Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(7)

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—?”