Spirited Away (14 page)

A musty dampness filled the room. She could just imagine the dread and terror one may have felt when thrown down the steps into the pit of darkness.

A squeak erupted from the darkness as she made her way to the generator switch. She jumped, shuddering to think of the furry creature that noise had escaped from. Somehow, she didn't relish being on her belly in the dungeon while the castle rats used her back as a playground. Maybe Jameson had a cat? She'd ask him about it later.

The light beam finally landed on the lamp switch. Andi made her way to it and flipped it on. With a low purr the lamps flickered, casting a dim but workable glow within the eerie chamber.

A chill tingled her skin. She whirled and looked behind her. Nothing. No voice, no Dragonhawk—nothing. She shrugged and then crossed the room to the worktable she'd set up earlier.

Atop the table, carefully preserved between two panes of leaded glass, rested the original plans of the castle. Tristan had been very kind in allowing her the use of them for the project. What a rare treat to have them at her disposal. Original Dreadmoor blueprints! She'd pored over them nearly all night when he'd first given them to her.

A tickle crossed her nerve endings. She supposed she had Heath to blame for her spooky feelings—partially, anyway. All the talk of heads getting lopped off had her jumping at the least little thing.

She scanned the chamber, and, as before, found it empty. Wiping her damp palms on her jeans, she grabbed a few brushes from her worktable and walked across the floor to the linked rings of steel embedded in the hard dirt.

Andi stretched, then lowered herself onto her belly and began the tedious chore of softly brushing the edges, followed by light, gentle blowing. Could there be an entire suit of mail?

Then she froze. Turned ice-cold, glacier-in-the-North-Atlantic frozen. Every hair on the back of her neck stood up. She stilled her brush and held her breath.
Something, or someone, was in the
dungeon with her.
It couldn't be Jameson. After he'd begun preparations for the afternoon meal he'd excused himself, saying he needed to make a trip to the village market and take Heath home.

Slowly, she resumed her work, making small, wispy strokes with the brush. She didn't want whoever lingered in the room with her to notice she sensed them. With a deliberate, slow breath, she inhaled a breath and held it, lifting her gaze to eye-level of the dungeon floor.

Her eyes stretched as wide as the sockets would safely allow, and then she gulped.

An enormous man, dressed in knight's chain mail and bent over at the waist, watched her work.

Neither she nor the man made a move; they didn't blink, breathe, or flinch.

Then he looked down at himself. "God's bones!"

"Whoa!" Andi yelled, much louder than she thought herself capable. She jumped up from her position on the floor and backed away, unable to tear her eyes from the vision before her. The knight ghost? Dragonhawk? She shook her head to rid herself of such a childish notion. She didn't believe in ghost knights. Right? Even if she had seen one herself before. Besides, he looked too real to be a ghost. Ghosts were soft, flimsy sheets of weightless matter, not substantial, real-life-looking men.

Then he spoke again.

"Cease your movement, lady, before you fall upon one of those sharp axes you have lying about and impale yourself."

Andi's head snapped up and she peered at the man. "Tristan?" She'd know that deep, raspy voice of his anywhere. "You scared the crap out of me! Why are you sneaking around in here? And dressed like that?" She brushed her hands off on her thighs and jumped from the pit, coming to stand in front of him. She looked up.

And gulped. Again.

Standing face-to-face with the man she'd already stood face-to-face with a dozen or more times, she suddenly realized something. Correct that. Several things.

Huge. Massive. Stunning blue eyes. Long, black hair. Sexy voice. Sexy
everything.

He was the same man she'd seen twelve years ago.

The very same man she had dreamed of ever since.

Her knight.

Chapter Ten

"It can't be." She stared at Tristan's big, booted feet. His legs, covered in hose, were long and thickly muscled. A mail hauberk hung to his thighs, covered by a black tunic. A mystical creature stared at her from its center.
The same creature from the shield in her room. Dragonhawk.
A sword hung low on his hips.

She continued to gawk, noticing his broad back and thick neck. His hair, dark and wavy, hung well below his shoulders. An authentic-looking mail coif rested in folds behind his head. Lifting her eyes, she saw a chiseled jaw tighten, making the muscles bunch. His jaw-length bangs hung in disarray across his face. Sapphire-blue eyes peered down at her as dark brows came together in a seriously annoyed frown.

He was just as magnificent as he had been before. Must be the uniform ...

That mind-boggling revelation struck her right between the eyes. It gave way to several unsettling thoughts. And who was she to allow such a revelation to remain idle? Besides, she was famous for blurting. "It
was
you all those years ago. Why did you lie?"

"Well, I—"

"And why is it you just let me flail about in that crumbling old kirk? I could have been killed!"

"Aye, but—"

"And why is it"—she took a step closer to Tristan—"you haven't changed one little bit—" She poked her finger at his chest as she spoke.

It went straight through him.

She snatched her hand back and held it against her chest. Her eyes widened. She stepped back, her breath difficult to catch. The blood rushed from her face.

Tristan stared at the woman, not believing what she had just done—and he'd allowed it to happen.

She backed away from him, her mouth working fervently but with no intelligible words forming.

Try and calm her before she trips, dolt.
He took a step toward her and cleared his throat.

"Now, Andrea." He began again, softer this time. "You are overwrought, no doubt from all this bloody digging. Come sit you down here and we'll have speech."

Andi tried to speak but words would not come forth. She continued to back away, eyes wide and unblinking.

Tristan watched her mouth work, but even his unnatural hearing capabilities could not make sense of the words. He leaned a bit closer and strained his ears. "What say you, lady?"

Andi stared with glassy eyes and pointed at him. "Y-you're dressed in m-medieval chain mail. The knight. M-my knight. N-not a man. A g-g—" She shook as though a shiver coursed through her. "I

—I d-don't believe in g-g-g ..."

Her head lolled, seemingly bobbing on a neck with no bones to keep it straight. Her eyes rolled back and before he could move, she fell to the floor.

Tristan jumped to her side where she lay sprawled on his dungeon floor. "Damnation, she's fainted dead away."
Poor choice of words, de Barre, you idiot.
He kneeled beside her slumped form and studied her as best he could. He certainly hadn't cared for the way her eyes had wheeled. 'Twas unnerving, to say the least. Now, here he knelt, like the buffoon he knew himself to be, unable to help her in the least.
Again.
He stood and paced the floor in hopes of discovering some way to assist the girl. Jameson, damn his sorry arse, remained at the village grocer, so he would be of no use. He couldn't very well pull his one and only mortal man from the gatehouse. Saints, what a pitiful situation! He turned and walked back to Andi's huddled form on the floor. Bending down on his hands and knees, he did the only thing he could possibly do to help.

He bellowed.

And quite loudly, truth be told.

"Andrea! I vow if you do not pick yourself up from my dungeon floor you will be crawling with vermin in a matter of minutes!" He gave that time to sink through, but it didn't seem to work. He bellowed again. "Get up, wench!" He sat and waited, but nothing happened. "I've not the patience for this," he mumbled as he jumped up and began to pace. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "By the saints, 'tis useless!" He lowered his head and paced some more.

"Damnation, Tristan! What did you do to her?" Kail shouted as he materialized.

"Christ, you don't want to know." Tristan glared at his captain, just to be glaring. "She poked her damned finger through me."

"Merde."

Tristan nodded. "Aye. My thought—several times over."

"My lord?" a voice called from the platform above.

Tristan glanced up in time to see Jameson blanch.

"What have you done?" The old man rushed down the stairs.

"I've no doubt deafened her with my bellowing. And before that I soundly thrashed her beyond an inch of her life, for digging up my dungeon. I'd planned on impaling her with my sword before you interrupted."

Jameson ignored Tristan's sarcasm. "Did she see you?"

Tristan sighed. "Worse."

"Oh dear." Jameson kneeled down to gently pat Andi's cheek.

"I vow I don't know how it came about. I suppose I became engrossed in watching her—"

Jameson glared. "I've warned you about voyeurism, my lord."

Tristan frowned. "You sorely test my mood, man. Just rouse the woman and get her off the damned cold floor. 'Tis bloody drafty in here."

"I daresay you two had best go. For now," Jameson urged him quietly. "No doubt the poor thing is in terrible shock."

"Aye, no doubt. She jabbed her finger right through my bloody chest." Damnation, he should be the one patting Andi's cheek and trying to rouse her, not bloody Jameson! That fact made his mood fouler than before. "She's your baggage now, Jameson. I've not the stomach for this." With that he and Kail disappeared.

Andi slowly opened her eyes and blinked as she realized where she was.
The cold, hard, smelly
dungeon floor.
Jameson's voice reached her ears, a frantic plea to get up.

"My lady." He patted her cheek. "You must wake up now. 'Tis too drafty and damp to be on the floor."

She sat, with his hand gently on her elbow, looked up into his usual stoic expression and blinked.

"Jameson, what's going on?" She stood and glanced across the room. Empty, save her tools and generator. "Where'd he go?"

"Where did who go, Dr. Monroe?"

"Too late for that, Jameson." Andi peered into every corner, every nook of the dungeon. Taking a step forward, she turned and raked the room with her eyes. She laughed and shook her head. Inch by inch, she lowered herself back down to the floor. She rested her head in her hands. "I'm not crazy after all. Twelve years ago. It did happen. My ... fingers went right through him."

"So I heard."

Several moments passed before she lifted her head and met his gaze. Her eyes watered. "It can't be.

It's just not possible." She lowered her voice to a whisper and shook her head. "He's not real."

The tug of Jameson's hand on her elbow forced her to stand. "I'm afraid he's as real as you and I, my lady. Now come. We'll have a nice hot cup of tea together."

Andi allowed Jameson to lead her from the dungeon. At the top of the stairs, she pulled to a halt. "I think I just want to lie down for a while. I don't feel so good."

He inclined his head. "As you wish. I'll escort you to your chambers."

He did, and Andi felt grateful for his assistance. The door clicked shut and she stumbled to her bed.

Throwing herself facedown on the feather mattress, she lay there for only a few moments. Then she got up, crossed the floor, threw the bolt, and crawled back in bed.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and dampened the pillow. How could any of this be happening?

People died and were buried. Maybe there was a heaven, maybe not, but they certainly didn't turn into ghosts. They didn't remain on earth, dragging chains—or wearing chain mail. They didn't whisper commands, lead you about, warn you of things. They certainly weren't big, virile-looking knights with deep, real-sounding sexy voices, and they sure as hell didn't invite professional archaeologists to dig up centuries-old relics, or try to solve centuries-old mysteries.

Tristan was the infamous Dragonhawk.

Chapter Eleven

Andi found a steaming cup of tea pushed in front of her at the kitchen table, followed by the sugar bowl and creamer. She spooned in the brown raw sweetness, unaware of exactly how much she'd already dumped into the brew until Jameson cleared his throat. Loud.

"My lady?"

Andi frowned, then added one more spoonful. She took a sip, set the cup down, pulled her feet up into the chair, and tucked them neatly under her bottom. She'd had her night's rest, if you would call it that. Tossing and turning, she dreamed of fingers poking through mailed chests and swords lopping off heads—including her own—all night long. Well, she'd had enough. She was over the shock. What happened in the dungeon had really happened. What had happened in the kirk twelve years before had really happened. The whispering presence had happened. And by God, she wanted to get to the bottom of them all. No more games.

She glowered at the steward of Dreadmoor, who, whether by coincidence or not, wore a guilty look plastered to his face. "Okay, Jameson. Talk. And I mean it this time."

Jameson busily set about the kitchen, seeing to his work. Efficiently ignoring her.

"Jameson!"

He didn't even grace her with a jump—or a look. "My lady, 'tisn't befitting of a gentlewoman to bellow so."

Andi drummed her fingertips on the solid wood of the oak table and ignored his reprimand. "No use in trying to distract me with all that proper English befitting gentlewoman crap, Jameson. I'm waiting for answers I more than deserve. And you have them."

Jameson turned and raised a white eyebrow. "My dear girl, 'tis best if you ask Himself the details. I vow he can tell the tale much better than myself."

She shook her head. "Nope. Won't do. Who is he?"

Jameson sighed. "He is as he told you before, lady. Tristan de Barre, formerly of Greykirk, lately of Dreadmoor." He walked over to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Yes, he is the legendary Dragonhawk. But if you want the entire tale, you shall have to uncurl yourself from that most comfortable-looking position atop your feet and see to the deed yourself."