Sleep was ready to claim her as soon as she finished her food and drink. She looked at Michael—her heart suddenly ached for him.
She pointed to his mask. He had not removed it since they first met. Her hand signaled that he should remove it. She attempted to convey that his secret was safe with her.
“I cannot,” he said, “for your safety and mine; I cannot.”
She caught disappointment in his voice as though he wished to do as she suggested. Did he wish for her to know him as much as she wished to know him?
Or was she exhausted and not making an ounce of sense?
“Sleep,” he ordered. “We still have much distance to travel.”
With a raised hand she circled the air around her, tossed her hands in frustration, pointed to her feet, crinkled her face, and shook her head while waving her finger.
To her surprise he laughed, though it was a low rumble, restrained. “You are never going to walk long distances when this is over.”
She nodded, confirming his understanding of her fumbling attempts at sign language. Then with one hand covering her yawn, she tugged with her other hand at his shroud for him to lie down and rest as well.
With little space they had no choice but to snuggle against each other. In an instant Mary was fast asleep, her arms tucked in against his chest, her head to his shoulder, her body pressed firmly against his and his shroud used as a blanket to keep her warm.
Michael however found sleep difficult. His body was tired, but much too aroused to sleep. It had all been so innocent the first night he found her in his arms out of necessity. She needed warmth and he had provided it. But that need for heat from a chilled night was not necessary when they stayed at the cottage.
And still . . .
He sought her bed. Why? He could convince himself it was out of protection that he had remained by her side, though if he were honest he would admit it was his own need that made him seek a tiny bit of intimacy with her. It felt good to lie beside her, to hold her, to feel her warmth. Her tenacious nature, her smile, her endless attempts to speak with her hands, her willingness to trust him when he was nothing more than a shadow, made her a remarkable woman. And she had kissed him, if only with her fingers.
He grew annoyed with himself. She was grateful and dependent on him, nothing more. He had seen countless women to safety who had been just as grateful.
But how many women, fearing his darkness, had kept their distance no matter how grateful?
Mary had accepted his ominous presence from the beginning. She had not shied away in fright or feared being near him. And she appeared to have grown even more comfortable with him as the days continued.
She thought nothing of taking hold of his arm or expressing herself with a touch to his chest. And with each simple touch, he began to respond; it was a brief stirring of emotions at first, growing more evident with each contact until . . .
He took a deep breath and willed his mind to banish the crazy thoughts, but his emotions warred with him. His feelings had been locked away in a prison of his own making and somehow Mary had found a way to pry it open, if only an inch.
It had been too long since he had been touched with kindness and concern. He had forgotten what it felt like and the stirring of emotions it created. It was a brief spark at first, a faint flutter of recognition he could not quite grasp and it faded as swiftly as it had been born.
He had paid it no heed until the spark returned and finally ignited a response. He suddenly realized that he favored her hand on his arm, her head on his shoulder, her body snuggled next to his. He actually waited for her to move nearer to him, and found that his arms instinctively comforted her without thought or concern for his unusual actions.
Lonely.
He had been very lonely these many years, missing his family, remembering his mother’s tender love and the joy and laughter he shared with his younger sister. Mary reminded him of his sister, young and courageous, an angelic smile. Their hearts were peaceful. Sometimes he would think of home and picture his mother and sister waiting eagerly for his return, but there was no home and he knew better than to think he could live a happy life once again. And love? He had no time to spare for love. He had been dedicated to his purpose, his intent to save the innocent. There was no time for love, family, children—and he had seen in Mary’s eyes how she wished for children, wished for a fulfilling life.
He could give her none of that. He would only bring her heartache and sorrow. One day it would be necessary for him to walk away from her never to see her again. The thought stabbed like a knife in his stomach and he moved her closer to him.
He would cherish the brief time that was theirs. He would allow himself to feel and gather memories, but he would keep his distance for her sake as well as his own. When all was done between them, he wanted no heartache for her and no regrets for him.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head and closed his eyes to sleep.
They walked for three more days taking shelter during the day and continuing their journey from dusk till dawn. They kept a steady pace taking brief rests and forging ahead with determination.
On the sixth day, as dawn claimed the land, they came upon the ruins of an old castle. It was strange to look upon: the thick wooden front door, scarred with blows from a battle-ax, was shut solid as if to warn away visitors while the remainder of the castle lay crumbled around it.
A wooden stairway climbed to the sky and stopped suddenly; a few inner walls had remained strong while the outer walls had fallen. Vines, wildflowers, and nesting birds had claimed the decaying crumble as their home and given the sad edifice a small bit of dignity and hope.
It sat in a small valley surrounded by hills and woods with a stream running behind it. It was a difficult location to protect against attack, and Mary imagined that was why the small castle was now neglected and abandoned.
“We will be safe here for a while,” Michael said. “This place has long been forgotten, proving too difficult to defend.”
She nodded and walked over to the door, her fingers examining the deep scars the door had suffered.
“She stood against many blows and did not fall,” Michael said and was about to step over the crumbled castle wall.
Mary shook her head and waved her hands frantically. She went to him, took his hand, and led him back to the front door. She knocked on the door, waited a moment, then opened the door and walked in with Michael in tow.
She released his hand, turned to face him and smiled, spreading out her arms.
He understood. “You feel that by using the front door, though the walls have crumbled and we could have easily entered, the castle appreciates our respect and welcomes us.”
A sharp nod let him know he was right, then she turned and proceeded to investigate the rubble and decay.
A large fireplace remained solid in a partial wall with a good-sized cauldron hanging on the cooking hook. She looked forward to a hot meal but knew that would have to wait. They were both exhausted from the many days of endless walking and they needed a restful sleep.
Michael fashioned a sleeping pallet out of old brush and a worn tapestry he discovered beneath a few stones. He placed it beneath the stairway hidden from view just in case someone should happen by.
“Tomorrow we will see what we can do to make this place habitable for the time we are here.”
Her soft blue eyes questioned and he answered.
“We may be here a week or several weeks; I am not certain just yet.”