Rendezvous With Yesterday

by Dianne Duvall

This place. Fosterly. This time.

  How had she come to be there? How had she accomplished something men and women who were far smarter than her believed was only possible theoretically?

  How had she not died in that clearing after being shot twice?

  Had traveling through time healed her wounds? She could have broken countless laws of physics, for all she knew. Somehow healing her wounds and bringing her back from the brink of death didn’t seem as inconceivable as landing in the Middle Ages did.

  Curling into a ball, she wiggled her toes.

  The fire in the hearth seemed to do nothing to warm her feet. They were like ice. As was her nose. And pretty much everything in between.

  She sighed.

  Robert was a great storyteller. Beth was so glad her mother—a literature professor at the University of Houston—had made both Beth and Josh learn to read English literature of the Middle Ages in Middle English, even teaching them how to speak it aloud. Had she not, Beth would’ve had difficulty understanding Robert.

  Even so, she had a little trouble. Every age had its slang and words unique to that era. Words that didn’t always make it into books, particularly at a time when such were rare.

  But Robert patiently explained anything she didn’t comprehend and, at the same time, seemed to do his best to decipher and learn modern words she inadvertently used or for which she couldn’t find a Middle English alternative.

  He really was something.

  As he had recounted the mischievous escapades he and Michael had embarked upon as pages and squires, his vivid blue eyes had sparkled and danced. Beth had been fascinated and amused and so grateful to him. He had tried so hard to distract her and lift her spirits.

  Shivering, she drew the covers up over her head.

  Where was Josh? Why had he not traveled back in time with her? Why had he not been by her side when she had awoken?

  Those questions nagged her more than any others.

  If he had traveled back in time with her and roused before her, he would have remained by her side. He wouldn’t have left her alone in that clearing. Even if he had noticed how different the trees looked and decided to do some recon, he wouldn’t have ventured out of earshot. And her shouts would have swiftly drawn him back to her side.

  So he must not have come with her.

  Had he died? Was that why he hadn’t traveled through time?

  Her eyes burned with tears she had no wish to shed.

  If he hadn’t died, had he woken up in their time, found her gone and believed she had died? Or worse, had he thought some of Kingsley’s comrades had abducted her? Was he still in their time, searching for her and fearing the worst?

  Another shiver rocked her.

  Frustrated, angry, and drowning in despair, Beth threw back the blankets and rose.

  Robert lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered if Beth slept on the other side of the wall that separated them.

  One night. He had spent one night with her soft presence beside him. Her siren’s curves relaxing back into his hard form. Her cold toes seeking the warmth of his calves. Her sweet-smelling hair tickling his nose.

  And he found, much to his dismay, that tonight he had difficulty sleeping without it.

  Curling one arm up so he could rest his head on his palm, he drummed the fingers of the other on his stomach.

  Did she sleep? Had she drifted easily into slumber after he had left her presence? Or did she feel as restless as he?

  Did nightmares plague her as they had last night? Did she talk in her sleep again? Would she rest better or worse without him there to wake her when she murmured anxiously?

  A scraping sound met his ears just before the tapestry on the wall opposite his bed twitched. Lowering his lids, Robert watched through his lashes as it swelled outward.

  Keeping his breath deep and even to simulate sleep, he prepared to reach for his sword.

  The material rippled, then folded back as Bethany’s pale face peeked out at him. Her eyes squinted in the light of the dying fire.

  Wondering if his thoughts had conjured her, he watched her duck behind the tapestry once more. Ears straining, he heard the secret door close. A moment later she stepped out from behind the heavy cover and let it fall soundlessly back into place.

  Robert’s pulse quickened.

  She wore naught but one of his thin linen shirts. Gone were her breeches, her boots, her vest, her little black tank top, her even smaller scraps of shiny black material. Now he saw only soft skin, as pale as moonlight, and material rendered almost transparent by the waning flames as she crossed in front of the fire and made her way toward him.

  Tiny bare toes with red tips peeked at him below slender calves left bare by the shirt’s hem. Her long hair—now clean—gleamed like waves of satin.

  Robert did not move. He was afraid to. If he did, he feared his hands would betray him and drag her down atop his body, clasp her head in a firm grip, and force her lips to merge with his in an attempt to quench the heat igniting within him.

  Why had she come to him? And so sparsely garbed?

  “I can’t sleep,” she said softly as she stopped beside his bed and stood staring down at him. “It’s too cold and—”

  Frowning, Robert propped himself up on his elbows. “Forgive me, Beth. Let me build you a fire and—”

  “Nay, I… There is a fire. It’s just…” Releasing a frustrated sigh, she glanced around the room and pressed the fingers of one hand to her forehead.

  Robert reached out and captured her other hand in his own. “What is it, Beth?”

  “Look, I know this is a lot to ask”—she dropped her arm—“but could I sleep in here with you tonight?”

  Even as his body hardened with desire, Robert’s heart went out to her. She had not come to him for lovemaking. She merely sought comfort and reassurance.

  Giving her hand a squeeze, he scooted over and folded back the blankets. “Come.”

  Some of the tension in her face eased. Placing one knee on the side of the bed, she hesitated. “We’re only going to sleep, right?”

  He doubted he would sleep at all with her sensuous body so nigh, but smiled nevertheless. “Aye, Beth.”

  Offering him a faint smile of her own, she climbed in and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “Mmm. I’m warmer already.”

  He grinned. “Let me have those fingers and toes.”

  Rolling onto her side to face him, Beth offered him her hands. Robert hissed when her icy toes made contact with his shins, but spoke not a word of complaint. Instead, he sandwiched her hands between his much larger ones and warmed her feet with his own.

  His heart began to pound.

  ’Twas different tonight. More intimate.

  Instead of being squeezed into a tent with his men sleeping just outside, they were alone in his chamber, in his big sumptuous bed, with a cozy fire burning in the fireplace. Where last night, both had been fully clothed, now Beth wore only Robert’s thin shirt and Robert…

  She cleared her throat. “Umm, Robert? Are you naked?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Robert waited for her to protest, to express shock or dismay.

  When she didn’t, he blew on her hands. “Is the rest of you this cold?”

  “Aye.”

  “Come along then. Let me warm the rest of you.”

  Curling his arm around her, he lay on his back and encouraged her to snuggle up against his side.

  She rested her head upon his shoulder, draped one cool, smooth thigh across his.

  If his arousal surprised or alarmed her, she made no comment. What she did instead was steal his heart with two featherlight touches.

  Reaching up, she brushed his hair back f
rom his forehead, then oh-so-gently trailed her fingers down one bristly cheek in a brief caress.

  “Thank you, Robert,” she whispered.

  She sealed his fate in that moment. An innocent caress before she wrapped an arm around him, burrowing closer as she abandoned herself to slumber, and his heart became hers.

  “Damn you, Marcus! Pay attention!” Robert growled seconds after the tip of the blunted training sword he wielded struck his squire’s shoulder with enough force to knock him to the ground.

  A flush mounting his cheeks, Marcus scrambled to his feet and stuttered a hasty apology. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  “Had this blade not been blunted I would have taken your bloody arm off! The moment your concentration wanes, your life is forfeit!”

  The boy nodded, shamefaced. “Aye, my lord.”

  Marcus had not erred so gravely in a long while. He had a true talent for the sword, rarely made the same mistake twice, and strove for perfection in all that he did.

  Robert enjoyed training him. “’Tis the first time in months your diligence has faltered. What distracted you?”

  Marcus swallowed miserably. “’Twas Lady Bethany.”

  Robert quickly looked around, but did not see her. “Lady Bethany?”

  “Aye, my lord. There.”

  Robert looked in the direction Marcus pointed and found Bethany sitting on a bench that butted up against the keep on the far side of the practice field. Her long hair cloaked her shoulders and back in rich brown curls. A dark green kirtle borrowed from Alyssa fit her alluring curves snugly and fell a bit short, exposing her odd mannish boots.

  Something that looked like her sellfone lay beside her on the bench.

  “Hie yourself over and train with Michael and Ned for a time,” Robert murmured absently as he sheathed his sword.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Robert approached Bethany slowly, noting her pensive expression. She had been his shadow for a fortnight now, following him everywhere he went, watching him train or work on the wall or perform any duty that did not take him far enough away that he must ride.

  She had not yet confessed her troubles as she had promised she would that first night. Nay, she had told him naught in the days since, though she continued to ask him questions about himself and his past. Though he became more accustomed to her accent and learned more of her odd words every day, he was unable to coax her into speaking of her own past.

  She seemed beset with melancholy whenever he wasn’t luring laughter from her with wild tales of his youth. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her hazel eyes, indicating how little she slept. She ate very little, as well. Already slender when he had met her, Beth had lost enough weight to leave her cheeks hollow and her arms thinner.

  Robert had doubled the number of men who searched for her brother, but she had long since lost hope that they would find him. Robert knew not how else he might help her. He alone seemed able penetrate the fog of despair that enveloped her. And not just during the day.

  Every evening, as the fire burned down and he lay sleepless, Beth would slip into his solar, climb into his bed, and seek warmth, safety and—he hoped—some sense of peace.

  Though his body burned for her and he seemed to walk around in a constant state of arousal, Robert never pressed her for more. Nor did he implore her to fulfill her vow and tell him from whence she came, why her speech was so different, and all of the rest she was so reluctant to share. He feared if he did, she would cease coming to him.

  So he waited. Waited until her breathing deepened into sleep (sometimes it took hours as she lay awake, agonizing over her troubles), then rolled toward her and embraced her fully, nestling her soft curves into his hard body, pressing kisses to her forehead and dozing until the sun peeked over the horizon and ’twas time to carry her slumbering form back to her own bed ere she awoke, so the servants would be none the wiser.

  “My lord!” Sir Rolfe’s voice stopped him just as Robert reached Bethany. “My lord! Come quickly!”

  Robert swung around as the pale man-at-arms skidded to a halt. “Tell me.”

  “’Tis Sir Winston and Sir Miles,” the man said breathlessly. “Both nigh dead. Whilst searching for Lady Bethany’s brother, they came upon the marauders’ camp. They were badly outnumbered, my lord.”

  Robert looked beyond him and saw a cluster of men carrying two bodies toward the stairs of the keep. He raced toward them.

  “Robert!” Bethany called after him. She sounded frightened again, and he regretted that he had not the time to reassure her.

  “Marcus!” he called over his shoulder. “Remain with Lady Bethany and guard her with your life!”

  “Aye, my lord!” his squire vowed.

  “Wait a minute!” Beth called. “Where are you going? What’s happening?”

  “We will speak later, Beth!” Both fallen knights appeared to be unconscious. “Until then, Marcus will keep you safe.”

  “But…”

  Whatever else she said faded into the distance as he sprinted up the stairs and into the donjon.

  He would learn where the bastards were hiding this time. Then he would slay them all and end this torment.

  Dozens of men, along with boys Robert’s squire’s age, swarmed into the bailey, the latter leading warhorses that pranced and moved about restively.

  The numbness that had permeated every element of Beth’s being while she had adjusted to the knowledge that she had traveled back in time left her so quickly that her head swam.

  Robert, her anchor in this frightening sea of medieval surrealism, was leaving. He was riding off to fight who knows how many men armed with swords that were practically as long as she was tall in hand-to-hand combat. And it was quite conceivable that he would not survive.

  “Robert!”

  When she would have hurried after him, Marcus gripped her arm with surprising strength. “You must not, my lady. The destriers are very dangerous and may trample you.”

  Beth watched the men struggle to keep the enormous horses in check.

  “You must wait until they have departed,” Marcus told her.

  “But I can’t just let him leave. I have to go with him!”

  The boy looked appalled. “My lady, nay! ’Tis too perilous.”

  “Then he shouldn’t be going,” she snapped, scared to death that something might happen to him.

  “He could not do otherwise, my lady. Lord Robert wishes to protect his people.”

  “But that guy said those two men were almost killed.”

  “’Twas Sir Rolfe, not Sir Guy. And Sir Winston and Sir Miles are not the first to fall. These blackguards have plagued my lord’s holdings overlong, taunting him with their cruelty to those who cannot defend themselves sufficiently. Their attacks have weighed heavily on his heart. He is most eager to capture those responsible and put an end to their violence.”

  This had happened before? When? How many times? “Who is doing it?”

  “We know not, or Lord Robert would have long since dispatched them.”

  Robert, Michael, and Stephen stormed from the castle and launched themselves into the saddle.

  Seconds later, they and the rest of the mounted men thundered across the drawbridge.

  “You need not fear for him, my lady,” Marcus stated. “Lord Robert is one of the finest swordsmen in all of England. I vow only the Earl of Westcott can match him.”

  That did little to alleviate her anxiety. When two men hacked at each other with broadswords—their only protection a bunch of metal links, a padded shirt, and a helmet—how could they not get hurt? And without satisfactory medical care, even small wounds could turn septic and result in death.

  Speaking of which…

  Beth grabbed the solar charger she had placed on the bench in the
sun, turned toward the castle, and headed for the steps leading up to the entrance.

  Marcus remained at her side, even when she quickened her pace, his long legs having no difficulty matching her stride.

  Shoving the heavy doors open, she marched into the great hall and elbowed her way through the throng of men gathered around a trestle table servants had hastily erected. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Pardon me. Would you move? Excuse me.”

  When, at last, she made it to the front of the pack, she actually felt the blood drain from her face. “Holy crap,” she whispered, and swallowed hard.

  “Lady Bethany, you should not be here,” Adam said behind her. Strong hands clasped her shoulders and tried to turn her away.

  She shrugged them off, her horrified gaze surveying the carnage.

  Two men, laid out head to head, their faces indiscernible for the gore. Eyes closed. Enough blood gushing for four.

  A young priest, who couldn’t be much older than she was, muttered something in Latin above them.

  “Who are they?” she asked when she could find her voice.

  “Sir Miles and my cousin, Sir Winston,” Adam answered, motioning to one, then the other.

  Winston’s eyelids twitched a little at the sound of his name.

  “Are they married?”

  “Sir Winston is.”

  Her eyes rose to meet those of the men standing across from her. “Fetch his wife,” she ordered in a voice that brooked no argument.

  One of the men looked to Adam, then departed.

  “Does Fosterly have a healer?” Beth asked.

  “Nay,” Adam answered. “None will reside here because they know they will be carefully scrutinized by Lady Alyssa when she visits.”

  “What about a midwife? Do you have one of those?”

  “Aye.”

  “Fetch her, too.”

  A second man took his leave.

  Beth gripped her charger tighter and wiped the sweaty palm of her other hand on her dress. “Remove their clothes,” she said, gesturing to the motionless victims. “I need to see what I’m going to be dealing with here.”