Spirited Away (21 page)
Now that the branches of the massive oak were barren of the entire skeleton, Andi concentrated on the hoard nestled at the bottom. After taking several more photos of the surrounding area, she focused on the large, wrapped bundle at the base of the sizeable hole. It was big enough for a Volkswagen. Andi climbed down the aluminum ladder and stepped off into the still-spongy black dirt. With a delicate touch, she fingered the bundle.
"Are you positive you don't want me to come down there?" Tristan called from above.
"No. You're way too big," she answered. Not that she wouldn't want him down there. "It's covered by a roll of leather, although some of it has rotted away." She fingered the binding. "It's tied together with some sort of vine—wait, it looks like yew, just like what was wrapped around the skull." She snapped another picture. "Very, very bizarre."
Tristan peered over the edge of the hole. "Can you see any of the weaponry within?"
Andi ducked her head and studied the aged leather satchel. "Yeah, I can, actually. Several blades, I think."
"It looks powerfully large, that sack. It's not possible for a wee maid like you to lift it out wholly."
Tristan was right. She ran her gloved hand over the bulging leather bag. "I'll have to loosen the twine and hoist out each piece separately."
"Have you ever held a thirteenth-century sword, lady? 'Tis heavier than you think."
Andi looked up and grinned. "Yeah, I have, and I can handle it. No problem."
"Hmm. We shall see."
God, there were those dimples again. How had he remained single for so long? "Okay." She blew out a heavy breath. "First, I'll have to cut this twining off and peel back the leather." Reaching into her tool belt, she grabbed her pocketknife and flipped open the blade. "Here goes."
Steadying her hand, she pushed the sharpened steel through the first twist of twine. Minutes later, she cut all the way through. The bundle heaved as the contents spread. Lifting the twine, she climbed the ladder and stepped out onto the ground.
She held the vine out for Tristan to inspect. "Just like the one around the skull."
"Bloody saints. 'Tis twisted yew." He bent his dark head over the braid, then quickly lifted his gaze to Andi's. "Witchery, Andrea." He inclined his head to the hole. "Whatever is in that satchel is cursed. As is the poor soul you dug out."
It sounded so absurd, yet proof of the black arts and witchery stood right before her, wearing chain mail made by a sweat-covered smithy over seven hundred years before. She shook her head. "I don't understand. What do you mean by witchery?"
Lifting a finger, he pointed at the braid. "Twisted yew is solely used by those practicing witchcraft.
They think it holds some sort of ancient power useful in binding curses."
"Wow."
"Aye. Wow."
"If you two are through wowing, can we get on with the weapons? I'm passing curious to see what else lies within the bag."
Both Tristan and she turned to find Kail, Jason, and all twelve of the other knights slowly materializing at the dig site. They stood, arms crossed over mailed chests, legs spread wide.
Waiting.
Tristan pointed to the braid. "Twisted yew. I vow whatever lies within that satchel is cursed," he said to his men.
Sir Richard stepped forward and peered at the twining. "Aye, he's the right of it, just like that poor lad who was killed and buried. And I've a bad feeling in me gorge about what's in that bag."
Far be it from her to make a pack of curious thirteenth-century knights wait. Sidestepping two large men, she laid the twisted yew on the plastic tarp she'd set out earlier and quickly climbed back down the ladder. From the corner of her eye she saw fifteen male heads peering over the lip of the cutaway.
Talk about being under pressure.
Holding her breath, Andi gently opened one flap of leather, then the other. The breath swished from her lungs like she'd been hit in the chest.
As if an almost natural reaction, she began to count the pieces of black-tarnished, rusting armor.
Fourteen helmets.
She gulped.
Fourteen swords.
Wait. She counted again. Nope. Only fourteen.
"Merde."
Andi slowly lifted her gaze to the men staring down at her. She knew Tristan's thoughts without him uttering a single word—other than the swear. Glancing down at the sword lying on top of the bundle, she hefted it with a grunt.
"Be careful, Andrea," Tristan said.
"I will." It was heavy, but she'd expected it to be. Inching her way to the ladder, she climbed out, one hand holding the rungs, the other gripping the ancient sword. It seemed like minutes before she reached the top.
Before she laid the weapon on the tarp, a younger knight named Cameron stepped forward. " 'Tis mine."
Andi set the blade on the tarp and watched the blond-haired warrior kneel and study the piece of armor. She could see it in his face. It
was
his.
"A knight knows his blade, lady," Tristan said. He moved closer to her and pushed a hand through his thick hair. Dark brows pulled close as he studied her face. "How many?"
She looked into eyes so blue, so intense, they nearly made her squint. "Fourteen helmets. Fourteen swords."
A muscle tightened at his jaw and he nodded, but said no words.
One by one, Andi lifted each piece of armor out of the cutaway and laid it on the protective plastic tarp. Although everything was tarnished and rusted, each knight claimed his blade, his helm.
Everyone, except Tristan.
The faces on fifteen ghostly knights were taut, tired, and each failed to hide the remorse of life lost, of all the events that led up to this point. Andi knew that, although the actual death experience remained a mystery, the realization that someone had snuffed all of their lives, then buried their most prized possessions in such a manner ... she couldn't imagine what that felt like.
There she stood, gloved, covered in filthy orange and yellow GAR weatherproofs, in the midst of fifteen medieval knights, murdered centuries before.
And still with no answers.
But she did have a question.
Turning, she watched Tristan as he stood beside his men, staring at the weapons she'd laid out. The closer she got, the more her throat tightened. "Why only theirs?" she asked in a quiet voice.
He turned his head and looked down at her. The sight pulled the breath straight out of her lungs.
Knowing it wasn't a true wind that blew his hair across a beard-studded jaw didn't distract from the illusion. He was magnificent—they all were. Tall, strong, and fiercely proud, they stood like dreamlike warriors. Actually, they were. And God, how she wanted to help them.
Tristan waved a hand toward his garrison. "They are here simply because they're my men. This was Erik's evil. Whether he was alone or with an accomplice, 'twas no doubt his work. Why he felt compelled to separate my effects from theirs, I have no clue other than his hatred toward me was twice as fierce." He glanced at the collection of swords and helmets. "Mayhap, 'tis why they can leave Dreadmoor land and I cannot."
That thought hadn't crossed her mind. "You can't leave the castle grounds?"
He shook his head. "Nay."
A gull screamed overhead, drawing her attention to the dark clouds moving in from the sea. A late afternoon sun turned everything in its path a hazy gold. She glanced over her shoulder; the castle loomed toward the heavens, dark, gray, foreboding.
Real, or not real?
Surreal.
The
beep-beep
of her wristwatch alarm broke the silence. Glancing at the face, she gasped. "Oh, crap."
A few chuckles erupted from the men, their sullen mood easing.
"What is it?" Tristan asked.
Oh, how she didn't want to, but she had no choice. "I've got to get ready to meet Kirk in the village.
He is expecting me to bring the hoard for inspection—"
Fifteen "nays" sounded in unison.
Fifteen pairs of brows, all various shades of colors and shapes, pulled together for a disapproving frown.
Tristan spoke for his men. "Lady, you cannot take the weapons from Dreadmoor. 'Tis all they have left."
Andi nodded. "I know, and you're right. Besides"—she turned her eyes to Tristan's—"it is yours. I'm here simply to recover it for you."
The relief in all the knights' faces humbled her. No way would she even dream of taking what little they could call their own. No matter how upset Kirk became. He'd just have to fire her, or get over it. At least he'd have the pictures.
And no way would he fire her.
A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, an echoing of the storm making its way across the North Sea toward landfall. "I've got to get these inside before it rains. I don't trust the tarp system to keep them safe."
A litany of "ayes" sounded from the men.
"Jason!" Tristan shouted.
The young squire jumped to attention. "Right here, my lord."
"There you are. Hasten you to the gatehouse and inform Will he's needed here in the bailey." He scanned the knights. "Cameron, hasten to the larder and tell Jameson of the events. Tell him to clear the long table in the study for the weapons."
"Aye," Cameron said and disappeared to do Tristan's bidding.
"You others, busy yourselves for a bit. I've the lady to see to."
Without question, the rest of the knights vanished.
Leaving her alone with the Dragonhawk.
Tristan moved toward her, his big body crowding hers, broad shoulders and massive chest blocking any and all views. She couldn't see through him—he looked that solid. But his presence felt just as real as if he were alive and breathing. And God, how she wished he was.
One corner of his mouth lifted. "You've a dirt smudge on your nose, lady." He lifted his hand to her cheek, and with a forefinger rubbed at the spot above her nose, then to graze the line of her jaw. The mirth disappeared from his face and his jaw muscles flexed, making his expression more intense.
He dropped his hand. "I vow, 'tis maddening."
Andi drew in a breath. "Strange, but I ... feel you, somehow."
The ability to touch wasn't needed—she felt Tristan sink into every pore of her skin, sensed him with every breath drawn from her lungs. They stared in silence. She noted every sun line, every scar on his handsome face ...
His eyes darkened.
"My lord? Dr. Monroe?" Will said. "You called for me?"
Tristan's gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, where it lingered long enough to make her face grow warm and her skin tingle. Then he turned his attention to his mortal gatehouse guard.
"Aye. Dr. Monroe needs your assistance in loading these weapons into the hall. Drive you that cart from the greenery over here, posthaste. A storm is brewing and we've no time to wait."
With a nod, Will hastened to do Tristan's bidding.
"Thanks," Andi said, starting toward the hoard, slightly disappointed that their moment had passed.
"I'll feel much better when these are inside. Plus, I still have to get ready—"
Tristan stepped beside her. "You're still going to meet Grey?"
Andi stopped and met his stare. "Yes. I have to. He's expecting me. Plus, I have the photo card of the hoard. He'll be anxious to see them."
Waving a hand in the air, he shrugged. "Call him and tell him you cannot come this eve. There's no need since the blades are remaining here."
Boy, how she'd love to do just that. Unfortunately, Kirk would not take no for an answer. "Trust me.
It'll be better to tell him in person that the weaponry is remaining at Dreadmoor than to try and get through to him over the wire."
Tristan's gaze narrowed as he studied her. "Very well. I shall see you when you return."
"Wait!" Andi said as he started to fade. "Do you have to leave now?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Aye, for now I do. I've business to attend with my solicitor over the phone. Another land parcel sale. Boring, I assure you." He bowed, then winked. "Until later, my lady."
Then he vanished.
Andi stared at the space Tristan seconds before had occupied. Would she ever get used to being so fascinated by a ghost?
The hum of the small crowd gathered at Dahlia's Gilded Shoe, the one and only village pub, died to something only a dog could hear once Andi stepped inside. Scanning the room for Kirk, she found him in a corner booth. Ten pairs of eyes, including the bartender's, watched her shuffle across the floor to the back. As she passed the bar, she recognized the cabby who'd brought her to Dreadmoor.
"Hi, Gibbs." She winked. "Still alive."
That awarded her with several chuckles from the other patrons, including the wary cabdriver. They all resumed their chatter.
Kirk stood as she approached the table. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I apologize for such a common meeting place." He waved a hand in the air. "Not much to expect from a low-income fishing village." His eyes gleamed as she took her seat. "How many did you bring?"
Low-income fishing village? Common? What was wrong with Kirk? She'd never seen such a snobby side to his personality. Maybe she had, and had never noticed. And how on earth did he know what she had? She hadn't told him there were swords.
She forced a warm smile. Maybe he was still edgy about having to manage the other site? And maybe he was guessing about the swords. "This place is fine, Kirk. And the villagers are quite—"
"Andrea, the blades? Did you bring them?"
Leveling her gaze to his, she shook her head. "No."
A flush crept across his features, and his eyes hardened. "What? Why not?"
The sharp voice surprised her, made her flinch. Turning her head, she noticed everyone in the bar stared in their direction. "What is wrong with you?" she said quietly. The skin on her throat and face tingled as humiliation and hurt gripped her. Never had he spoken in such a way to her. It made her want to leave.
A calm expression replaced the seconds-before anger. Muscles ticked at his jaw, a sign he was still mad but trying to overcome it. Finally, he heaved a sigh. "I've no excuses, Andrea. Please, forgive me." He leaned back and stroked his pencil-thin beard. "You look as though you're about to burst into tears. Please. I'm sorry." He ducked his head when she didn't respond. "I'm begging now, Andrea. I couldn't stand for you to remain upset."
