Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones Book 2)

by Dianne Duvall

  Where the hell was she? How had she gotten there?

  She gasped suddenly. And where was Josh?

  Fear struck, hard and fast, as she remembered how still he had lain after being shot.

  Beth swiftly refastened her vest and rose.

  Dizziness assailed her.

  Staggering, she threw out her arms for balance until the world stopped tilting and rolling.

  Okay, so she was a little weak. That didn’t explain how her bullet wounds had disappeared or healed or changed into scars or whatever. It just confirmed that she hadn’t dreamed it all.

  Bending, she picked up the Ruger 9mm that lay at her feet.

  Her backpack and other belongings lay there, too, but she would tackle that puzzle later.

  Beth ejected the empty magazine and replaced it with a full one from her pocket, advancing the first bullet into the chamber.

  “Josh?” she called hesitantly, looking all around her. If Kingsley and Vergoma’s men lurked nearby, calling out was a very bad idea, but she didn’t have much choice if she wanted to find her brother.

  A moment passed. No answer came.

  Backing away, she turned toward a stand of trees several yards distant.

  Somewhere a bird stopped twittering.

  “Josh, where are you?” she shouted, fear rising. “Josh!”

  The forest beckoned. Turning this way and that, she started toward it, walking forward, then backward, then forward again, searching for some sign—any sign—of her brother.

  Why was everything so unfamiliar to her? Had she gotten lost in the forest? That forest? The one in front of her?

  “Josh!”

  Maybe before she had passed out she had stumbled away from her brother in search of help, had ended up wherever she was now, and just couldn’t remember it.

  Grasping that small shred of hope, she took off into the trees, racing through them as fast as she could, praying she would zip past a tree trunk any minute and run smack into Josh’s chest.

  “Josh, where are you?”

  He has to be nearby, she thought. I mean, how far could I have gone with a gaping hole in my chest?

  “Josh!”

  Her initial burst of energy dwindled at an alarming rate, confirming just how weak she had become. Her voice grew hoarse and fearful.

  “Josh!”

  She didn’t know how long or how far she ran, tripping over fallen branches, crashing through shrubs and ferns and vines, always calling his name, before she saw light up ahead.

  Another clearing? The clearing?

  Hope reviving, breathing hard, she stumbled out of the trees and skidded to an astonished halt.

  Four men on horseback stared down at her with equally stunned expressions as they pulled back on the reins to keep their mounts from plowing into her.

  Falling back a step, Beth raised her 9mm and gripped it with both hands, aiming first at one man, then the next, not knowing upon whom to settle. “Where is he?” she gasped, so out of breath she could barely speak.

  Three of the men looked to the one in the center.

  Assuming him their leader, she transferred her aim to him. “Where’s…” Her voice trailed away as she got a good look at them. “…Josh?” she finished weakly.

  Lowering the gun, Beth gaped.

  They created quite an image, lined up before her—side by side—on impressively large, horses with gleaming coats. Every single one of the men was handsome (especially the leader), with broad shoulders and muscled bodies that must surely be a challenge for the horses to carry.

  But that wasn’t what made her stare until her eyes began to burn.

  All four men wore chain mail, sported long broadswords strapped to their trim waists, and looked as if they had just ridden off the pages of a medieval history book.

  Or maybe a movie set.

  Hope rose.

  Shoving her gun into her shoulder holster, Beth eagerly moved forward. “Hey, are you guys actors? Is there a set nearby? Does it have security? Maybe HPD or sheriff’s deputies? Because—”

  The one on the far left barked something in a language she didn’t recognize. He appeared to be the oldest of the four, boasting rich brown hair that grayed at the temples.

  “English,” Beth said. “In English, please. Are you guys actors?”

  The leader said something she again could not understand. What was that—Gaelic?

  “Do you speak English?” she asked. “Parlez-vous anglais? Sprechen sie Englisch? Habla used Inglés?” She had always had a knack for foreign languages, both for learning them and speaking them proficiently. She had learned Spanish in high school, then French in college. Marc, who was fluent in at least five or six different languages, had taught her enough German to carry on basic conversations. And her geography professor in college had claimed that knowing English, Spanish, French, and German had enabled him to communicate in every country he had visited throughout Europe.

  So, if these guys were European, chances were good that they knew at least one of those.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  All looked to the leader, who spoke again. He almost sounded like a Scandinavian person speaking English for the first time.

  Beth frowned. “Wait. Speak slower, please.” For a minute there, it had sounded vaguely familiar.

  When the leader merely looked confused, she said again, lengthening the words dramatically, “Speeeeeeeak slooooooooower, pleeeeeeese.”

  While he still didn’t seem to understand her words, he did seem to catch her meaning and obligingly spoke much slower.

  Beth stared. Middle English? That’s what they were speaking? Sheesh. No wonder it sounded so weird. She had had a heck of a time learning it when her English professor mother had encouraged her to read rural English literature of the Middle Ages in its original form. And she doubted she would have learned to speak it at all without her talent for learning languages. Josh had had a heck of a time getting it down.

  Why the hell would these guys be speaking Middle English?

  “Oh, wait,” she said suddenly. “I get it. You’re one of those reenactment groups, right?” If they had learned to speak Middle English, they must be really dedicated to their roles.

  When they all just sat there, looking puzzled, she did her best to translate, trotting out her rusty Middle English. But she couldn’t always find a medieval equivalent for the modern words she wished to use. “Are you members of a reenactment group?”

  The redhead frowned. “Can you not see we are knights?”

  Right. Knights in an apparently fanatical reenactment group if they wouldn’t deign to speak modern English. “Where are the rest of you?” she asked, still struggling to translate on the fly and get the archaic pronunciation right.

  “There are only the four of us,” the leader responded, eyebrows colliding as his gaze traveled over her. He had shoulder-length, wavy black hair and bright blue eyes that seemed almost to glow in comparison to his tanned skin.

  “No,” Beth said, then mentally cursed. “Nay, I mean where is the rest of your reenactment group? Do you have a club around here? Is there a paramedic there, or someone who—?”

  “I know not what a reenactment group is, nor a paramedic for that matter. I am Lord Robert, Earl of Fosterly. And these are—”

  “Look,” she gritted, raw nerves and fear for Josh’s safety rapidly eroding her patience as she regained her breath, “now is not the time to be stubborn, okay? I realize you guys are supposed to stay in character, and that sometimes you can be really anal about that kind of thing, but this is an emergency. How far are we from wherever it is you meet with everyone?”

  “If you mean Fosterly,” he said in his remarkably authentic accent, “’tis almost a day’s ride from here.”
/>   Yeah, right. So was Florida.

  Her fists clenched. “Damn it, this is serious! Quit screwing around!”

  The fourth man—blondish-brown hair and chiseled jaw—bristled. “’Tis the Earl of Fosterly you address, girl. ’Twould be wise to—”

  “Michael,” the leader interrupted softly. “She is injured and likely out of her head with fever.”

  “I am not out of my head,” she snapped. “I’m just trying to get some answers from you!”

  “And we have given you them.”

  Beth paused and drew in a deep breath to calm herself. “Okay. I don’t know what game you are playing, but let us put that on hold for a minute and just take a step back. I am standing here, covered in blood, asking for your help.” Plucking at her sticky jacket, she fanned it a few times. “This is not fake, okay? This isn’t studio blood. It isn’t Karo syrup mixed with food coloring, or whatever else it is you use in your fake tournaments and reenactment wars. It is human blood. It’s my blood. And Josh is still out there somewhere”—she motioned wildly to the forest around them—“either bleeding to death or killing himself trying to find me. And that is if the damned criminals we were hunting didn’t have any friends. I passed out right after the second one went down.”

  As one, the men drew their swords, startling her into stumbling back a few steps.

  “You were attacked by criminals in this forest?” the leader demanded.

  She swallowed. Holy crap, they looked fierce. “Yes. No. Nay, I…” She shook her head. “Josh and I are bounty hunters. We were down here looking for two bail jumpers—Kingsley and Vergoma. But something went wrong and, to make a long story short, they shot me, then shot Josh and—”

  “Shot?” the redhead interrupted.

  “With arrows?” the man with the graying temples interrupted.

  “What?” Beth asked.

  “You said they shot you,” the older man said. “Do you mean with arrows?”

  “With bullets, Einstein.”

  “I am Sir Stephen, not—”

  “I don’t care what your freaking name is!” she shouted. Knowing that every minute these guys insisted on furthering their medieval knight roles, Josh could be slipping closer to death, Beth just lost it.

  Robert stared at the woman in silence whilst she paced and bellowed her frustration in her peculiar tongue. When she spoke slowly, he could glean her meaning. But the angrier she grew, the more she slipped into that foreign language he could not understand, so he could only grasp a few words here or there.

  “Josh could be dying! And you’re sitting up there, pretending we’re in freaking Medieval England or something! What the hell are you thinking? I…”

  She seemed to believe they toyed with her in some way. But they had done naught but try to understand and help her.

  He studied her carefully.

  She was obviously gravely wounded. Delirious. Possibly nigh death.

  Despite her assurances otherwise, the woman must truly be out of her head. Many of the words and phrases she used were unfamiliar to him. All but a few that he thought might be mispronunciations of epithets. And those increased in frequency as her agitation grew.

  ’Twas not just her speech that was odd, though. Her appearance confounded him as well. She was garbed in pale blue breeches, which hugged her slender legs down to her ankles, and a strange dark blue tunic that parted down the middle, revealing a shorter black tunic beneath it. Brown boots encased her small feet. A large knife was strapped to her right thigh. An empty leather pouch of some sort clung to the belt on her left hip. A similar pouch hung beneath her left arm. That one was filled with the weapon (at least, he assumed ’twas a weapon) that she had initially pointed at them, believing them a threat.

  Her long, brown, disheveled braid dangled down her back almost to her waist. Dirt smudged her face. Blood coated her chin and cheeks, either coughed up or vomited he guessed from his experience on the battlefield. And most of her clothing was completely saturated with the crimson liquid.

  What injuries had she sustained? Who had done this to her?

  His fists clenched. And on his land?

  Dismounting, he motioned for the others to join him.

  Her words halted. Her expression lit with inspiration. “Hey, do any of you have a sellfone?”

  He frowned. A sellfone? What was a sellfone?

  “A what?” Michael asked beside him.

  “A sellfone. I promise I will reimburse you if you’ll let me use it.”

  All four regarded her blankly.

  “Oh, come on! Everyone has one.”

  Silence.

  “Seriously? None of you have a sellfone?” she asked incredulously. Then she clapped a palm to her forehead. “Wait! I have one in my backpack. I totally forgot about it.” Spinning around, she took off running back the way she had come.

  Actually, ’twas more of a stumbling jog.

  Robert feared she was weak from blood loss. “Michael,” he murmured.

  Michael strode forward. Easily catching up with her, he took the woman by the arm and drew her to a halt.

  Robert applied himself to removing his mailed mitts, then retrieved the bag of healing herbs tied to his saddle. Alyssa had prepared it for him, insisting he carry it with him at all times. He only hoped the herbs and whatever help he could yield would be enough to save the woman.

  The sounds of a scuffle broke out behind him.

  Frowning, Robert turned in time to see Michael knock that strange weapon from the woman’s hand. Undeterred, she brought her heel down on his boot, then slammed the base of her palm up into his nose.

  His friend grunted.

  “Hold her still, Michael,” Stephen barked as Adam started forward. “If she continues to struggle, she will be dead ere Robert even touches her.”

  The woman stilled, her face blanching.

  Pouch in hand, Robert slowly approached them.

  “She trembles,” Michael murmured, wiping a smear of blood from beneath his nose.

  Her features were now as pale as winter snow. Her eyes, glazed with fear, flitted from one to the other, then locked on him.

  Robert’s stomach clenched at the desolation he saw there.

  “I just want to find Josh,” she said in a small, choked voice, her unusual accent thicker.

  “You will,” Robert assured her, taking another step forward. “We will. But we must see to your wounds first.” So saying, he held up his pouch.

  She studied it. “What is that?”

  “Herbs,” he said simply.

  “You mean like medicinal herbs? Or”—she seemed to search for the right words—“healing herbs?”

  “Aye. ’Twill stop the bleeding and speed the healing of your wounds, whatever they may be.”

  “I’m not injured.”

  “You said you had been…” What had she told them? “…shot.”

  She said nothing, only watched him uneasily.

  “If you vow you will not flee, Michael will release you and I shall tend your wounds,” he told her.

  “There are no wounds.”

  “Do I have your word you will not flee?” he pressed.

  She bit her lip, looking so lost and vulnerable that, for a moment, he had an odd urge to sweep her into his arms and hold her until she felt safe again.

  “All right,” she grudgingly agreed. “I promise I will not run.”

  “Release her, Michael.”

  Michael did as ordered.

  As soon as the women was free, she sidled away from his friend and rubbed her arm.

  Michael’s brow furrowed. “Forgive me if I held you too tightly. ’Twas not my intention to harm you.”

  She made no response, merely surveyed them all distrustfully.


  Robert took another hesitant step toward her. “If you will show me your wounds, I shall do what I can to—”

  “I’m not injured,” she interrupted with a quick, nervous glance at the others.

  “There is no point in lying. All here can see—”

  “I’m not lying.”

  Robert sighed. She had no color to speak of and swayed where she stood. “You are covered in blood.”

  She lowered her head. Frowning, she dragged one hand across the stains that marred her clothing as though just recalling them. “It’s not mine.”

  “You have already admitted otherwise.”

  She eyed him uncertainly.

  Did she not remember? Considering the excessive amount of blood that streaked her face and saturated most of her clothing, he wondered if whatever she had suffered had damaged her mind.

  If so, he could afford to waste no more time. “Enough foolishness,” he said, his tone brusque enough, he hoped, to ensure that she would speak the truth this time. “Answer me truly. Where did the blood originate?”

  Again she bit her lower lip. “My wounds.”

  Opening his drawstring bag, Robert closed the distance between them. It pleased him mightily that she did not flinch away from him. “Show them to me.”

  “I can’t,” she murmured. “They’re gone.”

  He paused. “What?”

  Eyes firmly focused on his face, she nervously licked her lips. “They’re gone. My wounds are gone. They disappeared.”

  Robert dropped his gaze to her clothing. “You lie.”

  “I know how it sounds,” she said miserably. “But it’s true.”

  If proof of the contrary did not saturate her clothing and skin, he might believe her. “Remove your tunic.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I know ’tis not proper for you to disrobe before me, but I assure you I have no wicked intentions. I only wish to help you.”

  A little crinkle formed in her brow, making her appear even more vulnerable. She was so small. The top of her head did not even reach his chin.