Spirited Away (16 page)

Andi watched in fascination as a muscle ticked in Tristan's jaw, the small vein at his forehead protruding.
He's a ghost,
she reminded herself, which brought her to her next realization. She leaned up on tiptoes and wagged her finger toward Tristan, beckoning him to draw closer to hear her words. He did as she asked, she looked around, and then she whispered behind a cupped hand,

"Do these guys know you're a, um, well ..." She hesitated, not knowing just what to say.
"A ghost?"

The deafening silence lasted all but a few seconds; then one man in the crowd snorted loudly. In one fierce explosion, the entire group of mailed men erupted into a raucous fit of laughter, with a few shrill catcall whistles and hoots to boot.

Andi slowly turned around, watching the men as some slapped one another on the shoulder. A few bent over at the waist, apparently trying to catch their breath, and others wiped tears from their eyes.

She turned back to Tristan, ready to ask him what could possibly be so funny, but her breath caught just as quickly and naturally as it escaped her lungs.

Tristan was smiling at her.

Easily the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen on such a ferocious man. Brutally beautiful, he had a dimple in each cheek, a slight cleft in his chin, and his grin was wide and contagious. Unfortunately, though, she still had no idea what was so funny.

"Lads, cease!" Tristan tried to smother his mirth. "I enjoin you lecherous dolts to file past the lady Andrea," he said, "and greet her accordingly. Then my men begone and man your posts. You others, be back at daybreak, if you've the stomach for it."

Andi stood next to Tristan as the first man, the other jouster, came by, leading his mount. He passed by, nodded his head respectfully, and smiled. "Lady," he said, then walked on past.

And then faded into thin air. Along with the horse.

Tristan bent over, his lips close to her ear. "Close your gaping mouth, Andrea."

One by one the men filed past her, nodding and greeting her, then disappearing into the sunlight, one medieval knight right behind the other.

"Lady." A tall, balding man walked by. He smiled, revealing his missing front tooth.

"Lady." Another nodded as he passed, a grin splitting his boyish face in two.

"Lady."

"Lady."

Andi stared, her mind reeling. She couldn't believe it. They were all ghosts! But how could it be possible? Inconceivable. Right? Of course it was. She'd dealt with Tristan. Sort of. Her mind still reeled from the idea of his state of existence. But an entire keepful of medieval, knighted, chain-mailed ghosts? No way. It was crazy! And yet she'd just witnessed it. Hadn't she?

A giant headed her way. It was the same man she'd spoken to when she'd first walked onto the field.

He stopped and leaned over, a wide grin breaking the scowl that had been there earlier.

"Boo."

Andi squealed and nearly fell backward.

The remaining men erupted into another round of laughter, but Tristan's deep voice managed to get through to her.

"Steady, lady." Tristan shook his dark head and chuckled. "I vow if you swoon there's not a bloody soul here who can catch you." He looked at the man who'd just scared her and frowned. "Kail, you horse's arse, enough sport. Now begone." He waved a gloved hand in the air. "Don't forget. Ireland versus Wales tonight on the tele."

Kail grinned at Andi, then at Tristan. "Aye, my lord. Consider it done." Then, like all the rest, he vanished.

"Ireland versus Wales?" she asked.

Tristan nodded. "Aye. Rugby. A fine sport, indeed."

So. She
had
heard a roomful of rowdy guys watching a rugby game!

Andi stared as the last few disappeared, save one young man who, the closer he got, the more familiar he became.

As he stood before her, he ducked his head in a shy nod. "Good morn to you, lady. 'Tis wondrous having you about." He gave her a low bow. "My name is Jason, formerly of Corwick-on-the-Sea. I shall be ever so close by, should you need me."

"You're the guy I met in the village who ditched me at the chip shop."

"With regret, you are ever so right. I shall make it a point never to ditch you again."

"I thought I told you not to approach her," Tristan said with a frown.

Jason lifted a mailed shoulder. " 'Twas unavoidable, my lord." With a charming smile, he turned and disappeared into the hazy sunlight, leaving her alone with Tristan.

She looked about in disbelief, at the ground she stood on, at the lists. A long pole of wood ran the length of it, with dirt underneath. Yet there wasn't the first bit of splintered wood, not one horseshoe print.
Of course not, goof. Ghosts don't leave prints.

She glanced skyward, noticing for the first time the bright and warm morning, how the sun shone, how the slightest of sea breezes softly blew through the bailey. She turned back to Tristan, who stared, watching her every move. At last, she found her voice. "I suppose this is one of the 'unusual things' you spoke of?"

"One of many."

Andi looked closely at the man before her.
Ghost,
she corrected herself silently.

Dragonhawk.
He stood tall, a picture of power and masculinity, arrogance and confidence. His helmet was off now, his mail coif pushed back. His hair lay plastered to his head with sweat, the cords in his neck taut. The mail he wore in no way hid the heavy chunks of muscle in his arms and chest. Neither did the hose, for that matter. God, he looked so
real.

Andi quickly caught herself before she drooled all over the lists. She looked up into Tristan's eyes—eyes that literally sparkled when he smiled.

"Are you quite through, lady?" A slow, sexy grin spread across his face. His dimples deepened. "Or shall I turn round for you, as well?"

Heat crept up her neck. Maybe she had drooled, and just didn't realize it. She checked her chin, just to be sure. "No, you don't have to turn around." Not that she'd mind. She shook her head and looked all around.

"This is all just a little hard to take in, I guess." She chanced another glance at Tristan. "Your fourteen knights—were they in that crowd?"

He nodded. "Aye. Kail, the big one, is my captain. Jason is my youngest, though a scrappy little lad."

Whoa. "Dragonhawk and his missing knights. Unfreaking-believable." She shook her head. "How is it that the others are all here?"

Tristan shrugged and shifted his weight. "How is it I'm here? They've all different reasons, I suppose. Most are here, I assume, because they left this world with unresolved matters. They cannot rest because of it. So they come here, pledge their fealty, such as it is, and in return I give them something familiar. A home."

"Is that why you're here? Because of unresolved matters?"

Tristan's brows pulled into a frown. "I wish it was as simple as unresolved matters." He looked down at the girl. He wanted to trust her, but 'twas more than just his secret. And by God's bones, he could barely concentrate, what with the very little she had on. Her long, shapely legs were smooth and flawless, clear up to the green and blue plaid trousers she wore. And damnation, but the sight of her navel nearly drove him daft. Her dark brown hair gleamed in the morning sun, and her brows, the same color as her hair, arched in a fine shape, indeed. Comely? Nay. Merciful saints above, she stole his breath.

The sorry thing was he just couldn't stay away from her. Even though he'd just warned her yesterday to keep to the business she was hired for, staying away from her just seemed impossible.

Damned, daft dolt he knew himself to be.

But that was exactly what he needed to do.
Stay away.

He frowned a bit more, the best frown he could muster his pathetic self to perform. "Get you to the keep, lady, and clothe yourself." He glanced down at her feet. "I vow you'll catch your death out here with your hose pooled around your ankles."
Lovely, finely shaped ankles, I might add.

"Are you coming with me?"

"Nay." Tristan frowned and replaced his helmet. "I am not. You've your duties to perform, as do I.

Just because I'm a spirit doesn't mean I've nothing important to do. I've a castle to maintain." He turned abruptly and strode into the sunlight, promptly disappearing.

Andi frowned herself this time. She looked around the bailey; the very empty bailey—save the jousting field. It looked so damned real! She wanted to walk over to it, but her stockinged and shoeless condition stopped her in her tracks. She heaved a sigh as she turned and trudged back to the keep. "Must be nice to just ... disappear every time you want to avoid something, Lord Dreadmoor. You just say your mind, then 'poof,' you fade into thin air." She waved her hand. "Me? I have to stand my ground, say my piece, then stick around for more. I stay until the bell rings. You?

You take the easy way out."

He wanted nothing to do with her.

And she'd never been the type to be pushy.

Andi trotted back across the bailey and back into the keep, heading to her chambers to change. She had work to accomplish. Weapons to dig up.

And the faster she accomplished it, the faster she could pack her gear and leave Dreadmoor, before she found it a completely impossible task.

Chapter Thirteen

"Perhaps if she knew the entire tale, my lord, she just may be able to help." Jameson looked over the rim of his reading glasses at Tristan. "I vow you've done a fine job indeed of avoiding Dr.

Monroe lately. You've not spoken to her in a week. My lord."

Tristan glared at his old friend. "Be you quiet, Jameson. I cannot think thusly with you muttering."

He leaned back against the marbled counter, raked a hand through his hair, and glanced at the beamed ceiling. Drawing a deep breath, he let it escape slowly. "Mayhap you have it aright." Tristan pushed off the counter and began to pace behind his steward. "After seven centuries, one cannot help but develop a loss of hope." He glanced at Jameson, who busied himself by stirring something in a large pot. "I'm weary, old man."

Jameson didn't spare him a glance. "You look quite healthy to me, my lord. Given your unusual circumstances, that is."

Tristan grinned. "You act as though you like me around."

Jameson didn't look up from his cooking. "You are passing tolerable."

Tristan laughed and shook his head. "I suppose I should tell her the tale after all. By God's robes, she has seen the entire garrison. A story of murder and witchery should not frighten the wench."

"You didn't exert yourself overmuch in hiding the garrison, Lord Dreadmoor."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You are a mouthy old busybody, Jameson. Stir you that stew and keep your bloody comments to yourself."

The corner of Jameson's mouth twitched. "As you wish, your Lordship."

Tristan disappeared through the wall. "Cease with the bloody lordship crap, Jameson," he called back. "I vow 'tis making me daft."

"I hope so. My lord."

Tristan could have sworn he'd heard the wily butler chuckle.

Andi struggled to keep her thoughts trained on her work—something completely foreign to her. She loved her work. Looked forward to it. In her own defense, it was a little hard to concentrate knowing she shared temporary residence with a garrison of ghosts led by the legendary Dragonhawk. Incredibly handsome. Charming, in a gruff sort of way. With dimples.

And very, very
dead.

She wanted to talk to him in the worst kind of way, but to reduce herself to begging? Just to stay focused? Ridiculous. It had been a week since she'd seen him in the lists, and she hadn't gone after him, either. Or called to him. For whatever reasons he had, he certainly didn't want to be bothered by her.

It hurt. Why, she didn't know. She barely knew the guy. Just because she'd seen him as a teen, and then had dreamed of him ever since, didn't give her any right to feel all mushy about him.

Andi stretched her arms over her head, then her lower back. She eased down to her belly and resumed her work. But her thoughts, rebellious things that they were, seemed to wander in their own direction.

Maybe she simply did not appeal to him? She was fairly plain, in her opinion. She had long, gangly legs, a bit on the skinny side, and had been called dorky more than once in her life.

She blew softly on the soil-stained bone and continued to brush. Over the past several days, she'd collected eighteen bones within the five-by-five-meter square. Not bad, being a one-man team.

After the pelvic bone had been found she concluded that the skeletal remains definitely belonged to a man. She'd yet to speak to Tristan about it, since he'd made himself conveniently scarce over the last week.

Maybe it wouldn't matter to him? Either way, she could probably spend an entire year sifting through shovelfuls of Dreadmoor's soil and still not find all the missing pieces. Even if she did, what would it mean? That a man had been murdered in medieval England? Not exactly headline news. And yet, it fascinated her, made her want to know more. Who was the man? And what had he done to deserve such a grisly burial, including being bound about the head by a yew vine?

Tristan watched Andrea for several moments before materializing. Damn Jameson for convincing him 'twas the right thing—trusting her with Dreadmoor's secrets. Truth be told to no one, something about the woman stirred him: her mannerisms, her confidence and nerve, her complete unawareness of her beauty, and her intense dedication to her hired task. An innocent air hung about her that enchanted him. Tenacious? Aye, for a certainty. And damnation, the way she pushed her hair behind those finely shaped little ears surely would drive him more senseless than he already was.

He looked down at her whilst she wallowed about on her belly, diligently unearthing the bones. At least if he startled her, she wouldn't fall. He cleared his throat softly and began as gently as he could. "Lady Andrea?"

She jumped anyway, and her eye barely escaped being impaled by the end of her brush. She looked up from the excavation pit where she lay sprawled and glared at him. "You scared me."