Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(51)

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.