Spirited Away (32 page)

Tristan de Barre was up to no good, and Jameson had told her to be ready by eight o'clock sharp.

Four more hours to wait on the date of her life. A date with a thirteenth-century medieval ghost knight. The legendary Dragonhawk.

She just couldn't sit by and wait on that.

Instead, she decided to take Kirk's advice and go for a jog on the beach. It would soothe her jittery nerves to run along the surf until her lungs burned, until she had to stop and bend over at the waist, sucking in as much air as necessary. Maybe.

No one was about. Jameson remained in his sanctuary—the kitchen—probably preparing something delicious. Tristan and the guys couldn't be found—and there was no telling what they were up to.

Even Heath busied himself, doing odd jobs for Tristan.

Slipping out the main door, she crossed the courtyard and made it to the path behind the keep, which led down to the surf. The wind, always blustery at Dreadmoor, whipped her ponytail this way and that as she crept down the steep, rocky path. Within minutes, she reached the pebbled beach.

Whitecaps dotted the blue-gray water of the tumultuous North Sea. The sun, which had been fairly bright a few hours earlier, dipped in and out of swirling gray clouds. The heavy scent of salty sea life clung to her palate with each breath. Behind her, Dreadmoor rose from the massive hunk of volcanic rock serving as its base. How dramatically beautiful, she thought. Wild. Powerful.

Dangerous.

Just like its owner.

After stretching her muscles, Andi turned and began to run, a slow, easy pace, allowing the scents and sounds of the sea to wash over her, soothe her, seep into her skin. The farther she ran, the longer her strides became. Faster, harder, a half mile, then one. Soon, Dreadmoor disappeared behind her.

Go back.

In full stride, Andi turned her head. The forceful sea wind whistled past. With a shake, she pushed forward, pumping her arms to make her legs go faster.

Go back now!

Sand fanned in an arc at her sudden halt. Now, she'd heard something that time. Breathing hard, she scanned the beach. No mist, no ghost. Empty.

Hurry home.

Too late.

A vicious force shoved her to the ground. Someone straddled her, pinning her facedown in the sand.

A heavy hand anchored her head so she couldn't move, sharp pebbles biting into the flesh of her stomach, her cheek.

"Let me up," she yelled.

"Shut up if you want to live."

A man. A heavy man. Her lungs, already exhausted from her fast-paced run, burned from his weight. She gasped for air.

"I want the swords. All of them. If I don't get them, more than just your pitiful self will pay."

His hand forced her face into the sand and rock, pushing until she couldn't breathe. Panicked, she began to writhe and buck, fighting for air. Oh God, she was going to die ...

"Do you hear me?" he said gruffly in her ear.

"Get you off her, or you will wish for a fast death."

In one fluid motion, the man rolled, taking her with him. He used her body for a shield as they stood. Andi sucked in great gulps of air as her lungs expanded, then sporadically coughed until her eyes watered. The man dragged her up.

Tristan, dressed in full battle regalia and accompanied by Dreadmoor's other fourteen knights, stood, slowly moving toward them. The hiss of fifteen swords being drawn broke the air.

The man grabbed her ponytail and yanked hard, forcing her head back. He pushed his mouth to her ear. "Tell your boyfriends to put away their toys, bitch." He pulled her hair harder. "Now!"

"Tristan!" she sputtered.

All knights froze. Their expressions were murderous.

But not nearly as much as Tristan's.

"Jameson!" Tristan yelled.

A gunshot rang out over their heads. Jameson stood several feet away, a rifle shouldered and aimed.

The man pulled Andi's arms behind her until she thought they'd snap in half. "You tell your man to lower that bloody firearm or I will break her in two," the man threatened. He tightened his arm around her head and she gasped, her fingers trying to loosen his viselike grip around her throat. "Do it!" he yelled.

Slowly, he began backing up toward the dunes, dragging Andi with him. She trained her eyes on Tristan's. His face was thunderous. Never had she seen him seem so enraged. His body shook, as though ready to explode at any second.

"Lower it," Tristan said to Jameson.

Jameson pointed the rifle down. Instead of running, the man stood statue still for what seemed like minutes. His hand tightened around her throat; then he shoved Andi hard and disappeared into the dunes behind them. She fell to her knees, coughing and trying to drag in a decent breath.

"Follow him," Tristan ordered his men. Slowly, they disappeared. "Andrea, come here."

She raised her head. He hadn't moved, just stood there, shaking, the power within him seemingly ready to burst into flames.

Jameson walked over, rifle over his shoulder, and knelt beside her. "You're beyond Dreadmoor's border, lady. Himself is unable to cross the boundaries like the others. Here, now. I'll help you.

Master Tristan is most anxious to check you over." Gently, he pulled on her elbow.

As soon as she rose, her feet began to move. They didn't stop until she stood before Tristan. God, how badly she wanted to throw herself into his arms, press against his broad chest, feel his powerful arms protective, comforting. Instead, she wrapped her own arms around herself and stood as close to him as possible.

He leaned, lowered his head, and whispered against her ear. " 'Tis all right, love. Would that I had substance, I would hold you and try my damned bloody best not to squeeze you too tightly. It would be powerfully hard to let you go ..."

The more words he spoke, the more fierce her lungs burned, her chest tightened. She couldn't help it. Tried real hard not to. She wasn't a baby. But tears formed faster than her brain could refuse, and they spilled over onto her cheeks.

"Christ. Tilt your head up, Andrea, so I can have a look."

Sniffing, she did as he asked. Sapphire eyes searched her face, and she watched his expression harden as he took in every inch.

"Jameson. I want the constable out here tonight."

The aged butler, with rifle in tow, walked up beside them. "My thoughts exactly. I'm on my way now." He left, walking ahead to do Tristan's bidding.

Tristan ducked his head to catch her gaze. "I'm sorry, Andrea. I should have been here."

The look of anguish in his face made her heart ache. "Tristan, really. No one could have guessed—"

"I should have been here."

Drawing a deep breath, she lifted her chin and gave him a brave smile. "You're here now. You brought Jameson and you saved me." She lifted her hand, close to his jaw, and held it there as if she stroked it. "That's all that matters to me."

They stood there, staring at each other, for what seemed like forever. Finally, Tristan cleared his throat. "My men are following him as we speak, so I've no choice but to leave that matter to them."

He drew closer, his brows drawn into a frown. "You've scrapes on your face. Come on, love. Let us get back to the keep."

Together they walked side by side, but Andi knew—felt a change in Tristan, a shift in his mood.

One she hadn't felt yet. It scared her, gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, she sensed things were about to drastically change.

* * *

Watch, without being able to do a damned bloody thing.

Worse, how could he ever protect her? Even within Dreadmoor's walls, 'twould be nigh impossible.

If someone wanted to harm her, they could if determined enough. He'd have to rely on Jameson. Or mayhap he could employ more mortals ...

Either way, he couldn't perform the deed himself.

He watched but kept silent as Jameson doctored Andrea's scraped flesh. How he wished he could do it. Those lovely eyes of hers remained on him, followed him whilst he'd paced. The sight nearly buckled him.

"How did you know?" she asked.

He stopped and turned. "I heard you. I heard ... him." He didn't mention that the man had stood, staring at him, just before fleeing. As if he knew him. Recognized him, mayhap?

Jameson gave a nod. "Good as new, my lady. I shall return once the constable arrives. Jason? Would you accompany me?"

Jason, who'd remained behind, had not left Andi's side since returning to the hall. He gave her a warm smile. "Should you need anything, you've only just to say it." With a nod at Tristan, he left the hall with Jameson.

"Hey, Dreadmoor," Andi said. "Come here."

He almost smiled. Such a cheeky wench. In two steps he stood before her.

"It's over now. You can get that scowl off your face." She smiled, trying to look brave, no doubt.

"I'm fine. Really. Someone obviously heard about the hoard and wanted to get their hands on it. It is a wealthy stash, you know. Probably worth quite a lot. Rivaling the queen's bank account, even."

"Aye. Mayhap you've the right of it." But he doubted it. Searching her face, he stared at the small red scrapes marring her skin from the sand and pebbles. The skin on her throat had a perfect imprint of the bastard's fingers where he'd squeezed. Saints, the scene flashed before him again and made his insides flame. He wished the man's throat was beneath his own fingers ...

"Tristan."

Again, they stared. He felt as though she could read his every thought. Hazel eyes explored his face, begged him to relent, but he could not. Not now. Not ever.

He could
never
protect her. And truly, that was the beginning of it. She'd stood there, with her own arms wrapped about herself, and he'd wanted nothing more than to be able to take her in his embrace. But he couldn't. Never could he.

"Constable Hurley is at the gates," Jameson announced.

Without breaking their locked stare, Tristan answered, "Send him to the study. We'll await him in there. No doubt he'll want to see the blades and helms."

Within minutes, Jameson ushered the constable into the large, book-lined room. Tristan, stationed behind a rectangular oak desk, rose but did not extend a hand. "Constable. Thank you for making the journey."

A tall fellow, Hurley appeared to be in his late forties, short-cropped dark brown hair shot with gray at the temples, and wearing a dark gray suit and black tie. He looked at Andi. "Are you all right, Dr.

Monroe?"

Andrea brushed a scrape on her cheek. "Yes. I'm fine."

"Can you tell me what happened?" Hurley readied himself with pen and paper. "Try not to miss any details."

"I'll tell you the details," Tristan said, trying to keep his voice calm. He felt as though he wanted to shout every word falling out of his mouth. "The bastard was completely dressed in black, including a mask of sorts. He pushed her face into the sand so she could not draw a decent breath. He choked her with his bare hand, and threatened her life if she did not produce the swords." He pinned the constable with a hot stare. "What else do you need to know?"

Constable Hurley met his stare with a brave one of his own. "I realize you're upset, Lord Dreadmoor. But—"

"Upset? Not even close." He leaned over the desk, balancing his weight with his arms. "I want the man caught, Constable. I'll have no one threatening my—Dr. Monroe."

After a moment, the constable nodded, then turned to Andrea. "You didn't recognize the man, did you? His voice, perhaps?"

Andrea shook her head. "I'm sorry. No, I didn't. He took me completely by surprise."

"Was he British?" he asked.

Andi nodded. "Yes."

Hurley inclined his head to the table centered in the room. "Are those the weapons?"

Andrea gave Tristan a short smile before answering the constable. "Yes. Fourteen swords, fourteen helmets." She looked up at him. "Worth quite a nice sum, I should say. Anyone who knows medieval weaponry would know their monetary value."

"No doubt." Hurley returned to the desk, his attention on Tristan. "I assure you, Lord Dreadmoor, that I will personally be on this case. I'll notify you of any changes. Meanwhile, I'll send a few men to post at various points along Dreadmoor's border, if you like."

Tristan nodded. "Very well. Will, my guard at the barbican, will show them to their posts."

As Hurley shifted away from the desk, he bumped it with his hip. "Oh, beg pardon—"

Tristan could only watch as the pewter pencil holder flew toward him.

Then through him.

Hurley's face drained of all color. He glanced from Andrea to Tristan, then down at the pencil holder on the floor. It took several moments before he cleared his throat and straightened his suit coat.

Tristan lowered his voice and stared directly at him.

"Thank you for your discretion, and cooperation, Constable. As always, it is more than appreciated."

Hurley stared for a long time, more likely than not trying to collect his disrupted thoughts. He'd seen, and he knew, but wasn't letting on. Finally, he smiled and gave a nod. "Right. I'll see myself out." He glanced at Andrea. "Dr. Monroe." With that, the constable turned and left—and noticeably faster than when he arrived.

Tristan moved toward Andrea. Saints, how he wished he could hold her. "Well. This is a night the constable will never forget, aye?" He eyed her. "You should rest, Andrea. The day's events have been barbarous. You look tired."

The hurt in her eyes made him feel like a bloody idiot. It could not be helped. Yet he found it passing difficult to crush her poor heart—especially after having been attacked. Instead, he gave her a smile. "Come, I'll walk you to your chambers. You'll have a good rest, and we'll have your birthday supper tomorrow night. Aye?"

With a slight nod, she moved toward the stairs. "I can see myself up, thanks. I'll see you in the morning." Without another word, she turned and mounted the steps.