Lonely is the Knight (Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Book 3) by Cynthia Luhrs Page B

raven landed in a tree, pulling him out of his melancholy thoughts. The bird tilted his head at Henry, cawed, took to the air, and cawed again. The black bird flew to another tree, and seemed to look back at him as if to tell him to come along. Talking birds? He was a dolt.
    Something unnatural was happening. Henry didn’t know why—mayhap ’twas his encounter with the witch in the wood—but something about the bird made him sit up taller in the saddle. He must make haste. The men, sensing his unease, urged the horses to a gallop. Henry didn’t know why he must get to the beach, only that the feeling was strong.
    “Do you see any wreckage?”  
    His men dutifully looked to the land and sea for signs of a shipwreck.
    “None, my lord.”
    “Make haste—there is someone washed up on shore.”
    Two of the men stayed with the horses.
    “Bloody hell.” He dismounted, running down the curving path to the shore. ’Twas a woman on the beach. He knelt down beside her. Was she dead?
    Henry placed a finger under her nose and felt air. She lived.
    The girl had beautiful long hair the color of winter wheat, her face deathly pale, lips slightly blue. One of the men jumped back, crossing himself. “She has black legs and white arms—a demon. Where are her clothes?”
    Another of the men sounded horrified. “My lord, look at her feet. Her toes. They are blue, like the scales of a fish.”
    Another of the knights said, “We should leave it. Look at the hump on its back.”
    Henry rolled his eyes. “’Tis not a hump. ’Tis a pack of some sort. Dolt.”
    A few of the man nervously laughed. Henry rolled her to one side.
    “She is an angel,” the man whispered.
    “And you have been kicked in the head too many times.”
    The man was right. The girl had the face of an angel. Her clothing was scandalous. Where was her dress? The angel started to cough and retch, and the men jumped back, crossing themselves.
    “’Tis a mermaid.”
    “Nay, look at the black legs. ’Tis a sea monster washed up.”
    “Don’t be daft,” Henry said. “It is a lady washed ashore from a wreck.”
    One of the men scratched his head. “Then why isn’t there any wreckage or a ship anchored at sea?” He seemed to think about what he said before he bobbed his head and said, “Mayhap she fell from heaven.”
    Dolts. The lot of them.

Chapter Twelve

    Charlotte rolled over, retching until her sides hurt. She was lying in the sand, water lapping at her, and she smelled…horses and men.
    Someone was speaking to her. She felt warm hands rubbing her arms. Everything was blurry. But at least she wasn’t dead. Charlotte squinted up at the cliff but didn’t see any sign of the guardrail. She looked toward the water where the car had sunk. Hope the guy had good insurance. There were voices babbling all around her, but she couldn’t make out the words. Once again Charlotte succumbed to darkness.
    Slowly she swam toward the surface of consciousness. The sound of men’s voices filled the air. Was she back at the camp? Someone had moved her away from the water and she was leaning against rocks, draped in a cloak. She coughed again, spitting up salt water. Her bracelet was gone. She must have lost it during the accident.
    A man knelt down in front of her. He was out of focus, so she was guessing she must’ve hit her head pretty hard in the accident. Charlotte could hear him talking but couldn’t make out the words. A sense of dread filled her as she patted her body for the precious backpack and messenger bag. The bags were shoved into her lap, and she exhaled a huge sigh of relief.
    “We mean you no harm, demoiselle. You are safe.”
    The voice was warm and comforting. Charlotte wanted to open the bags, check the contents, but her hands weren’t working properly. She hugged the bags tight as she felt herself falling.

     

    Henry caught the girl as she swooned again. He wanted to move her but was afraid she’d injured her head. They would wait. When