Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(52)

“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.”

A dozen rough, scarred hands flew into motion.

The priest’s eyes widened as he was shouldered aside and layers of clothing and armor began to fall away.

Beth looked around at the men towering over her, unable to locate the face she sought. “Where’s Kirk?”

“Who?”

“Captain Kirk.” What was his name again? “The, uh… the, um…” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “The steward.”

Adam turned his head. “Edward!”

“I am here, my lady.” Edward’s somber face appeared as the men to her right parted.

“You’re the go-to guy, right?”

His forehead twisted into a confused pucker. “What?”

“The go-to guy. You’re the one everyone goes to when they need something?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Good. I need boiling water and clean cloths for bandages.” How could she prevent infection? The little tube of antibiotic ointment in her first aid kit wouldn’t cover this. Since she had been drinking well water, she didn’t know what kind of alcohol they drank or what proof it was, so she had no idea if it could be used as an antiseptic. And she could have sworn she had read somewhere that alcohol might not be the best choice to sterilize a wound because it killed good cells along with the bad. “Honey,” she blurted. Hadn’t she seen on the news that honey could be just as effective as antibiotic ointment when applied to wounds? “I need lots of honey.”



Air whooshed out of her lungs in a rush as the men’s shirts and braies were cut away. “Hhho boy,” she said shakily, surveying the deep gashes on their limbs and torsos. “I’m going to need a needle and some thread. Soak both in boiling water for me, Edward. And I’ll need a basin of hot water to wash my hands in, along with clean cloths to dry them.”

“Aye, my lady.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Beth glanced at the men across from her. “Tear their shirts up and use them as padding. Apply pressure to the worst wounds and keep it there to staunch the bleeding until I get back.”

“Where are you going?” Adam asked as she turned away.

“I need some things from my backpack. It will only take a minute.”

The throng of concerned soldiers parted swiftly for her this time.

Beth hurried up to her chamber. Her backpack was on the chest by the window. Setting the charger down beside it, she took the backpack to the bed, unzipped it, held it upside down, and shook it violently until it vomited all of its contents onto the blankets.

Marcus appeared in the doorway. “My lady?”

“Here,” she said. “Hold this.”

Leaping to her side, he obediently held out his arms as she began thrusting items toward him.

The travel-sized first aid kit was first (as if anything it contained could seal the kind of lacerations she’d just seen). Then a bottle of ibuprofen. A small box of butterfly closures. What was left of her antibacterial hand wipes. Her bar of deodorant soap.

What else? What else? What else?

There was nothing else. Help was supposed to be a brief 911 phone call away.

“Okay,” she announced. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

The basin of water and cloth towels Beth had requested awaited her when she returned to the great hall. All eyes followed her as she approached the table.

No pressure, she thought hysterically.

A young woman, blond and pretty, about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, sobbed over Winston.

“Are you his wife?” Beth asked her.

She nodded, sniffling. “Aye, my lady.”

“Can you sew?”

Her red-rimmed, blue eyes widened, then flew to the wounds three soldiers applied pressure to on Winston’s shoulder, arm, and thigh. “Y-you do not wish me to…?”

“Can you sew?”

Reluctantly she nodded. “Aye, my lady.”

“Then pull yourself together. I need your help.”

Adam moved to Beth’s side.



“Where’s the midwife?” she asked him.

“Attending a birth. She will come as soon as she is able.”