“No way!” she exclaimed incredulously.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Marc mumbled. And damned if he didn’t flush at the compliment.
“I would,” Robert insisted. “You are a worthy opponent who would give even my brother a challenge.”
“Wow,” Beth said. “That is high praise indeed, Marc.”
Incredibly, Marc blushed an even darker crimson.
“Wait,” she said, straightening. “You’re speaking Middle English.”
Marc nodded. “I’m a member of a reenactment group.”
Her mouth fell open. “You are?”
“Aye.”
“Wow. It must be one of those really fanatical ones if you learned to speak Middle English.”
Robert grinned at Marc. “She thought I was a member of such when she first met me.”
Marc laughed.
“Hey, Robert?” Beth remarked casually.
“Aye?”
“Have I told you how hot you look in jeans?”
He had learned that hot in her time did not always refer to temperature. “You have.”
She looked at Marc. “You look hot, too, by the way.”
Marc darted Robert a nervous glance.
He smiled wryly. “Beth has already assured me that I am the only man who is hot in a way that makes her want to tear my clothes off and have her way with me.”
“Something I would love to do right now,” Beth said, grinning mischievously, “but I have news.” Skipping forward, she clapped her hands rapidly in the manner of a child who has been promised a sweet and was fairly bursting with excitement. “Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!”
Thoroughly charmed, Robert grinned back. “What?”
“I’m pregnant!” Then, squealing, she jumped up and threw herself into his arms.
The sword Robert held clattered to the floor as he caught her. Shock rippled through him. “What?”
She laughed. “I’m pregnant! You’re going to be a daddy!”
Joy swept through him as her words sank in. Squeezing her closer, he spun her around in a circle. A babe! Beth was carrying his babe. Their babe. Their son or daughter.
Setting her on her feet, he covered her face with kisses, then hugged her close again.
A happy smile wreathed her face when he released her.
“Congratulations,” Marc said, smiling as he pulled her into a hug, then offered his hand to Robert.
Robert shook it and thanked him, his heart full.
“I don’t know why I was so surprised when Doctor Cohen told me,” Beth said, taking Robert’s hand and swinging it back and forth between them. “I mean, it wasn’t like we were using birth control or anything. But you could have knocked me over with a polo mallet! No wonder I’ve been crying so much lately. I thought it was just stress.”
Marc laughed.
Robert shook his head.
“You are pleased, aren’t you?” she asked him.
“More than I can say.” Spinning her into his arms, her back to his front, Robert rested both hands on her tummy.
She smiled up at him over her shoulder and placed her hands atop his. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetling.”
“Now give me your sword,” she went on in the same dulcet tones. “I want to see just how good Marc is.”
Beth took Robert’s sword.
“You can wield a sword, Beth?” Marc asked.
She laughed. “Hell, yes, I can. Let’s do this.”
Robert backed away, smiling.
Marc went easy on her at first. But once he saw she knew what she was doing, he relaxed into it and soon fought her as Robert would, even offering some instruction.
The longer they sparred, the more familiar it began to feel to Beth.
So much so that she paused. “Robert, honey, would you please get me a glass of ice water? Or maybe some Perrier on ice?”
Marc lowered his sword. “I’ll get it.”
She held up a hand and shook her head. “Let Robert do it. He’ll enjoying playing with the ice dispenser and he likes the bubbles in the Perrier.”
Robert’s face lit with curiosity. “Ice dispenser?”
Beth nodded. “Press the button on the outside of the refrigerator door and little chunks of ice will come out.”
Robert headed for the kitchen.
Marc told him where to find the glasses, then looked at Beth as Robert disappeared from view. “Are you sure I shouldn’t show him?” he asked in modern English.
She shook her head. “He’ll be fine.”
He nodded.
Beth studied him, instincts yammering in her ears.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked.
A clatter came from the kitchen.
“By the saints!” Robert cried.
Marc laughed. “What?”
“You’re him, aren’t you?” she repeated. “You’re Marcus.”
Marc lost his smile. His look turned cautious. “Who?”
“Robert’s squire. Marcus, heir of Dunnenford.”
“The boy in the pictures from the Middle Ages?”
She nodded. “That’s why he kept feeling so familiar to me. He’s you, only younger.”