“Think you it was—?”
Robert shook his head quickly, cutting him off.
Beth frowned up at Robert. “What? Who does he think it was?”
“’Tis naught,” he said. “Naught to concern yourself with.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she raised her eyebrows. If Robert knew something that might help, he’d better tell her.
He sighed. “Very well. We shall discuss it later. I have been away from Fosterly longer than I proposed and have business I must attend to. Edward will escort you to your chamber and see that you are made comfortable until I return.”
What?
When Robert started to leave, Beth latched onto his hand. “Wait! Where are you going? You aren’t leaving me, are you?” On the slim chance that she wasn’t hallucinating all of this and had actually traveled back through time, she did not want to let Robert, the one man she trusted, out of her sight.
Weren’t medieval times and people supposed to have been rather barbaric?
Peering around her, she took in the strange stares directed her way.
Weren’t the people also supposed to have been extremely superstitious? What if she said or did something wrong and they all decided she was a witch? Would they try to burn her at the stake or drown her or stone her to death before Robert returned?
Robert raised his free hand and drew his fingers down her cheek in a brief caress. “You are safe here, Beth. No one at Fosterly will harm you on penalty of death. You have my word.”
“Yes, but—”
He touched a finger to her lips, silencing her. “You have my word.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want company? I could come along for the ride.” She really did not want to let him out of her sight.
Smiling, he shook his head. “You have suffered much. I will not drag you hither and yon and exhaust you further. You need rest.”
Beth didn’t think rest was going to help her. “All right. But hurry back.”
Though the command seemed to astound Edward, Robert chuckled.
Bowing, he brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, then released it. “Take good care of her, Edward.”
“I will, my lord.”
Somewhat forlorn, Beth watched him leave, then met Edward’s curious stare. “Are you sure you’re not William Shatner?”
His friendly face puckered with a perplexed frown. “I thought you mistook me for a soldier named Kirk.”
“I did.”
“Do I also bear a resemblance to this Shatner?”
“Actually they’re one and the same. Captain Kirk is William Shatner’s, ah, title. And it isn’t a minor resemblance. The two of you could be twins. Except I’ve never heard Shatner speak English with a British accent. It’s a bit disconcerting.”
Edward motioned for her to walk with him. “I noticed you bear an unusual accent yourself, my lady.”
She nodded. “I apologize if my words are difficult to understand.” She tried hard not to stare with gaping mouth at the towering castle that loomed before them. Large, rectangular, with rounded towers at each corner, it was like something out of a fairy tale. “I’m not from around here.”
“You are from the continent then?”
“Aye.” It wasn’t a lie. She was from another continent, just not the one he meant.
They climbed a long set of stone steps that led to a pair of massive double doors. Edward opened one, then motioned for her to precede him inside. “My lady?”
Taking a deep breath, Beth crossed the portal.
Exhaustion weighting his steps, Robert climbed the stairs to the donjon. He had meant to return earlier so he would have plenty of time to bathe and change into fresh clothing before escorting Bethany down to supper. Instead, a goodly amount of dirt and soot coated him and he smelled no better than his horse.
The marauders had struck again. They had watched him leave, then attacked in his absence, damn them. Two dozen sheep had been slaughtered, which Robert thought even worse than their having been stolen for profit. Greed was a familiar malady. Such malicious destruction as this, however, was something entirely different.
This was personal. This was meant to anger. To frustrate. To send a message Robert could not discern since none of his attempts to discover his enemy’s identity had met with any success.
And his people were suffering the consequences.
A crofter and his two eldest sons had been slain when they had challenged their assailants and protested the burning of their cottage. The crofter’s youngest son, a lanky lad of twelve, had been badly beaten when he had leapt into the fray and fought by their side.
By the boy’s account, the marauders had outnumbered them three to one. And though the will to defeat them might have been there, the crofters had lacked the weapons and skills needed to do so.
Thankfully the wife and daughter remained unscathed, both having left before the attack to attend the childbed of a relative. Had they been present, Robert feared they also would have been slain.