Spirited Away (33 page)

He watched until she rounded the top stair and disappeared into the passageway.

"Pitiful, Dreadmoor. Truly pitiful."

Tristan shoved his hand through his hair and turned around. Kail, Richard, and Stephen stood, arms crossed over their chests, frowns on their faces. As if he needed a scolding. "Aye, I know. What did you find?"

"We followed him to Berwick," Kail said. "Not once did he remove his mask, Tristan. Kept the bloody thing on the entire time. Passing odd."

"Aye," Richard said, pacing before the hearth. " 'Twas as though he knew we were there and didn't want us to see his face. Even in private."

Tristan waited. "And?"

"And," Stephen said, "he dodged into a pub—the very same one your Andrea followed her mentor into. We couldn't ..."

"You couldn't do what?" Tristan said.

Kail grabbed his shoulder. "We couldn't follow him into the bloody pub. 'Twas a force keeping us out. Just like you cannot leave Dreadmoor."

Tristan slammed his fist against the wall. "It has to be Erik. Bloody witch."

"We waited, but he never came out," Kail continued. "I watched him disappear through a door—"

"You what?" Tristan's eyes narrowed.

Stephen waved a hand. "Nay, not
disappeared.
Disappeared. He opened a door, slipped through, and closed it behind him."

Scrubbing his face with both hands, Tristan walked to the hearth. With a flick of his wrist, the flames jumped to life. "De Sabre wants the swords. Why?" He shook his head. "What could it mean?"

"They were bundled in twisted yew, Tristan," Richard reminded him. "Cursed."

"We're cursed!" Tristan said. "And he's a spirit living in a mortal body. Still Erik's spirit all the same. Who knows why he wants the bloody things?"

"Mayhap," Kail said, walking to his side, "he's after only one. Yours."

Tristan trained his gaze on the fire. "Mine is the only one not in the bundle."

"Aye, but does he know that?"

"Yes, he knows. I think."

All three men turned. Andrea, dressed in a rather large sweatshirt and those drawstring pants she was so fond of, stood behind them.

She smiled and lifted one shoulder. "Your voices carry. I've got an uncanny hearing ability, too. And I'm starved."

Tristan walked to her. "I know you choose not to believe that Erik and your Kirk are sharing the same body. But they are. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Something did happen, the day I began the bone retrieval."

Tristan nodded. "Aye, your mentor became ill. What of it?"

Andi began to pace. "It doesn't make sense, yet it's so ... bizarre. I can't stop thinking about it."

"Go on, lass," Kail said. "We're all ears."

"Well," she began, "Kirk jumped into the grid pit and was going to start the retrieval, and I was going to bag. Then we were going to switch. Up until that point, I hadn't noticed him acting differently. But he lifted the skull first, and it was wrapped in yew vines—"

"Bloody witch's curse," Gareth said.

"Well, as soon as he loosened the vines, he almost immediately dropped it, started to shake, then threw up."

"Damn me, Andrea. Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Tristan said.

"I'm sorry. At the time I didn't know I was employed by a thirteenth-century ghost."

That won several snickers from the guys.

"Besides, I thought he'd just had bad food." She shook her head. "I'm really trying to get a grip on this, guys. I can't wrap my brain around this whole thing. Can't Kirk fight this spirit? God, he was like a father to me."

"Aye," Tristan said, with more vehemence than he planned. "And Erik was like one to me, as well."

He arced his hand toward the men. "To all of us. We squired under him. We battled with him. He taught us everything as young knights."

She folded her arms across her chest. "So murdering all of you was his revenge for his son's death?"

"Aye."

All was silent for a few moments.

"He gave Tristan his name, you know."

They all turned to find the rest of the knights, except for two who were still watching the pub in Berwick. Gareth, who'd spoken, inclined his head. "Fearless. Vigilant. Powerful."

Andi looked at Tristan. "Dragonhawk." She walked over to the hearth, where mounted on the stone above was the mystical symbol belonging solely to him. She stared at it. "It's amazing. That eye, it holds a secret that's driving me nuts." She shook her head, mumbling to herself. "What is it?"

Tristan glanced at his men. They all wore the same baffled expression. "If anyone can figure out the mystery, Dr. Monroe, 'twould no doubt be you."

She looked at him and the corners of her mouth tipped up. She snapped her fingers. "I've an idea."

"Saints, Tristan," Richard said. "She's that wicked glint in her eye again. I've seen it before, in Berwick." He shuddered. "A bad sign, that."

She began to pace, weaving in and out of the knights as she spoke. "None of you have heard the same voice I hear, nor have you seen the weird collection of mist. Right?"

A round of "ayes" filled the hall.

"Right." She nodded. "I don't know who this is, but I know I'm not crazy. It's chosen me for some reason. Now, I've been doing a lot of thinking about the bones under the oak tree."

Tristan studied her as she voiced her theories aloud, to no one in particular. Just out loud. She astounded him, what with her wit and cleverness.

"Okay, bear with me, guys, I'm just throwing things out here. We twenty-first centurians call it brainstorming." She rubbed her chin. "The first night I arrived, the presence made itself known when I went out to check the cutaway. Later, as I began the excavation, it led me to the dungeon, where I found Tristan's mail and the mysterious set of bones." She looked at everyone. "Follow me so far?"

Another round of "ayes."

"Good." She resumed her pacing. "Now, I've heard some strange warnings from that presence. It warned me on the beach, but I heard it too late." She walked in a circle. "What if the presence belongs to that of the woman's bones in the dungeon? What if those remains belonged to someone who knew about all of you?" She shook her head again. "I feel as though I'm being led around, being given clues—no, being fed clues. And although I've made a slight connection, I still can't figure out what the heck I'm supposed to be doing. But why me? Why haven't any of you been given clues? What about Jameson? His family has been here forever." She turned and fixed her eyes directly on Tristan. "Why me?"

Tristan returned her stare. "Mayhap because you're a woman."

"Aye, and mayhap the remains are those of a woman, like you say," said Kail.

"There haven't been many wenches here at Dreadmoor," Gareth pointed out. "Not since before."

Andi turned and looked at him. "Before what?"

"Before they all died, love," Tristan said quietly.

"Oh," she said, rubbing her brow in heavy concentration. "Who was the woman who was here before?"

To think so many centuries had passed since his thoughts had searched through so many minor details of his life before. "We had several serving maids. Most lived in the village, though. And one older woman. Our cook."

Silence filled the room, spanning several seconds at best. Then every knight in the hall cursed.

Andi's puzzled look touched everyone. "What?"

"Christ," Tristan said. "It didn't even occur to me."

"What?"
she said, growing impatient.

He looked down at her. "My cook came with me from Greykirk—my father's home. She was more like family than anything. She'd been kicked out of her own hall, supposedly for witchery, and my sire took her in. I'd been around her since I was a lad."

Andi's eyes widened. "So?"

Tristan met her gaze. "She was Erik's mother."

Chapter Twenty-Six

For at least the hundredth time that night Andi rolled over, punched her pillow several times, and tried to fall asleep.

What a useless effort it had been.

She jumped up, padded barefoot to the window, and threw it open. Crisp, salty air engulfed her as it swirled into the room and manipulated her senses. It soothed her, comforted her. But it did nothing to solve her problem.

She stared out into the night and listened to the waves of the North Sea crash against the rocks. The full moon bathed the entire bailey in a pale glow. It was beautiful here. Peaceful. And it felt
right.

Tristan felt right.

As right as being in love with a ghost can be, anyway.

She'd felt him withdraw after the attack on the beach. Just because he couldn't physically help her, he'd withdrawn. She knew it without even having him admit it. And this thing with Erik/Kirk. It was an invisible barrier between them. It seemed impossible that Kirk could be anyone other than who he'd claimed.

Had the spirit of Tristan's killer taken over Kirk's body when he freed the skull from the yew? But that would mean the remains were Erik's. Who would have killed him? And cursed him?

She pressed her forehead to the glass. Could it be? God, it sounded insane.
As if staying with a spirit
for the rest of your life isn't? Come on, Monroe. Think. Use your brain.

What
had
she really been thinking? That she and Tristan could have a chance together? Not that it wouldn't be unusual, but she felt safe with him. He was strong and protective and had an abundance of chivalry. And she had never felt so wanted by anyone in all her life.

She squeezed her eyes shut to block the memory. It didn't help. He was everything she'd ever secretly dreamed of having, save the little annoyance of him being dead.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She wasn't fashionable and flirty like a lot of women. She taught medieval archaeology, dug around in the dirt, and rarely dated. If men noticed her at all, they treated her more like a friend. Or a sister.

But God, the way Tristan looked at her made her shiver—more of a caress than a casual glance.

She'd felt it clear to her toes. He made her feel beautiful, womanly,
desired
beyond belief.

Come.

Andi's heart jumped. After a second, she chuckled out loud. "Oh no. Let me guess. The voice."

Pushing away from the window, she plopped down on the bed. "What do you want? Who are you?

Are you trying to drive me insane? Because I'm already halfway there."

Silence drifted within the room for several seconds. Maybe even minutes.

Come now.

"Okay. You did try to warn me earlier on the beach. I heard you." She blinked in the dark. "Thank you. But ... but I just don't know what you're trying to tell me here." Waiting, she stared into the darkness. "Come on. Give me something more than a wisp of mist and a whisper." She waited.

"Please?"

A slip of air brushed the skin on her neck, the whisper close to her ear.
Now.

A silvery sheen of mist appeared before her chamber door. What did she have to lose? It could very well be that she was totally nuts, imagining the whisper, the mist, the breeze on her neck that made her shiver. But whatever it was, she felt it had something to do with Tristan and his knights—and the curse.

Hurry.

"Okay, I'm coming." Shoving her feet into her sneakers, she eased out of her chamber.

Jason was, of course, there at the ready. Andi put her fingers to her lips, then whispered, "The presence. Don't follow me, you might scare it away. But tell Tristan and keep an eye out."

Jason nodded and disappeared.

Andi crept along the passageway, down the steps, and across the great hall. The lamps flickered across the enormous room, casting long shadows that danced at the slightest urging of a draft. She made no sound as she followed the strange mist out the front door.

The moon loomed over the bailey like a great, white ball, casting the landscape in an eerie luster.

The air wafted with the scent of seaweed and salt water, and she could taste it with every breath.

Situated on the rocky coast of the North Sea, Dreadmoor was brutally beautiful. She shivered as a brisk breeze washed over her, and she rubbed her arms vigorously to ward off the chill. The temperature felt warm during the day, being mid-August; nighttime was a different story altogether.

As she neared the cutaway, she felt silly, talking to a waft of mist, but she did it anyway. "I've already excavated and recovered that entire area. I found nothing more." The mist moved past the churned soil where the giant oak had overturned the bones and weapons. "Okay, not going to the cutaway." Farther she went, past the arc of the spotlight perched on Dreadmoor's rooftop, to the edge of the bailey. Finally, the mist stopped, hovering in the air like a wraithlike cloud.

Andi turned a circle, staring into the moonlit night. They were in the dead-center of the lists. "Are you Erik's mother?"

The mist hung in the air, becoming very still. Minutes ticked by. The presence didn't answer.

Kneel.

The air around Andi calmed. "What?"

Pray.

"Kneel. Pray. What's that supposed to mean?"

Silence, then one last whisper.

Behind his eye.

Tristan watched, in his invisible form, a safe distance away, as Andi talked to the wind. She twirled in a circle, threw up her arms, then stomped over to a large rock at the edge of the lists and lay back.

God's bones, she must be battling deep thoughts. He knew he was responsible for the forlorn expression she wore, with her eyes screwed shut like they were.

He loved her, and it pained him to see her in such distress. He'd thought the task of closing his heart to her would be easily done. How wrong he was. But was it fair to keep her?

With resignation, he materialized behind the rock and spoke as softly as his deep voice would allow.

"Andrea?"

She squealed and darted away from the boulder, turning to face Tristan as she covered her heart with her hand. "Tristan!" Her breath came out in a gasp. "You scared me!"

Tristan dragged a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. "I vow 'twas not my intention, lady. Jason told me you sent for me." He couldn't stop the frown from crossing his face.