Dark Warrior by Donna Fletcher

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 attempts 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.
    â€œI know how you came by these injuries. There are slivers of bark within the wounds that need removing.”
    She winced again.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDone,” 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou hid your garments?” he asked.
    She shook her head.
    â€œYou hid them so I would not see them