Rendezvous With Yesterday (The Gifted Ones #2)(97)

Nodding, Beth wished in that moment that she would not have to leave. “I’ll marry you, Robert,” she agreed softly.

His arms tightened around her. “Because you pity me?”

Beth leaned back so she could look him in the eye. “Because you’re right. Because I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. And, whatever happens, I don’t want to have any regrets.” Reaching up, she cupped his lean, stubbled jaw in her hand. “Because I love you and want you to be my husband.” She pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I want your face to be the first one I see in the morning when I wake up and the last one I see at night before I fall asleep. And I want your voice to be the first and last I hear every day we have together.”

Turning his head, he kissed her palm. “I love you, Beth.”

“Always.”





Chapter Sixteen



Every living thing fled in terror as the Earl of Westcott and his massive destrier tore through the village toward Fosterly. Women crossed themselves. Children froze in place, watching his approach with round eyes until their mothers scurried forward, wrapped them in protective arms, and led them safely out of sight. Men trembled, ducked their heads, and breathed sighs of relief once he had passed.

Dillon was accustomed to their fear. ’Twas the same everywhere he traveled. Even the damned minstrels sang tales of his ferocity and savagery on the battlefield, exaggerating them to include monstrous acts off the field that fascinated and horrified listeners and reduced most to shaking, stuttering lumps in Dillon’s presence.

Such had only worsened since he had wed a woman whose supposed sorcery terrified even the king.

Slowing, he scrutinized Fosterly’s curtain wall.

The usual number of guards stood atop it. The gate was raised, the drawbridge lowered. He could find naught to indicate that any kind of catastrophe had befallen them, yet his stomach still knotted with tension.

A few nights earlier, Alyssa’s sobs had awoken him. Still a prisoner of her nightmare, his wife had not roused until he had shaken her gently, then wrapped his arms around her and held her close to calm her. He had known ’twas grave when she had hesitated to tell him her dream. But he had not expected the worst.

She had dreamed of Robert’s death.

And her dreams foretold the future.

Alyssa had tried to reassure him in her usual manner. Death in dreams more oft than not represents change, much like hallways represent transition.

And when it does not mean change? he had countered.

She had looked away with furrowed brow, heightening his fears.

The next morning, as they had packed horses and a wagon in the bailey, preparing to leave with two score men, a young messenger from Fosterly had arrived. Dillon’s stomach had sunk like a stone. He feared he had inadvertently frightened the boy in his haste to tear the missive from his trembling fingers and read it, expecting news of his brother’s death.

Instead, there had been an oddly curt request for their presence penned by Robert himself.

Dillon scowled as he approached the gate.

Fosterly’s guards offered no protest as he crossed the drawbridge and rode through the barbican. The men guarding the gate bowed nervous greetings as he passed, too tongue-tied to speak. All wore Fosterly’s coat of arms, so at least the keep had not been taken by another.

Or so he thought, until he entered the bailey and saw the bodies strewn across the ground.

Alarm and adrenaline surging through his veins, Dillon drew his sword and prepared to fight.

Naught happened. No one attacked.

Cautiously, he lowered his sword. Guiding his horse forward, he studied the dead.

They lay in various stages of dress. Some in full armor. Some garbed only in tunics, braies, and hose. Others somewhere in between, as if someone had scavenged a piece of armor here and another piece there after they had fallen.

None bore bloodstains. Dillon’s sharp gaze could locate no apparent wounds. No weapons either. And, as he looked more closely, apparently no dead.

The men all lived.



Many of them lay like the dead, exhausted and gasping for breath. But they lived.

What in hell had happened? Had some illness befallen Fosterly?

Laughter drew his attention to the keep.

Relief poured through him when Dillon spotted Robert, fully clothed and armored, sprawled comfortably on the steps. A substantial number of his warriors, only partially garbed like the others, surrounded him, including Sir Michael.

The rest of the bailey nigh the donjon was crowded with serfs, who strangely had divided themselves into two groups according to gender.

Growing more and more puzzled, Dillon dismounted, barely noticing the quaking man who crept forward to take the reins from him. Dillon scowled as he sheathed his sword and approached the steps.

Some of the men attempted to straighten when they saw him, then gave up and fell backward, still huffing.

Leaning back on his elbows, looking happier and more relaxed than Dillon had seen him in years, Robert finally noticed his brother’s arrival.

“Dillon!” Blue eyes sparkling, his smile widening, he leapt up, hopped down the last few steps and drew him into a rough hug. “I did not think you would arrive so soon.”

His fears temporarily assuaged, Dillon pounded his younger brother on the back, then kissed both cheeks. Damn, but he looked good. Not at all like he knocked at death’s door. “What has transpired here?” He motioned to the men around them.