Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(92)

“B-Bastard born.”

This boy was Hurley’s bastard? “Did your father acknowledge you?”

Mutinous silence.

“You know you could not inherit.”

“That b-bastard witch… that W-Westcott wed will… inherit L-Lord Everard’s holdings,” the boy snarled.

Fury ignited within Robert as he shifted his sword until the tip pressed against the boy’s chin. “’Twas a similar slur that cost your father both his holdings and his life. And, unlike you, Lady Alyssa has been acknowledged by her father and is loved by him as well.”

The boy spat a slew of angry curses.

“Who is the man being held at Terrington?” Robert pressed.

“S-Sellsword.” The boy coughed, spewing forth blood. “Should have… k-killed your whore… instead of… p-precious squire,” he ground out. “W-Wanted you… to suffer.”

Then he breathed no more.

Robert stared down at him, finding it hard to believe that this boy had truly been responsible for so much destruction. Finding it harder to believe that it was all finally over.

“Is he dead?” Beth asked in a shaky voice behind him.

“Aye.”

“Are you sure?”

He met her gaze as she rose. “Aye, Beth. ’Tis over.”



She nodded, lowering her weapon until it dangled loosely along her thigh.

Robert made a motion with his hand that sent Michael and Stephen into the forest to confirm that all had been routed while Adam remained with the prisoners.

Sheathing his sword, Robert started toward Beth.

As he approached, she turned away in a slow half circle, her movements stiff and jerky as though she walked in her sleep. Then she stilled and just stood there.

“Beth,” he broached softly as he came up behind her.

A breeze ruffled her hair, sending dark strands that had broken free of her braid streaking across her face. She made no move to brush them back as her gaze made a slow foray over the clearing, taking in the trampled wildflowers, the grass painted scarlet with blood and flesh, the weapons that glinted silver and red in the sunlight, the lifeless bodies sprawled wherever they had fallen.

Her face blanched. A muscle in her jaw twitched. Her throat worked with a swallow.

“Beth, love, turn away,” he implored gently, reluctant to touch her and soil her with the blood of his enemies.

Again she swallowed. And again. She squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head. A single tear fought its way past her lashes and trailed down one cheek.

“Please, Beth.”

Opening her eyes, she blinked several times in quick succession to hold further moisture back. And still she stared.

It reminded him of the moment she had first seen Fosterly, as if her eyes relayed something her mind could not grasp.

For one who had never been exposed to such a battle, it was a gruesome sight. Many a squire and young knight had emptied his stomach when confronted with similar scenes.

Robert cursed himself.

He should never have let her accompany them, should not have put her so at risk.

Reaching up with one quaking hand, she swiped at her damp cheeks.

Robert’s heart lurched when he saw the ruby smears she unknowingly left behind. “You are injured?” he demanded. Grabbing her wrist, he swung her around and searched her slender form as fear inundated him. “Where? Where are you wounded, Beth?”

He could not lose her. He would not lose her!

When she failed to answer and he did not immediately locate any rends in her clothing that might indicate the blood’s origins, he glanced up and found her regarding him with wide eyes. Robert jerked her hand up to draw her attention to the blood that coated it. “Where are you wounded, Beth? Tell me!”





Beth stared at the blood on her hand.

How many times had her fingers been coated with the crimson liquid in recent weeks?

Removing her hand from Robert’s hold, she shook her head. “It isn’t mine,” she whispered, wiping it on her kirtle. “It’s Marcus’s.”

“Are you certain?” he pressed.

Nodding, she moved away to kneel beside his prone squire.

Robert followed and sank onto his haunches across from her.

“I accidentally broke off the arrow in his shoulder when we fell,” she explained as Robert tore away Marcus’s tunic and went to work on his mail.



“’Tis probably for the best,” Robert muttered. “I can feel the tip protruding from his back. With the shaft broken off, we can just push it through.”

Sheesh. That was going to hurt like hell. As if Marcus wasn’t in enough pain already.

Beth looked to Marcus, who bore Robert’s tugging as stoically as possible.

Carefully removing his mailed coif, she stroked the squire’s short raven hair back from his face. He was just a kid, really. A teenager.

In her time, boys his age spent their time texting, screwing around on the Internet, playing video games, partying, binge drinking, smoking, getting laid, driving too fast, and doing all kinds of stupid crap to rebel against their parents’ so-called oppressive rule. Yet here Marcus studied the art of war, learned how to defend himself and prevail in hand-to-hand combat with all of the seriousness of a man twice his age, and nurtured a strong sense of honor that was becoming more and more rare in her time.