More gunshots sounded. Bark splintered from the tree just above his head.
“Beth!”
A bullet slammed into her left shoulder.
Staggering backward, she glanced down as burning pain invaded her arm.
Josh fired into the brush on one side of the cabin.
Raising her own 9mm, Beth followed suit and fired half a dozen times as she backed toward the trees.
Branches snapped as a large body fell forward out of the brush.
Kingsley.
Her ears ringing from the shots, Beth ducked behind a tree. The stale smell of gunpowder filled the air. Her rapid heartbeat pounded in her ears. She tightened her hold on the 9mm, gritting her teeth as the throbbing in her shoulder and arm increased. Damn, it hurt.
Licking dry lips, she tasted the salt of her own sweat as she peered around the rough tree trunk.
Another gunshot sounded.
Bark exploded from the tree shielding Josh, no more than an inch from his face.
Her fear doubled. Where the hell was the second shooter?
She studied every tree and bedraggled shrub she could see without sticking her head out far enough to draw fire.
Nothing.
She swore. Josh was trapped. He would be totally exposed if he made a run for it. And, judging by the shots she’d heard and seen him fire, he was probably low on ammo.
Beth slid the shotgun off her shoulder, caught his eye, then tossed it to him.
He grimaced as he caught it. Leaning forward, he pressed the hand still holding his Glock to his side, drawing her gaze to the hole in his vest.
More bullets nicked the tree as he ducked back behind it. So close!
Panic invaded her. A terrible trembling began somewhere deep inside. Her breath shortened as she struggled to pull the Ruger 9mm from the holster on her hip and flip off the safety. She almost couldn’t do it. Her left arm didn’t want to cooperate.
“Run!” Josh ordered.
She shook her head helplessly. No way would she leave him here like this.
He peered around the tree, then squatted down.
Bark burst from the trunk just above his head.
Josh swore viciously. “Then cover me. He’s at your nine o’clock.”
Heart in her throat, she nodded, then leaned to one side and fired into the foliage up and to the left.
Josh took off running toward her.
Beth continued to fire, searching the brush for any hint of movement that would let her know exactly where the shooter hid.
Blood suddenly spurted from Josh’s right thigh. His leg buckled, sending him to the ground out in the open with no cover.
Beth’s breath stopped.
Before the dust had even settled, another bullet pierced his left arm.
“No!” Tears blurring her vision, Beth burst from the cover of the tree, firing blindly in the direction Josh had told her to with both the Ruger and the Glock. Before she could reach Josh, a bullet struck her in the back.
Pain careened through her. All strength seemed to leave her legs as she tumbled forward and landed facedown in the dirt. The hard-packed earth scraped her forearms like cement when she threw them up to keep her head from hitting the ground. Dust flew up and invaded her eyes as her body went limp. Her breath vanished, sucked away in an instant, filling her with terror.
Beth fought to draw air into her lungs, but couldn’t. All she could do was listen to her abnormally loud heartbeat and futilely fight her body’s attempt to suffocate her.
From what felt like a long distance, she heard Josh emit a roar of either grief or fury.
Even the blasts from the shotgun that followed seemed strangely muffled.
Terrified that Josh was on the receiving end rather than the firing end of those booms, Beth dug deep down into an unknown reserve of strength and struggled to draw her legs up under her. Bracing her hands on the ground, she managed to rise as far as her knees. Her Glock was empty, so she dropped it and rubbed her gritty eyes with quaking fingers in an attempt to clear her vision.
Josh struggled to his feet, his horrified gaze pinned to her.
Still gripping the Ruger, she twisted slightly and saw the second shooter lying dead, half-in half-out of the brush.
Vergoma. He must have circled around behind her. Unless…
Had others joined them? Were there more of them out there somewhere, watching with weapons drawn?
A clatter drew her attention back to Josh.
The shotgun now lay on the ground.
Beth shook her head sluggishly. She needed to warn him that there might be others. But she still struggled for breath and couldn’t find her voice.
Dizziness assailed her, made worse by the wagging of her head—the only warning she could conjure.
“They’re alone,” Josh gritted, managing to gain his feet. Wavering, he stood hunched over with one arm pressed against his side. “B-Beth.” He staggered toward her. Pain and apprehension tightened his features. He stared down at her chest, then met her gaze before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body sank bonelessly to the ground.
Beth tried to call his name, but could produce no sound. Nor would her legs support her when she tried to stand.
Feeling weaker by the second, she glanced down. Blood, warm and wet, stained the sleeve of her jacket. More warmth blossomed beneath her vest.
Dropping the Ruger, she parted the front of her jacket with uncooperative fingers and stared in astonishment at the substantial holes in her vest. Ruby liquid seeped from beneath the lower edge and began to stain her jeans.
Nausea rose. Blackness floated on the periphery of her vision.
Beth sank back on her heels, but even then could no longer remain upright.
Tumbling backward, she barely felt it when her head struck the hard soil. Dappled sunlight winked down at her between the green and brown leaves above her.
Turning her head, she focused on Josh with cloudy vision.
He lay, unmoving, only a couple feet away to her left.
Forcing her burning left arm to do her bidding, she reached out and just managed to brush his hair with her fingertips.
Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her temples. Was he dead?
She managed to draw in a short, jagged breath. Warm, salty liquid pooled in her mouth, threatening to choke her. When Beth coughed, flecks of blood flew from her lips and agony shot through her chest and back. Down her arm. So intense she almost lost consciousness.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t pass out. She had to get help.
Josh needed her. She had to find help.
Curling her fingers in her brother’s hair, she clutched a dusty, silky fistful.
She had to get help.
A shadow fell across her. Blinking, Beth stared up in confusion as a tall figure swathed in black robes and a cowl entered the clearing.
Fear rising, knowing she had to protect her brother, she dragged her left hand back to her side and curled it around the grip of the Ruger she had discarded. She groaned as she raised her arm. Tears of pain streamed down her temples. Her aim wavered wildly as her muscles trembled.
The new menace loomed over her, his dark robes fluttering and fanning a slight breeze across her that carried with it the scent of exotic spices.
“Wh-Who are you?” she whispered.
He sank onto his haunches beside her. “I have come for you, Bethany.” His deep voice held the hint of a foreign accent.
His large hand closed around her wrist, his touch gentle.
Nevertheless, the Ruger fell harmlessly to the ground with a clatter.
The pain in her chest increased, clawing at her and tempting her to seek solace in oblivion.
A strange wind ro
se, tugging at his cowl and allowing her a brief glimpse of his face.
It was the last thing Beth saw before darkness claimed her.
England, 1203
Dense forest surrounded the four knights as they made their way home. Birds twittered and sang as the branches that supported them swayed in the cool breeze. Squirrels barked their displeasure at the figures that rode past, nearly drowning out the soft thumps the horses’ hooves made each time they touched the ground.
Lord Robert, Earl of Fosterly, drew in a deep breath as they left Terrington’s land and crossed onto his own. ’Twas foolish to think the air smelled sweeter here, but to a fourth son who had never thought to acquire either land or a title, Fosterly was the most beautiful place in all of England.
“I still think the air of Fosterly smells sweeter than any other,” Sir Michael said, echoing his thoughts.
Robert smiled. “You will hear no arguments from me.”
The youngest of the powerful Earl of Westcott’s six children, Robert had been destined for the church until his two eldest brothers had been killed, the first whilst defending his king during the revolt of 1174 and the second in an accident whilst competing in a tournament. Both of his sisters, like their mother, had died in childbirth. When Dillon, the only sibling Robert had left, had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land, their father had begun to worry he might lose all of his children and had advised Lord Edmund—the man to whom Robert had been sent to foster—to keep a careful eye on him and ensure he came to no harm.
Of course, Robert had come to harm.
Harm Lord Edmund had been unable to guard him against and one his father could not have anticipated. At the age of ten and eight, Robert had fallen deeply in love with Eleanor, a tiny bit of a girl with light brown hair and amber eyes so pale they were nigh golden. How he had adored her and the son she had borne him.
Then all had been taken from him.
Pain, like the ache of an old war wound, filtered through him as he remembered her brother finding him on the practice field that day. And, once more, he found himself wondering why the worst memories always seemed to be the most vivid and easily recalled.
There had been no recent rains. The river had not raged. There had been no reason at all for the bank to give way beneath her feet as Eleanor had walked alongside her brother with baby Gabriel snug in her arms. But give way it had.
Though her brother had lived, Eleanor and Gabe had both drowned. His son’s precious little body had never been found. Robert had searched for days—in the water, along the banks, in the surrounding forest—beset by fears that animals might find Gabe first. Then Lord Edmund had forced him back to the castle and poured wine and ale down his throat until darkness had stolen the pain.
When Robert had awoken, it was to find a messenger from Westcott leaning over him, bringing news of his father’s death.
It had been a dark time in Robert’s life.
It had been a dark time in his brother Dillon’s life as well. As soon as the news had reached him, Dillon had returned from the Holy Land. But it had been a different Dillon, greatly changed by whatever horrors he had witnessed in Outremer. Quiet. Grim. Haunted by Robert knew not what.
Until Alyssa had taught Dillon how to laugh again.
Robert’s spirit lightened once more.
“And what has inspired that smile?” Michael asked.
He shook his head. “I was thinking of the many unexpected twists and turns the path of life takes.”
“Any turn in particular?” he asked curiously.
“Alyssa.”
Michael nodded. He and the two men who rode behind them were amongst the few who did not fear Robert’s sister-in-law.
Poor Dillon. People had been wary of him and feared him for his ferocity on the battlefield long before he had married Alyssa. But, now that he had chosen for his wife a woman reputed to be a sorceress, England’s populace was utterly terrified of him.
Of them both, actually.
“By marrying your brother,” Michael commented, “and swiftly producing a son, Lady Alyssa has denied you the title of Earl of Westcott.”
Robert nodded. Dillon had been grooming him for the title since their father’s death. “And yet, had she not married my brother, I would not love her like a sister and would not have taken such offense when Lord Hurley heaped insults upon her head. So I would not have begged the king’s leave to settle our dispute on the field of combat.”
“Weasely little bastard,” Sir Stephen spat. “’Tis no wonder he always hid behind those hulking guards of his, letting others fight his battles instead of facing one like a man. He had no talent with a sword.”
Sir Adam grunted his agreement.
It had taken Robert mere minutes to defeat Hurley. But, after conceding the battle, the blackguard had attacked Robert’s back as he had turned to leave the field. Had Michael not bellowed a warning, Robert would have been felled. Instead, he had deflected the blow meant to sever his head, then had driven his sword through Hurley’s heart.
“And now you and your brother are both earls,” Michael said with a grin.
“Aye, we are.”
Since Lord Hurley had had no living heirs, King John had bestowed the former Earl of Fosterly’s title upon Robert, granting him the lands and remaining wealth that accompanied it as well.
Robert did not delude himself regarding the reasons for this, however. King John had engendered many enemies and wished to curry the favor and acquire the loyalty of Robert and, through him, his brother Dillon, who commanded the largest garrison in the kingdom. Countless noblemen sent their sons to foster at Westcott, where both brothers were renowned for training the country’s finest knights. King John was no imbecile. He knew that, should Robert and Dillon decide to join his adversaries, they could swiftly raise a formidable army against him.
“I believe King John is afraid of Lady Alyssa,” Adam inserted softly.
Robert glanced at him over his shoulder.
“’Tis why he has never summoned your brother and his wife to court,” Adam continued. “He fears she will see his secrets and expose them. Expose him.”
Stephen whistled low. “’Tis something I would like to see. Would you not? Particularly since I can guess what some of those secrets are.”
A distant discordant sound met Robert’s ears, distracting him. Holding up a hand to halt his men, he listened carefully.
Seconds later it came again.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
Michael frowned. “Aye. ’Tis a woman.”
“Does she call for help?” Robert asked.
“I know not,” Michael responded. “I can barely hear her.”
All quieted.
The call came again, a fraction louder this time.
Stephen grunted. “I hear her now. But I cannot understand her words.”
“Nor can I,” Robert murmured. Mayhap distance muddled them. “But I hear the fear in her voice.”
The others nodded.
Adam studied the trees in front of them. “It she to the north?”
“Josh!” the woman shouted.
“Nay.” Robert pointed east. “There.”
As one, the men turned their horses east and swiftly urged them forward.
Chapter Two
Something tickled her face. Reaching up to brush it away, Beth encountered a strand of her own hair. It danced on a surprisingly cool breeze that wafted over her. Yawning, she tucked it behind her ear, then drew her hands above her head in a stretch, twisting first one way, then the other.
Dull pain traveled from her back to her shoulder, inspiring a wince.
Memory returned in a flash.
Beth bolted upright.
Looking down, she stared in dread at the red stains tha
t covered her shirt sleeve and darkened her jeans almost down to the knees.
She had been shot. Twice.
She frowned. But, other than a slight stiffness in her back and shoulder, she felt fine.
She examined her vest. A substantial hole showed her where the bullet had exited her chest. A smaller one marked the place the other bullet had entered her shoulder. Reaching around behind her, she felt a second set of entry and exit holes.
Yet she felt fine.
Unfastening the Velcro tabs on the vest, she opened it and dragged up the sticky tank top she wore beneath it.
Aside from the blood, the only sign that a wound had ever marred her skin was a pale, barely visible… scar?
Confused, she pulled the top down and sat unseeing for several seconds.
Frown deepening, she yanked the tank top back up to double-check, then let it fall again.
For the first time, Beth noticed her surroundings.
The forest in which she had been shot appeared to have vanished, as had the St. Louis encephalitis and West Nile Virus carrying mosquitoes.
Dense, dark pockets of trees surrounded her instead, all beneath them a lush, beautiful green.
“What the hell?”
It was wrong. It was all wrong.
Texas was in the middle of a drought. The only place one could find lush green anything was at the heart of an urban sprinkler system. And that was only if the water restrictions had been lifted. The healthy grass before her should be brown and brittle, a major fire hazard.
No. Wait. Come to think of it, there had been no grass in the forest where she had died.
Well, almost died.
She bit her lip.
Had she died?
Because none of this looked familiar to her. The trees were different, healthy and thriving rather than parched and dying. And the sky…
The sky where she had fallen had been dominated by the harsh, blinding light of a summer sun, not hidden behind a blanket of soft gray clouds. The temperature should be over a hundred degrees, not pleasantly cool and lacking the usual cloying humidity.
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