Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(49)

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?”