How could Beth have failed to hear tales of Dillon and Alyssa? Plentiful stories of the couple circulated the country and were carried as far away as the Holy Land. Even the damned minstrels sang of them, feeding the fear the two inspired.
And how could she not know of King Richard? He had only been dead for four years, succeeded by his treacherous brother John. Was she simply unaware that some had begun to refer to King Richard as Lionheart, giving testament to his bravery and ferocity in battle?
Aye, mayhap that was it.
He frowned and closed his eyes.
At least he hoped that was it.
His friends’ suggestion that she was mad followed him into troubled dreams.
Chapter Seven
Waking up with Robert’s large, warm hand kneading her breast should have warned Beth that the day would not go as planned.
Of course, none of the surprises that followed were as pleasant as that one.
Whew! What a way to wake up. All warm and tingly and snuggled up against a man’s strong, muscular, very aroused body. It was a first for her. And one she hated to see end, which it did as soon as Robert woke up and realized he had been fondling her in his sleep. Swiftly apologizing in a voice gravelly with slumber and no little desire, he rolled away from her, rose, and left the tent.
The other men didn’t tease her or make any sly remarks about Robert’s having spent the night with her, though she had expected them to. For whatever reason, some men tended to be juvenile about such things.
Instead they seemed to be on their best behavior. They didn’t jump on her as soon as she opened her backpack. They didn’t pester her about her possessions. They didn’t fight over who got to dismantle and put away her tent. And they developed the most peculiar habit of addressing her as my lady.
Are you warm enough, my lady?
Will you take my cloak, my lady?
Shall we stop for a rest, my lady?
It was all very odd.
And the surprises kept coming, each more disturbing than the last.
They returned to the road she and Robert had traveled the previous day.
The narrow hard-packed dirt, deeply rutted with those strange wagon-wheel impressions, never changed. It didn’t widen and smooth over to indicate they approached civilization. No rubber tire tread marks appeared. No gravel covered the dirt. Nor did blacktop or pavement. No candy wrappers appeared in the grass alongside the road. No soda cans. No plastic bottles. No cigarette butts. No billboard advertisements. No street signs or markers of any kind.
It just continued on as it was, seemingly endless.
And the people…
Twice they encountered other people on the road. Both times Beth remained silent, so shocked the words she wanted to spill froze inside her.
First came the merchant. (Traveling salesman just did not seem an appropriate title for him.) He rode atop a rickety wooden wagon full of who-knows-what pulled by an ancient, swaybacked nag that plodded along at the speed of a snail and boasted matted fur interspersed with bare patches irritated by flies.
Absolute astonishment temporarily supplanted her fears for Josh when the man spoke Middle English.
Beth could not help but gape while Robert told the merchant he wasn’t interested in any of his wares and questioned him to determine whether to not he had encountered Josh or anyone who might have met Josh’s description.
She couldn’t even guess the man’s age. His leathery skin and blond hair could’ve used a scrubbing. One of his teeth was missing. The others were discolored. She was pretty sure one was rotting.
And he wasn’t Amish. He bore no beard and wore no hat. Nor did he wear the black suit she had seen Amish men wear so often in pictures and movies. Instead his clothing looked to be that of a down-on-his-luck tradesman or merchant raised in the era Robert and his friends were mimicking, as if he were part of their reenactment troupe.
Except he acted as though he had never met Robert or the others before.
She glanced around to assess their responses, expecting to see recognition, and found none. Stephen and Adam weren’t even paying attention. They just evinced boredom and a desire to continue their journey. Michael seemed more interested in her own horrified reaction than in the newcomer’s identity.
When Robert said something sharply, Beth looked back at the merchant in time to see him hastily avert his gaze from her. She had noticed him looking at her strangely throughout the exchange—her jeans in particular—but didn’t know why. Nor did she have time to ask as Robert dismissed the man and nudged Berserker forward.
“Does aught trouble you, my lady?” Michael asked, riding abreast of them.
She hesitated. “Don’t you know that man?”
“I have never met him, nay.”
She sensed no lie. “Robert, do you know him?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Nay.” The arm wrapped around her waist tightened. “Is he one of the men who attacked you, Beth?”
“No,” she denied. “Nay, it’s naught. Never mind.”