Spirited Away (31 page)
"Right. Quite a nice lot of blades, to be sure, as were the helms. None of them extraordinary, though, I'm afraid."
Andi blinked. "What do you mean?" That certainly didn't sound like something Kirk would say. He loved all relics, no matter what condition they were in.
"I was hoping to find one in particular. That's all." He cleared his throat. "Maybe the stress of a solo excavation has you edgy? I think you should start jogging again. Remember how much you used to like it?"
A smile pulled at her mouth. Kirk remembered everything. "Yes, but back then I had more time."
"Well." He cleared his throat, his tone becoming more parental. "You've plenty of sand to jog on there at Dreadmoor, love. You're right by the sea. I insist you do it. It will make you feel loads better. Now. I've a dig to oversee. And after this is all over with, we shall celebrate your birthday. A nice big steak dinner." He paused. "It's in two weeks, right?"
"So they say."
"Tsk-tsk, Andrea. You've always been a party pooper when your birthday comes round. We'll have fun. I promise."
Andi smiled. "I'll hold you to that, boss."
An hour and a long, hot shower later, Andi felt refreshed and ready for the day. Her thoughts returned to her earlier phone conversation. Kirk seemed more like himself, and it comforted her beyond belief. No way could he be the things Tristan accused him of. But neither could she dismiss the knight's accusations.
Maybe Kirk looked like Erik de Sabre? Or, like Tristan mentioned, maybe he was even a descendent? Crazier things had happened. Either way, she wasn't going to argue with Tristan and the garrison about it anymore. They'd dropped the subject, and so would she. She'd focus on figuring out the mystery of the unknown soul whose bones were buried with the hoard, the one buried in the dungeon, and enjoy her time at Dreadmoor. Not to mention her newfound love.
That thought gave her pause. What if figuring out the mystery meant releasing Tristan and his men from the curse? Could that even be done? What would happen if the curse was lifted? She shuddered at the many possibilities. It was a topic neither she nor Tristan had approached yet.
Among others.
Minutes later she found herself being escorted across the great hall by Kail, Tristan's captain. He was huge and intimidating—to the average ghostly medieval passerby, perhaps.
Andi, on the other hand, knew him to be a big, overgrown puppy.
Just as they were about to leave the hall, Jameson stepped from the kitchen.
"Lady? The constable would like to speak with you."
"Just a minute, Kail. I'll be right back." She trotted over to the kitchen and Jameson handed her the cordless. "Hello?"
"Yes, Dr. Monroe? This is Constable Hurley in Berwick. Do you have a moment?"
Andi put her hand over the receiver. "It's the constable," she whispered to Jameson. He turned and left, probably to get Tristan.
"Yes, Constable, I can talk."
"Right. First, let me apologize for your mishap at the inn. Usually a fairly friendly place, Berwick."
"Thank you."
Tristan walked through the door and stopped by her side. Andi placed a finger over her lips to keep him silent. He frowned, then lowered his head close to hers to listen.
"Can you tell me what happened?" the constable asked.
Andi told him, minus the part about her ghost knights.
"I see. The men were questioned immediately, but it seems they feel you had a bit of ... help. Say, ten or so big, broad lads?"
Tristan shook his head. She gave a soft laugh. "I wish I'd had ten big lads. It would have made things a lot easier."
Tristan grinned and nodded, his eyes fastened on hers. It made her knees wobble.
"Yes, it seems they would have had a bruise or two. They did make bail, though. Barely a couple of hours after their arrest."
Tristan frowned and motioned for her to let him speak. "Constable, Lord Dreadmoor wishes to speak with you."
Andi held the phone while Tristan bellowed, "What do you mean, they made bail? Who posted it?"
Andi leaned in and listened.
"I wasn't there, but the jailer described a woman as being the one. Posted the bail with cash, as well.
Four hundred pounds for each," Constable Hurley said. "Not to worry, Lord Dreadmoor. I've a man already posted at their flat. They apparently share it. I'll let you know if anything turns up."
"What of the third man? The one who escaped?" Tristan said. "He thrashed the back of Dr.
Monroe's head. I want him caught."
"So far, we've turned up nothing solid. I am on it, sir."
Tristan's voice dropped to a deadly growl. "Notify me as soon as you have him in custody. I want to get to the bottom of this."
"Aye. Consider it done."
Andi clicked off the phone and stared at Tristan, who hadn't budged. Not more than a few inches separated them. "Thank you. I'm, uh, not used to having someone worry so much over me."
He studied her face with such concentration, such intensity, that it took every effort to keep her eyes trained on his. Placing a hand on either side of her head on the wall behind her, he caged her in and lowered his head. "Get used to it, Andrea. I take care of what's mine. And you"—his gaze dropped to her lips before returning to her eyes—"are mine."
A brisk breeze caught Andi in the face as she walked beside Tristan's captain, observing the stone structures. They completely fascinated her. And she needed something good to take her mind off Tristan. That rat had nearly melted her into a pool of mush with those endearing words and heated ghostly touches. And dear Lord, what a sexy look. He'd hovered so close to her, his lips a breath away, it'd taken all her strength not to lay one on him. "What year was Dreadmoor built, Kail? The buildings are wonderfully preserved."
Kail scratched his head and gazed skyward. " 'Twas the Year o' our Lord 1287 when the job was complete. Tristan constructed the plans himself, and worked on most every building with the men till finished."
"Tristan drew the plans for Dreadmoor?"
"Aye."
"He never told me." Andi looked around as they walked. It was still early morning, and a light mist had blown in from the sea, whispering an eerie haze over Dreadmoor. She looked each building over as they passed, finding it thrilled her to know Tristan not only had drawn the plans for the castle, but had physically worked on it. His very real and mortal hands had touched the stones that lay mortared together. The thought of it caused her to shiver. "Are these all the original buildings?"
"All but the kirk."
"What happened to the original one?"
Kail rested his large hand on the hilt of his sword and looked down at Andi. "As you know, Himself, along with the lot of us, was in a state of being in between places for nearly two centuries. When Tristan came to and presented himself to the Jamesons, they didn't know what had happened to the old building. The one standing was the only one they knew."
Andi stopped. Another breeze sifted her hair, catching a few strands on her lips. She brushed them back, turned a complete circle, then looked up at Kail. "Where was the old kirk?"
Kail turned and pointed behind them. "See you the lists, lady?" His voice came out as a rumble. "
'Twas there, when once we were living, that the kirk stood."
Andi's gaze followed Kail's finger to the lists. Ghostly knights milled about, some at the blades, others waiting their turn to joust. Some were in pairs, wrestling ferociously in the dirt, grunting and cursing in several medieval languages, while others stood back and cheered them on. Andi looked up at Kail. "Over there? In the middle of all that?"
Kail straightened and drew his brows together. "You, my lady, are up to something." He glared, one eyebrow raised skyward. "What be it?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I feel as if what I search for is right under my nose." She met his gaze. "But I'm just too blind to see it."
He stopped and inclined his head. "You're far from blind, woman. You've accepted the fact that fifteen knights from the thirteenth century were murdered and cursed, presented before you. You speak now with a dead man." He smiled. "Your lovely eyes need only stretch a bit further. Then you'll find what you're looking for." He winked. "I'll warrant."
Andi sighed. "I hope you're right." She paused and looked at the big man. "Kail, what would happen if the curse was lifted?"
He peered off into the distance for a few seconds, then scrubbed his jaw and met her gaze. "I cannot be certain, my lady, but I fear we would all just pass onward."
"Onward?" Andi asked.
"Aye. To the other side." He shrugged. "Wherever that may be."
Somehow, that thought made Andi's stomach ache.
Two weeks flew by, faster than it ever had in her entire life. And she'd had amazing luck with her work. So far, she'd recovered all of Tristan's chain mail, his helm, and several bones from whomever the unfortunate soul was in the dungeon. It was enough to determine the sex and approximate age.
Female. Between the ages of thirty and seventy.
It'd baffled everyone. Never had Dreadmoor's dungeon housed a female. And yet the bones didn't lie. Terrance Daughtry had the state pathologist looking in on it for her. Privately. Just the way Tristan wanted. No questions asked. Not even Kirk knew. She'd begged Terrance to keep it confidential. And he had.
What she couldn't figure out was why the presence had led her to the dungeon in the first place.
Simply to find the mail? Or was it the bones? If anything, it complicated an already complicated mystery.
That, of course, made her much more determined to solve it.
Dragonhawk and his missing knights. Right at her fingertips. Right under the world's nose. It still amazed her. Every time he stared at her with that ... smoky look, she knew he was just as real as any man alive. Maybe even more so. He wasn't like twenty-first-century men. He was ... different. They just didn't grow them like Tristan anymore. Or the rest of his knights, for that matter.
And who would've believed that she, Andrea Kinley Monroe, would be caught sitting in a thirteenth-century haunted castle, watching the National Rugby League's quarter finals with fifteen seasoned medieval warriors?
She wouldn't trade it for the world.
Many things bothered her, but one nagged her even in sleep.
What was to become of her and Tristan?
The avoided subject worried her. Up to now, she'd fallen back on the excuse that the recovery wasn't finished. But what happened when it
was?
Long-term as well as short-term concerns flooded her mind, such as how on earth could it possibly work between a mortal and a ghost? And try as she might to push the concerns aside, they kept surfacing. She knew she'd have to speak to Tristan about them. He probably sensed the same things, but hadn't said anything. If they decided to be together, what would it be like to be celibate for the rest of her life? No children? Never having him hold her?
Her getting old while he stayed young and virile?
And the whole thing with Kirk perplexed her. She'd asked him vague questions about Dreadmoor's haunted past, but he always claimed not to know much. The fact that he'd known about the blades and twisted yew vines bothered her for a while, but after she'd asked several villagers about curses and witchery, more than one volunteered information on twisted yew.
In other words, she was stuck.
Pushing those gloomy worries aside, she thought of Tristan. One thing was for sure. The Dragonhawk of Dreadmoor had a medieval trick up his sleeve for her birthday. And for the first time in her life, she couldn't stand the wait.
"Damnation, old man," Tristan bellowed, "can you not fix the bloody concoction?" He leaned over Jameson's shoulder and scowled. "I vow 'tis giving me a raging headache just watching you."
Jameson raised his silvery eyebrows. "No doubt, my lord. Perhaps you would be more suited pacing by the fire in the great hall?"
"I would be more suited if you'd just get on with it, man. Should there not be a bit more sprigs over to the left?"
Jameson heaved a sigh and arranged a few more sprigs of small silk poppy buds on top of the two-tier birthday cake. "Is that satisfactory, Lord Dreadmoor?"
Tristan scowled at his man. "Your tongue has become slithery and loose of late, Jameson. Just decorate the bloody cake. And where, by the devil's horns, is that witless Stanley? Did you not say he was of a reliable sort? So far he is one half hour late."
Jameson rolled his eyes and used what Tristan perceived as extreme effort to smother a grin. "One would nearly believe you might be anxious over all this, my young lord." After a quick smirk, he avoided Tristan's glare.
"It is not anxiousness." Tristan cleared his throat. "I love the wench, and no one has ever bothered to rejoice in her day of birth. If she will permit me, I shall rejoice in it every year for the rest of her life."
Jameson, whose usual calm and collected manner radiated from every pore of his sixty-eight-year-old body, gaped in not-so-much surprise. His mouth curved up, ever so slightly, into a pleased grin.
"Are you about what I think you are about, Lord Tristan?"
"Bloody right I am."
Jameson beamed. "Well done, lad!" He cleared his throat. "I couldn't be more pleased."
Tristan grunted, but he couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face. "Aye, neither could I.
And now that I have accomplished making you eternally happy, could you please finish the bloody cake?" His head snapped up. "I do believe your young cousin Stan has arrived at the gates. Call down to the barbican and have Will send him up." He smiled at Jameson. "I've got some last-minute illusions to concoct. Is my chamber ready?"
"Aye, my lord."
"And the battlements?"
Jameson inclined his head. "Exactly as you ordered." For the hundredth time in less than an hour, a smile pulled at Tristan's mouth. "Perfect."
She could stand it no more.
Andi pulled on her sneakers and a pair of shorts, pulled her ponytail through the hole in the back of her Braves cap, and made for the hall. If she didn't get rid of some of the anxious energy rapidly building in her system, she'd explode. Her muscles would become toxic. Not a pretty sight.
