Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her temples. Was he dead?
She managed to draw in a short, jagged breath. Warm, salty liquid pooled in her mouth, threatening to choke her. When Beth coughed, flecks of blood flew from her lips and agony shot through her chest and back. Down her arm. So intense she almost lost consciousness.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t pass out. She had to get help.
Josh needed her. She had to find help.
Curling her fingers in her brother’s hair, she clutched a dusty, silky fistful.
She had to get help.
A shadow fell across her. Blinking, Beth stared up in confusion as a tall figure swathed in black robes and a cowl entered the clearing.
Fear rising, knowing she had to protect her brother, she dragged her left hand back to her side and curled it around the grip of the Ruger she had discarded. She groaned as she raised her arm. Tears of pain streamed down her temples. Her aim wavered wildly as her muscles trembled.
The new menace loomed over her, his dark robes fluttering and fanning a slight breeze across her that carried with it the scent of exotic spices.
“Wh-Who are you?” she whispered.
He sank onto his haunches beside her. “I have come for you, Bethany.” His deep voice held the hint of a foreign accent.
His large hand closed around her wrist, his touch gentle.
Nevertheless, the Ruger fell harmlessly to the ground with a clatter.
The pain in her chest increased, clawing at her and tempting her to seek solace in oblivion.
A strange wind rose, tugging at his cowl and allowing her a brief glimpse of his face.
It was the last thing Beth saw before darkness claimed her.
England, 1203
Dense forest surrounded the four knights as they made their way home. Birds twittered and sang as the branches that supported them swayed in the cool breeze. Squirrels barked their displeasure at the figures that rode past, nearly drowning out the soft thumps the horses’ hooves made each time they touched the ground.
Lord Robert, Earl of Fosterly, drew in a deep breath as they left Terrington’s land and crossed onto his own. ’Twas foolish to think the air smelled sweeter here, but to a fourth son who had never thought to acquire either land or a title, Fosterly was the most beautiful place in all of England.
“I still think the air of Fosterly smells sweeter than any other,” Sir Michael said, echoing his thoughts.
Robert smiled. “You will hear no arguments from me.”
The youngest of the powerful Earl of Westcott’s six children, Robert had been destined for the church until his two eldest brothers had been killed, the first whilst defending his king during the revolt of 1174 and the second in an accident whilst competing in a tournament. Both of his sisters, like their mother, had died in childbirth. When Dillon, the only sibling Robert had left, had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land, their father had begun to worry he might lose all of his children and had advised Lord Edmund—the man to whom Robert had been sent to foster—to keep a careful eye on him and ensure he came to no harm.
Of course, Robert had come to harm.
Harm Lord Edmund had been unable to guard him against and one his father could not have anticipated. At the age of ten and eight, Robert had fallen deeply in love with Eleanor, a tiny bit of a girl with light brown hair and amber eyes so pale they were nigh golden. How he had adored her and the son she had borne him.
Then all had been taken from him.
Pain, like the ache of an old war wound, filtered through him as he remembered her brother finding him on the practice field that day. And, once more, he found himself wondering why the worst memories always seemed to be the most vivid and easily recalled.
There had been no recent rains. The river had not raged. There had been no reason at all for the bank to give way beneath her feet as Eleanor had walked alongside her brother with baby Gabriel snug in her arms. But give way it had.
Though her brother had lived, Eleanor and Gabe had both drowned. His son’s precious little body had never been found. Robert had searched for days—in the water, along the banks, in the surrounding forest—beset by fears that animals might find Gabe first. Then Lord Edmund had forced him back to the castle and poured wine and ale down his throat until darkness had stolen the pain.
When Robert had awoken, it was to find a messenger from Westcott leaning over him, bringing news of his father’s death.
It had been a dark time in Robert’s life.
It had been a dark time in his brother Dillon’s life as well. As soon as the news had reached him, Dillon had returned from the Holy Land. But it had been a different Dillon, greatly changed by whatever horrors he had witnessed in Outremer. Quiet. Grim. Haunted by Robert knew not what.
Until Alyssa had taught Dillon how to laugh again.
Robert’s spirit lightened once more.
“And what has inspired that smile?” Michael asked.