Dark Warrior by Donna Fletcher

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.
    â€œYou 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?
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œI 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