Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(37)

Both bowed deferentially to Robert, offering several milords. Neither appeared to have previously met him.

And the father spoke and understood Middle English.

The whole time the man answered Robert’s questions, the boy stared up at Beth with rapt fascination, as though she were Lady Godiva. The boy’s father seemed uncomfortable, his eyes darting to and from her in the manner of one who did not dare look too long.

She didn’t know why. She wore Robert’s freshly washed, big linen shirt over her jeans and tank top. And she wore her bra beneath the tank top. So it wasn’t as if her breasts were hanging out or anything.

“Follow this road to Fosterly,” Robert told them. “Find my steward, and he will see that you and your son have a warm meal.”

The man bowed several times. “Thank you, milord. ’Tis most generous of you, milord. And I’ll work for it, I will. I am a hard worker.”

“I am a hard worker,” the boy piped, dragging his attention away from Beth long enough to offer an energetic nod.

A chill skittered down her spine. The boy spoke Middle English, too.

“I have many talents you might find useful,” his father promised. “And I am always willing to put in a hard day’s work.”

“I am good with horses,” the boy boasted.

Robert nodded. “We shall speak more of this at Fosterly. I am certain my steward will have need of some of your talents.”

“And mine?” the boy pressed eagerly, ignoring the swift shake of his father’s head.

Robert’s chuckle vibrated Beth’s back. “Aye, and yours as well.”

The bowing and scraping began anew.

Robert kneed Berserker forward once more, leaving the two to follow on foot.

Beth glanced back and felt her throat tighten at the hope that shone on their thin faces as they smiled at each other. The boy took his father’s hand and skipped along at his side, grinning in anticipation of the warm meal the two would soon share, the new home they might find ahead of them.



Those could not have been actors. They just couldn’t have been. Beth had encountered enough homeless men and women in Houston to tell the difference between those who were truly hungry and in need of shelter and those who merely panhandled in their free time to make an easy buck.

That man and his son weren’t out to make an easy buck. They had suffered some very lean times.

“Does aught trouble you, my lady?” Adam asked.

She faced forward, feeling sick. “Aye.”

Though an expectant pause ensued, she offered nothing more.

Robert leaned to one side and ducked his head, trying to read her expression. “What is it, Beth?” he asked, his voice gentle and coaxing.

She shook her head, swallowing hard.

How could she tell him that a thought so unbelievable as to be labeled lunatic had entered her mind, making her question her own sanity?

Robert. Michael. Adam. Stephen. The merchant. The poverty-stricken father and son. Strangers to each other, yet all garbed and behaving the same. All speaking and understanding Middle English. As though they truly were medieval and not merely playacting or performing a role.

It was inconceivable, right? That they were medieval?

“Beth?”

Of course it was inconceivable. The notion that she had gone back in time was absolutely ludicrous. It just wasn’t possible. On any scale. The entire scientific community agreed that time travel remained purely theoretical.

So, she couldn’t have gone back in time.

Yet, realistically speaking, what other explanation was there?

If this were all part of some sick, twisted, incredibly extravagant joke that was being perpetrated at her expense, who was doing it? Who in his or her right mind would take it so far? And why had they chosen her, of all people, as their victim? She was a bail enforcement agent. A bounty hunter. A woman who had no knowledge of anyone who might possess the kind of wealth and connections that would be necessary to pull off something this big.

Robert abandoned his attempts to draw her out and began a whispered conference with Michael and the others. Beth paid them little heed, too busy trying to rationalize her situation.

So, as far as explanations go, the two choices appear to be—she closed her eyes—time travel, or a bizarre conspiracy with what—revenge—as the motive?

Both sounded equally deranged.

Which led her to a third option: that whatever wounds she had suffered had left her either brain damaged or mentally unbalanced, and all of this was just some massive delusion.

The fact that she was tempted to laugh maniacally did not ease her worries.

Time travel didn’t exist yet, so that one was pretty much out.

Insanity left a bad taste in her mouth, so Beth decided to nix that one, too.

That only left her with the implausible scheme or joke.

Okay. So someone with a lot of money (never mind that everyone she knew lived from paycheck to paycheck) must have arranged for me to be abducted from that clearing after I was shot. They… drugged me?

Yes. That was it. They drugged me, patched up my wounds and—while I was still sedated—transported me to someplace else. Maybe Pennsylvania? Ohio? Indiana?



Someplace cooler than Texas, that was for sure.

Then, after my injuries healed, they stopped drugging me. Or maybe I was in a coma. That would’ve worked, too. So, when I came out of the coma, they left me in this forest and hired actors to pretend they are medieval knights. And peasants. And a merchant.