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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.
    Michael stirred and she was quickly brought out of her musings. It was time for them to go and he parted the thick branches for her.
    She stepped out and placed her hand to her neck to see to her wound.
    â€œYou are hurt.”
    He sounded angry as he examined her wound but gently wiped away the blood, his glove-covered finger lingering on her neck. This tenderness was in such contrast to his harshness. A touch barely detectable, a faint whisper across her skin. Gooseflesh raced over her.
    She gently pushed his finger away and shook her head, letting him know it was nothing to be concerned with, then pointed to the direction where the men had disappeared.
    â€œWe must change our course. We cannot risk meeting those men along the trail. It will delay our arrival time by several hours and the terrain will prove burdensome at times.”
    She