidden was a wise choice, for then he could walk freely among the masses without fear of capture. He could actually live two separate lives, unless of course this shroud concealed a badly scarred face and body.
Michael turned suddenly, startling her. “Men and horses nearby.” He took her hand and dragged her off the path. He found an area dense with shrub and forced his way in, pulling her in behind him. It was a tight squeeze with little room. They huddled together between thick branches, the thorny leaves poking at their arms, legs, and faces. One pricked like a fine bone needle at her neck. The riders were closer now so she knew she could not move. She remained as she was and soon felt the first drop of blood drip down her neck.
She could hear the men grumbling as they guided their horses over the rough terrain. She wondered if they searched for her or if they were thieves who preferred a trail less traveled.
It seemed a very long time before their voices drifted away; even then she did not move. There was no telling if men straggled behind. She and Michael remained as they were, bodies pressed against each other. She realized she was growing accustomed to their closeness. She knew it was not proper for a man’s body to be so close to hers unless of course it was her husband’s. She recalled when she was young how she and the other young girls in the village would giggle over the lads’ attempts to impress them. Those giggles had ceased when she had been brought to Ireland. She had been too fearful of strangers to share in the village activities so she had kept herself, isolated from people. As she matured she made a few friends, but mostly with people who could teach her things—the bowman, the healer, the metal smith. She had felt the need to protect not only herself but also the aging couple, James and Nona, who had so generously opened their home to her.