Spirited Away (26 page)

She pleaded with her eyes. "So what does that make him, if I've done all those things?"

The harsh planes and beard-shaded angles of Tristan's handsome face tightened into a dangerous expression. "An abomination."

He might as well have hit her. Like a steel fist, it hit her square in the gut, robbing her of breath, of reasonable thought. With one last look, she moved closer, wishing she could grab Tristan by the collar of his tunic and shake him until he realized how wrong he was. "I've got to see for myself.

He's the only family I have, Tristan. My only anchor."

Towering over her, he lowered his head, his mouth to her ear. "You've got me, Andrea. Do not forget it."

Had Tristan been alive, their bodies would be separated only by a whisper of air. Her heart raced, her mind twisted as she tried to distinguish fantasy from reality. Kirk was real. He'd been there for her all these past years. The only person who cared about her. She had to make Tristan understand that he and his men were mistaken. They were wrong.

Slowly, she lifted her hand to Tristan's chest. For a moment, she thought she felt his heart hammering under her fingertips.

Then, with the slightest effort, she pushed against him.

And her hand passed through him.

Fantasy.

A tear slipped down her cheek. "I've got to go." Determined not to allow the imprint of his anguished face to pit her memory, she turned and made for the door.

Tristan pushed between her and the heavy oak, blocking her exit. "Do not, Andrea. I won't allow it.

'Tis dangerous." He drew his head closer. "De Sabre is dangerous. If he's inside your mentor, you will not be safe."

Hazel eyes challenged blue ones, frown against frown. "He is not de Sabre, he's not possessed by Erik's evil spirit, and he's not dangerous. He is a researcher, Tristan. Nothing more. And I'm going to prove it to you. Now please. Move."

He stared at her for a long time, his chest heaving, the veins in his throat standing out. Finally, he pushed off with a frustrated growl and walked off, without a word.

Andi cracked the door and slipped out.

By the saints, what had he done? Had he been such a fool to think he could keep this from her? Aye, he had. Damnation, she'd looked wounded. It'd nearly cracked his heart in twain, just to look at her fallen face.

Desolate. Aye, he had known the feeling, for longer than he would like to. But what to do now? She was determined to prove them wrong, and he didn't blame her. He wasn't even sure himself that her employer and de Sabre shared the mortal body. But how would he or any of his men persuade her?

They had no proof, other than their own witness. If Erik had taken over Kirk Grey, how and when had it happened? The day he came to aid Andi? Even if that were so, no doubt the bloody bastard would lie through his immortal teeth, just to keep the secret.

He quit the solar, determined to follow her. Instead, he met his steward's disapproving glare, along with thirteen others.

"You heard, I suppose?" he asked Jameson. He knew his men had eavesdropped.

"I did, my lord."

"She's leaving."

"I gathered as much."

"Well, don't just stand there and glare at me, old man. What should I bloody do?" Tristan stared Jameson down, as if that might scare the man into revealing the secret to undo his drastic mistake.

It did not work.

"That, my young lord," Jameson said, "is something only you can remedy. Now, I've got to see to Dr. Monroe. She is terribly upset." With a slight nod he turned and left, leaving Tristan alone with his men.

"Well?" Kail asked. "Did she believe?"

Tristan shook his head. "Nay, she did not. And I've not a clue how to make her. Bloody hell, I don't want her to go, especially alone. 'Tis dangerous—more than she understands. Erik is responsible for not only my own death and yours, but more likely than not, countless others. Using Grey's mortal body, there's no telling what he will do." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ."

"The whelp is already on her heels, Tristan."

Tristan nodded. "Good. Nine more of you go, as well. That way, we'll be able to know her whereabouts at all times, and make bloody damn sure she remains safe.

The constable shall be called at the first sign of disorder. Understood?"

"Aye," said all thirteen knights. They separated, ready to follow Andrea.

Hopefully, they would not have to keep vigil for long.

He wanted his woman home. And by the saints, he'd have it so.

"The ghosties chasin' ye off, I gather." Gibbs gave a knowing nod. "I figured as much, but ye lasted a bit longer than we—er, I thought." He pulled away from the gatehouse and turned his old, beat-up cab down the rocky path.

Andi ignored him and tried her best not to look back. She knew if she did, she'd bawl like a baby, or worse, throw herself from the cab and crawl back up to the castle.

Unfortunately, being hardheaded was one of her less desirable traits.

She turned around.

Tristan stood on the battlements, staring after her. There he stood, his bulky arms crossed over his bulkier chest, his long black hair whipping across his face as if the wind could actually touch him.

He wore his usual black tunic over his mail, his sword strapped to his side. He looked just as real as any man. Only, he wasn't. He was a ghost.

And she'd hurt him by leaving. She knew it. She hadn't even been able to tell him about the connection she'd made. That would have to come later. This thing with Kirk ... it needed to happen now. She had to know. Had to prove them all wrong.

She turned and looked at the road ahead.

The road leading away from Dreadmoor.

The same road leading away from Tristan.

Andi knew, at that very moment, she loved the man standing on the battlements. Lord of Dreadmoor. Tristan de Barre. Dragonhawk. Brave thirteenth-century knight.

A ghost.

Chapter Twenty-One

Foul did not even begin to describe his mood.

More like corpse-rotting, vermin-infested, a hundred disgusting flies swarming around an impaled, decaying ...

Foul.

Tristan attacked his captain again, parrying and thrusting with a ferocity he hadn't used since he was alive and warring. The seven-foot giant finally begged off. Tristan swore in French-Norman, then spat on the ground and stormed away.

"Damnation, Tristan." Kail threw his arms up. "You're naught but ill to be around these days. What has befallen you?"

Tristan stopped in mid-stride and stared at Kail. "You know what damn well bloody sits ill with me, fool. Why ask?"

"Because there is not a soul left at Dreadmoor, living or not, that can put up with your poor humor a moment longer. Even Jameson has been heard murmuring about going on holiday, just to rid himself of your sourness." He glared, one eyebrow raised skyward. "What say you to that?"

Tristan strode back to his captain and soundly planted his fist in Kail's nose. "That's what I've got to say about it." 'Twas illusionary, the solid hit, but it felt good just the same. He turned and headed back the way he'd been going, which was absolutely nowhere.

Until he found a seven-foot, three-hundred-pound warrior on his back.

They hit the ground in a cloud of conjured-up dust, grunting and swearing until Kail straddled Tristan, pinning him to the ground with his oaklike arms.

"Get off me, you witless idiot." Tristan bucked and bared his teeth.

"Nay, I won't until I am passing sure you will end this ridiculous game." He grunted as Tristan thrashed to get free. "My lord."

Tristan lay there, beneath his captain who would surely pay later for his acts, breathing hard as if he actually had a pair of lungs to use the air around him. He closed his eyes and begrudgingly gave up.

" 'Tis much easier to be foul than admit a wrong."

Kail gave Tristan a good push in the chest and got up. "Aye, 'tis a certainty, I'm sure. I'm not one to be wrong overmuch. Therefore I am less likely to know the feeling."

"Shut up, Kail."

Kail laughed. "Well?"

Tristan pulled his knees up and rested his arms against them. "I love her, dolt. And I'm passing weary of this waiting."

Kail snorted. "Then 'tis you who is the dolt, for if it were my lady, I would—"

"What? Just what would you do, oh mighty wise one on the matter of wenches?" Tristan grinned, the first time since Andi had left him.

"I would go after her. My lord."

Tristan cuffed Kail in one of his big ears. "Don't be stupid, man. You know I cannot leave the grounds."

"Aye, but you could call her, couldn't you? That is what I would do, were I you."

"And what?" Tristan jumped to his feet and began to pace. "She left because I deceived her. That is something that cannot be changed."

"She left to prove you, and us, wrong. The lads have been keeping an eye on her. It seems she's been unable to contact him. He's left for an important meeting of sorts. She is safe."

Tristan looked across the bailey as his remaining men trained. 'Twas more of a habit, and one of the few medieval things they enjoyed. Dust hung in the air at the jousting field, illusioned as it was. He turned back to his captain. "So?"

"So there's where you have something to decide on your own, little lad," he said, turning to leave.

He stopped and glanced back. "By the by, friend, I am truly sorry I encouraged you to keep things secretive from the lady."

Tristan held up a hand. "Nay, Kail. There is no need for that, and you know it. Besides, you have groveled for two days solid. I cannot stomach it for another bloody moment. Now begone."

Kail grinned at Tristan. "You truly are a good friend. Now I'm off. I believe those pups at the lances need a bit of leadership." He slapped Tristan's shoulder as he passed. "Good luck, my lord. You, I do believe, shall need it." He walked away, shaking his head.

Tristan stared after him, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. "Witless beast."

"I heard that, and I thank ye for such a fine compliment."

Tristan turned and made for the kitchens, where he knew Jameson would more than likely be.

Hopefully, near the phone.

He, Tristan de Barre of Dreadmoor, fearless knight of the thirteenth century, had a telephone call to make. And damn him, why hadn't he done the like sooner?

" 'Ere's ye check, missy."

Andi glanced at the waiter, checked her tab, and handed him five pounds. "Thanks." She rose to leave.

"Don't ye want to take that with ye?" He pointed to her half-eaten plate. "Ye've barely touched yer haddock."

Andi smiled. "No, thanks." She absently stepped out of the small chippy and into the bustling crowd of Berwick shoppers. She barely noticed any of them, or the rain splattering her blouse.

Although she had stormed from Dreadmoor to prove something, her mind habitually returned to one thing.

Actually, to one person.

Tristan.

She couldn't stop thinking of him. The first day hadn't been too bad. She was mad at him for deceiving her, and even more angry for accusing Kirk of being Erik de Sabre. She tried to stay mad, best she could. And it might have worked, had Tristan not sent her a personal guard of about ten big, burly, ghostly knights, in full battle gear. That made matters even more difficult.

They were posted outside her door. They were loitering in the lobby of the inn. They were stationed outside the inn. All in their invisible state, mind you, but there just the same. Jason had told her as much. In the evenings, they would take turns visiting her, sharing with her tales of Tristan's sorrow; how he moped around, missing her so. But she didn't want to hear it from them. She wanted to hear it from Tristan. So the garrison, even with their good intentions, was nothing but reminders of a particular overgrown lout of a knight whom she desperately missed.

To make matters worse, Kirk couldn't be reached. He'd left to inspect another find, this one close to Edinburgh. It ticked her off, really. He'd called in a senior intern from another research team to take over as site manager, and he hadn't even told her. She had run out to the dig, just to make sure things were being handled properly. They were, which made her feel somewhat better. Supposedly, though, Kirk had been interested in a medieval sword, or what was left of it, and took off. He wouldn't answer his mobile, either. So she'd decided to wait.

Not that waiting helped matters—any of them.

She'd eaten three tubes of cookie dough, to the horror of her guard, in an attempt to drown her sorrows and put the arrogant man out of her thoughts. It did nothing but hinder her appetite and give her a raging stomachache. That led to several parental scoldings from the garrison about how raw dough was not good for one's entrails. Finding a grocer who even sold a tube of cookie dough had been a miracle on its own.

It hadn't helped anyway. Tristan remained firmly imprinted in her mind, with or without the ghostly garrison to remind her, and he apparently wasn't budging.

She'd had a lot of time to think. It was unfathomable that Kirk Grey could be something as ridiculous as possessed. But she currently kept company with a handful of thirteenth-century knights. Who was she to say what was fathomable and what wasn't?

Still ... it was Kirk. She'd known him nearly her whole life. She just couldn't wrap her brain around it.

Andi stepped to the curb to flag down a cab, then thought better of it and turned to walk the three miles to the quaint little inn she'd stayed at for two nights. Sneaking past her overprotective guardsmen earlier had been tricky, but she'd managed. Had it not been for the fire escape stairs off the balcony of her room, and the fact that she wasn't afraid of heights, she would never have managed it.

A short outing, alone, helped clear her thoughts—at least she'd thought it would. So she'd slipped out the back and disappeared into the crowd, walked for a while, then attempted a semi-nutritious meal.

Then she saw him.

Blending with the crowd, she endured being bumped and knocked about like a rag doll. A hundred people must have passed her, probably even brushed her. Then a flash of black silk caught her eye.