Rendezvous With Yesterday

by Dianne Duvall

  “Y-You guys are really on the up and up, right?”

  He had no idea what that meant, but could tell by the inflection in her voice that she was hoping for confirmation. “Aye… Forgive me. You have not given us your name.”

  “Bethany.”

  “Aye, Mistress Bethany. We wish only to help you.”

  A long moment passed, after which she nodded warily. “Okay.”

  Her outer tunic clung to her in sticky patches as she peeled it off with trembling fingers and dropped it to the ground. Beneath it, her slender arms were bare.

  High up on her left arm was a patch of pale skin. Skin that looked incredibly soft from where he stood. The rest, however, was varying shades of red and sticky with congealing blood.

  Shrugging out of the strange leather pouch under her arm, she let it fall to the ground atop her tunic.

  Another peculiar, smaller tunic covered her torso. All black, it boasted no brooches or clasps. In sooth, he could not see how she had donned it, for it fit her too snugly to have been pulled over her head.

  Two ragged holes, he noticed, marred its surface: one in the left shoulder and one in the chest, just beneath the place where her breasts would be if her chest were not as flat as a boy’s.

  He motioned briefly to Michael with his hand.

  When Michael started to walk around behind her, the woman hastily took a step away, tripping over her discarded tunic and the straps of her leather pouch.

  Michael stopped and glanced at Robert.

  The woman’s leery gaze darted back and forth between them.

  “I wished him to see if there were holes similar to those in the back,” Robert explained, not bothering to hide his concern. Three years ago his brother had almost died from injuries similar to these. He would have died, in fact, had Alyssa not healed him in time.

  “There are,” she confirmed. “If he’ll stay back with the others, I’ll show you.”

  Robert did not know why he felt so satisfied that—of the four of them—she had chosen to place her trust in him, but he did.

  At Robert’s nod, Michael obligingly retreated.

  Keeping one eye on the others, the woman turned partially away so Robert could see her back.

  Adam, Stephen, and Michael moved to stand behind him at a distance, where they would have a better view.

  Mistress Bethany swiveled back to face them.

  “Where are the arrows?” Robert asked whilst she perused them anxiously. “Did you remove them yourself?”

  “Arrows?” The spark of anger that had illuminated her eyes earlier returned. “You mean bullets? I didn’t have to remove them.” She motioned impatiently to the holes. “I think it’s fairly obvious that they removed themselves.” Fingering the hole beneath her small breasts, she scowled. “They must have used armor-piercing rounds, because they went straight through my vest.”

  “What are bullets?” Michael murmured.

  Robert shook his head. He had only understood about half of what she had said and could only assume, due to her strange speech, that such was her word for arrows or quarrels. But it would have taken great force for them to pass straight through her body, and the damage they would have wrought whilst doing so would have been immense. How could she possibly have survived it?

  “They entered you there?” he questioned, nodding to her front.

  “The shoulder one did. The other one hit me in the back.”

  His jaw clenched reflexively as outrage flooded him.

  His men spat a slew of curses that did not come close to expressing the fury that heated his skin.

  “Remove your vest,” he said, using her word for the strange tunic.

  Offering no further objections, she tucked her fingers under the edge of a rectangular cloth patch on one side and ripped it away. She did the same with another above it and two more on the opposite side.

  The vest was sewn together?

  It remained fairly stiff as she peeled it away from her body.

  Robert’s breath left him in a rush as she dropped it to the ground.

  One of his men gasped. Another swallowed audibly.

  Beneath, a white tunic was molded to her flesh by the blood she had lost. Instead of sleeves, it boasted only two narrow bands of material that disappeared over her shoulders. The neckline dipped enticingly low and clung to full breasts like a second skin. Breasts that had previously been undetectable beneath the tight vest and now drew his fascinated gaze.

  The tunic then shaped itself to a small ribcage and narrow waist before disappearing into her breeches.

  Her form was too tempting by far. The only thing that kept him from losing his train of thought entirely was the hole that had been shredded into the material just beneath those distracting breasts.

  His gaze went to her shoulder, where a smaller hole appeared in the garment.

  “It’s gone,” she spoke into the silence.

  His eyes met hers. “Gone?”

  “The wound,” she clarified. “It’s gone.”

  What did she mean it was gone? “And the other one?”

  Without further ado, she peeled her bloodstained white tunic away from her skin and dragged it up to just beneath her breasts.

  More crimson coated the skin on her flat stomach, but no wound marred it. She slid her hand across the place he had expected to find one, as though she could not quite believe it herself. “It’s gone, too.”

  Robert stared. She seemed even more confused than they were.

  “But there were wounds,” Michael persisted.

  “Aye.” Her brow furrowed. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.” Tugging her tunic down, she took a hesitant step toward Robert. “I was hit, okay? I felt the bullets go in. I went down. And I remember lying there, choking on my own blood and having trouble breathing, but…” Forgetting her fear, she finished closing the distance between them and spoke in a voice that grew faster and more agitated with every word. “I think something happened to me after I passed out, because when I woke up everything was different. I wasn’t in the same clearing. My wounds were gone. Josh was gone. And the men who shot us…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  She stood close to him now, her head tilted back as she stared up at him.

  “Let me see your back,” he implored softly.

  “Why?”

  “Ere we decide what did or did not happen, I wish to make certain no wounds linger where you cannot see them.”

  She took a moment to consider, then nodded. Turning away, Mistress Bethany reached for the hem of her tunic and pulled it all the way up to her neck in back, her arms crossed over her breasts in front.

  Robert swallowed. The skin of her narrow back was as ruby-coated as the rest of her. It was also crossed by three tiny black strips of material that puzzled him as much as the rest of her garb. One was the width of his forefinger and traversed her back from side to side, widening beneath her arms. Two others, narrower than his smallest finger, came down from her shoulders to join it. He could not guess their purpose. But at least one of them was in the way.

  Reaching up, he carefully slipped one finger beneath the smaller strap on the left.

  The woman jumped and hastily looked over her shoulder.

  “I am only searching for injuries,” he assured her.

  Surprisingly, the strap came away from her skin with little urging. It actually stretched as he pulled it away. Curious, he drew the strap even farther away from her, marveling at its resilience… until it slipped off the end of his finger and hit her skin with a sharp snap.

  She jumped.

  He frowned. “Did that hurt?”

  “Aye, thank you very much,” she growled testily.

  For some reason, Robert felt
heat creep up his cheeks. “Forgive me. I did not intend to harm you.”

  “Whatever,” she grumbled. “Just don’t do it again.”

  Reclaiming the strap, he gingerly moved it aside, careful not to let it escape him this time, and peered beneath. There was so much blood that he found it hard to discern what it did or did not conceal.

  Stepping closer to her, he ducked his head to get a better view.

  She stiffened.

  “Easy,” he whispered in the same voice he used to calm Berserker. “There is so much blood I cannot see beneath it.”

  “Will it wipe off?” she asked, her voice conveying her anxiety.

  “I do not wish to harm you further by putting pressure on the wound.”

  “There is no wound. Just do it.”

  When Robert hesitated, she reached back with her right hand and started scrubbing at her skin.

  Robert grabbed her hand, stilling it before she could inflict further damage. “Cease!”

  “It doesn’t hurt!” she insisted.

  Michael took a step toward them, intending to restrain her if necessary.

  Bethany half-turned and backed into Robert, her fingers curling around his in a grip that bordered on painful.

  “Michael,” Robert instructed, “remain where you are.”

  He halted.

  “Easy,” Robert crooned to the trembling woman. “He will come no closer.”

  She nodded, her throat working in a swallow.

  “Now, let me finish examining your wounds.”

  After a moment, she released his hand and turned her back to him once more.

  When Robert returned his attention to her shoulder, he noticed that she had removed enough blood to show him that there was indeed no wound.

  Frowning, he rubbed his thumb over the area the hole in her shirt had covered. “There is no wound here.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “But there was one.” ’Twas a statement more than a question.

  “Yes. Is there a scar?”

  He felt a raised irregular circle beneath the grit that covered it. “Aye.”

  “There’s one in front, too.”

  Leaning into her, his chest pressing against her back, he peered down at the front of her shoulder and brushed her clothing aside. “Aye. There is a smaller scar right here.” He touched it with his finger.

  He noticed she was holding her breath about the same time he realized their bodies were pressed together.

  Pulse leaping, he cleared his throat, stepped back, and dropped to one knee behind her so he could search for her other wound. “Tell me if I cause you pain,” he uttered, staring at her slender waist and gently rounded hips.

  She nodded, her breath soughing out.

  With great care, he wiped at the red that coated her back where her injury should be and revealed a scar similar to the one in her shoulder.

  An idea began to form. Ere he pursued it, he gently ran his hands over her back and sides in search of cuts or abrasions or anything else that could have produced this amount of blood.

  There was nothing.

  Taking her by the hips, he swiveled her around to face him. His position, kneeling before her, placed his face on a level with her breasts. But he steadfastly kept his gaze trained beneath them.

  The scar he found in front was larger, suggesting a violent exit by whatever projectile had pierced her. And Robert again found himself wondering how she could have survived.

  Chapter Three

  Beth watched the handsome knight rest warm, rough hands on her waist. When he smoothed his thumbs across her flat stomach, a shock zipped through her.

  Her breath caught. It was almost as strong as the shock she received when she forgot to use dryer sheets in the winter and went pawing through the laundry as soon as she removed it.

  She found this shock far from irritating, however.

  Shaken, she stared down at him. “Did you feel that?” she whispered.

  He made no answer, but the surprise that lit his sapphire gaze told her he had.

  “Is there a wound?” the one he called Michael asked, breaking the leaden silence.

  “Nay. Only blood and scars.”

  Beth tugged her shirt down and stepped away from the leader’s hold. “I told you there were no wounds.”

  A look passed between him and Michael.

  “Lady Alyssa?” the latter asked.

  The leader slowly shook his head as he rose, graceful as a panther. “She is at Westcott. And Dillon would not let her risk her life, healing such severe wounds again.” He returned his attention to Beth. “Did an old woman come to you whilst you lay dying?” he asked.

  She frowned. “What? No. Look, I need to get to my cell phone, call for help, and keep searching for Josh. I’ll answer any questions you have later if you’ll just help me do that. Okay?”

  An eternity seemed to pass before he agreed. “As you wish.”

  “Could we start with your telling me where we are?” She motioned to the trees around them. “None of this looks familiar. Everything in the clearing I was injured in was dying from the drought. And all of this looks healthy.” She frowned, a notion occurring. “Are we near the Woodlands?” If so, she was far from where she should have been. “I seem to recall people on the news complaining about residents and businesses in the Woodlands ignoring the water restrictions.” And she was pretty sure there was a state forest somewhere on the outskirts of it.

  The knights stared back at her blankly.

  Right. Too many modern words. “Are we near the Woodlands?”

  “Woodlands?” The leader glanced around him, then nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  It wasn’t much to go on. But it was something. “Can I have my gun back?” she asked, eager to get her things, get moving, and find Josh.

  He followed her gaze to the discarded Ruger. “Nay. Your weapon will remain in my keeping for now.”

  Frustration coursed through her. “What if Kingsley and Vergoma weren’t alone ? What if there are others out there who were helping them?” Someone had to have moved her here.

  “We will dispatch any who choose to attack us.”

  Beth gave him a skeptical once-over. “With what—your sword?”

  He frowned. “Aye. We are more than capable warriors, all of us.”

  Yeah, right. “I’ll take my chances with the gun.”

  His scowl deepened. And damned if he didn’t look insulted.

  Seriously? Beth threw up her hands, unwilling to waste any more time. “Fine. But if you don’t return it when help arrives, I’ll report it stolen and tell the police you took it.”

  She wouldn’t have given up so easily if she didn’t still have a .22 strapped to her ankle. While it didn’t pack much of a punch, it would do in a pinch.

  Well, against a single attacker it would, if she hit him in the right places. Thank goodness these men hadn’t turned out to be rapists or murderers. A 6-shot .22 wouldn’t have stopped all four of them unless she managed to hit them all in the head.

  The leader bent to retrieve the Ruger.

  “You might want to make sure the safety is on before you put that away,” she advised.

  He gave the weapon an enigmatic glance.

  “The little switch on the side,” she elaborated. “Make sure it’s— Not that one! That’s the trigger!”

  At her near-shout, he hastily jerked his finger away from the trigger.

  Beth splayed a hand across her chest, covering the heart that threatened to burst from its confines. Stalking toward him, she reached for the 9mm.

  He promptly raised it above his head, out of her reach.

  “I’m not going to take it,” she snapped. “I just wan
t to make sure you don’t accidentally shoot one of us.”

  Muttering something beneath his breath, he let her flick on the safety.

  “You act like you’ve never seen a gun before,” she grumbled.

  “I have not.”

  “Not even in the movies?” When Beth turned away to retrieve her discarded clothes, the world spun crazily. “Whoa.” Throwing out one arm, she fell sideways into the leader.

  “Careful,” he murmured as he wrapped strong arms around her and held her upright.

  “Sorry. I just…” Beth blinked hard until everything swam into focus and stopped moving. “I got a little dizzy there for a minute.” Straightening, she clutched a handful of the soft tunic that covered his chain mail, took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Much better. Thank you.” She gave his chest a pat, then retrieved her clothes.

  It only took her a minute to don her vest and refasten the Velcro tape on each side. She added the shoulder holster next, then her dirty jacket. While she no longer seemed to need protection from mosquitoes, she found she could use the added warmth. A freak cold front must have swept through or something, because the temperature had definitely dropped.

  “What is that?” Michael asked, motioning to the words on the back of her jacket.

  Blood must have obscured the words, making them difficult to read. “It says Bail Enforcement Agent. Josh and I are bounty hunters.” She pointed in the direction from which she had come. “I think my backpack is that way.” When she looked around, everyone was staring at her shirt. She glanced down and saw nothing amiss. “What?”

  “Your clothing is passing strange,” Michael commented, his tone bewildered.

  “What’s so strange about it? It’s jeans, a bulletproof vest, and a jacket.”

  “Why do you wear breeches?” one of the others—Stephen?—asked with something akin to disapproval. “You are a woman.”

  “Last time I checked I was,” she drawled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “And the fastenings,” the fourth one added. “How did you refasten your vest without needle and thread?”

  “Ever heard of Velcro?”