Spirited Away (37 page)

He breathed a steady, even rate, keeping his stare fixed as he slowly walked a predatory circle around Erik. Damnation, he could barely believe it. "What does it feel like to come back after all these centuries? After lying beneath that oak with twisted yew about your neck? To be a traitor? To take the lives of those you welcomed into your hall? Gaining the trust of their fathers? Treating us like sons? Being our leader? Tell me, Erik." He all but growled. "I want to know."

Erik, smooth and agile as ever, countercircled. "Feels bloody wonderful, to be truthful. I gave you everything, de Barre. My knowledge, my training skills—everything." The cynical smile curving his lips made his face appear sinister. He thrust with a vicious strike. "What did you do for me in return?" He charged this time, and Tristan deflected the blade with his own. "You took my only child," Erik said calmly. He paused, his face blank. "You took my life."

"Is that what you truly believe, Erik? That we killed your son?" Tristan said, blade outstretched. "

'Twas an accident, and you well know it."

The pain on Erik's face proved he did not. "Fifteen trained knights, and you couldn't protect one small boy? Nay," he said, his voice cracking. " 'Twas no accident. You allowed it." He arced his blade. "Even seven centuries of being a damned soul isn't enough of a repayment for what you took from me." A smile touched his mouth. "Mayhap your life. Again."

The sickness his foster father suffered pained Tristan, but at the same time, he knew there would be no saving Erik. His mind had turned evil from hatred. But Tristan wanted to know everything, questions answered. He owed it to his men. He continued to circle. "Why Andrea?"

Erik laughed. "Right place, right time. For me, anyway." He jabbed at Tristan. "Her unfortunate employer happened to be the one to free me from that cursed yew, which allowed me to escape my tormented prison. One, I might add, my own sweet mother placed me in."

Tristan continued to circle, Erik following his lead. "How did you get their swords and helms?"

Erik's face hardened as he followed Tristan's lead. "I gathered them after your men died in the dungeon. I'd already cursed them, you see, but their deaths came more slowly than yours." He smiled. "I'd bound the armor and planned to bury them so no one would find them, but I hadn't realized my own mother's fealty rested elsewhere until ... later." He thrust the blade at Tristan, who sidestepped. "She followed me out to the hole I'd dug and all but took my bloody head off. Next thing I know, I'm here."

Tristan tapped his blade to Erik's. "You didn't know she'd placed a protective curse on the weapons herself, or that she'd taken my sword, penned a rather useful verse on it, and buried it?" He charged Erik. "Or that your mother's spirit would contact Andi and lead her to it?"

Erik returned the charge. "It doesn't matter now, does it?" He held up the blade in his hand, turning it side to side.
Tristan's blade.
"Isn't it odd, Dreadmoor, that you're about to die a second death at the tip of your very own sword?" A smile slid to his mouth. "Even if your knights survive, you will not.

And thanks to Dr. Monroe, I have my life back. And more."

"Nay, you don't." Tristan moved toward Erik, the arc of his blade swiping the air.

Erik attacked full force, anger turning his face blood-red. With vehemence, he charged.

Tristan waited for Erik to advance, coming within a few inches of Tristan's neck. In a move the Dragonhawk had made famous, he deflected the steel and used his elbow to hammer a stunning blow to Erik's jaw.

Erik stumbled back, shook his head as if to gather his wits, then charged Tristan with a bloodcurdling yell. "I will not yield!"

Tristan remembered the same words in the dungeon, more than seven centuries before. Except this time, they were reversed.

Ducking and missing the sword's blow, Tristan fell to his knees and plunged the blade into Erik's stomach. "Aye," he said. "You will."

Their gaze locked, and Tristan watched the pupils in Erik's eyes grow large until he staggered back and fell to the ground.

Dead.

Tristan's breath came hard and fast. Slowly, he rose and walked over to retrieve his sword. As he bent over, Erik's body began to shake violently.

"Tristan, leave it and move back!" Kail shouted.

They all watched in horror as Erik, being the abomination that he was, convulsed faster and faster, his flesh peeling from bones, his bones turning to dust. Back to where he belonged.

The bailey fell silent. Tristan raised his head and stared at his men. His knights.

Kicking his sword aside, he picked it up and glanced at what used to be Erik de Sabre. "Someone remove that rotting pile of dust from my keep."

All fourteen knights let out a battle cry worthy of a thousand men. No doubt the village heard.

Then his eyes fell on Andrea. Taking powerful strides, he came to stand nose to nose with her, so close a whisper couldn't pass. Her eyes widened, but before she could catch her breath Tristan dropped his sword and swept her up, their lips nearly touching. His body shook, and he briefly wondered if he would fall over with pure joy.

Andrea stared at him, breathless and, for the first time to his notion, unable to speak.

Tristan, on the other hand, had no trouble at all.

"I love you, wench. I vow you feel powerfully fair in my arms."

She tried to make her mouth move, but nothing came forth. Her tear ducts, on the other hand, worked just fine. Tears slid down her face. She lifted a hand and hesitantly touched first his cheek, traced his eyebrows, then ran her fingers through his hair. The sensation nearly made him drop her.

She looked back up, and still found her tongue lacking the muscle to speak. Tristan found better uses for it.

He stared down at the woman in his arms.
His woman.
Her warmth spread across his bare chest, making his muscles quiver. Her trembling rocked him to the bone, even as he held her tight. He had dreamed of this moment for what seemed like eternity, and never did he believe it could possibly ever happen.

And yet he felt the weighty proof in his arms.

He searched her face with his eyes, not wanting to miss a single line, a single freckle—wanting to miss nothing. His own hand shook as he took his glove off with his teeth and threw it down. Lifting his hand to her cheek, he grazed it with the back of his knuckles. He tried to speak again, but found a solid lump in his throat nigh onto robbing his breath. He swallowed past it. "Damnation, Andrea, you're powerfully soft." He drew a deep breath and his words flowed out on the exhale. "I vow I could hold you here and stare at your beautiful face for the rest of my days."

He watched tear after tear slide down her cheek as she stared up at him with those warm, hazel eyes. He could wait no more. He bent his head close, his gaze trained on hers as his mouth settled comfortably over quivering lips. So warm and soft, he found himself craving more. He brushed his lips across hers several times, then with strained control deepened the kiss. When her hand grasped the back of his neck and pulled him closer, it sent him over the edge. He tasted her, deeper and deeper, swallowing her gasp of surprise.

Tristan lifted his head from Andi's, but didn't break eye contact. Their lips were a whisper apart, and he could do nothing save stare and thank God and the saints above he had been given such a gift.

His breathing panted with the effort of having to maintain control. He wanted her so badly, his insides shook. Suddenly, a loud snort sounded in the bailey. Only when a brave soul tapped him on the shoulder did he remember where he was, and who was about.

Tristan turned and glared at the snorter.

His entire garrison formed a half circle around him. Jameson, Miss Kate, who'd joined them, and Kirk Grey huddled with them. They all stood by, devilish grins plastered to their faces, although Kirk looked a bit on the pale side. No doubt he was having a bit of trouble taking it all in.

As was he.

Tristan smiled down at Andi and set her back on the ground. He kept his arm tightly about her shoulder. She teetered a bit and he gripped her tighter still. She stood, staring, eyes wide. Her lips moved and something came out, but damn him, he couldn't understand a word. Saints, but he missed his uncanny hearing ability.

Lowering his head, he leaned toward her mouth. Her warm breath caressed his ear and neck, and he all but hit the floor from the impact of it. Shaking his head, he focused on her words.

Her question floated out on a whisper. "How?"

With a smile, he tapped her nose. "Nay, love. We've got time for questions such as that later." His grin widened. "I have another question for you, and by the saints I must ask it now before my nerve deserts me."

Her gaze remained fixed on his, following him all the way down as he knelt on bended knee. He cleared his throat and grasped Andi's hand, unsure if the trembling came from hers or his own. More likely than not, 'twas both.

"Andrea Kinley Monroe." His voice came out hoarse and scratchy. He hoped she didn't care. "I beg you, wed me. I vow you'll not regret it."

He watched several more tears streak her reddened cheeks. A smile began in the corners of her mouth and crept into her eyes.

"Yes." So soft, he could barely hear her at first, but then she threw her arms about his neck and squeezed. "Yes! I'll marry you!"

Whistles and bellowing cheers from his knights erupted across the bailey, drifting on a North Sea breeze. Tristan looked into his love's eyes and smiled, then stopped whatever words were about to make their escape from her lovely mouth. He, without a doubt in his medieval mind, kissed her good and sound, leaving no question as to how much he loved her.

And would do the like. Forever.

Chapter Thirty

Andi grasped the edges of the sill and leaned out of her window. She filled her lungs with crisp, sea air, then let it slowly escape. The cool night wind bit through her thin cotton shirt. A crescent moon hung low, filtering the dark and bathing the grounds below in a soft glow.

Dreadmoor's very live sentries moved about on their watch, dark shadows of souls who'd lived centuries ago, and who'd been given another chance to live now. It amazed her. And it had changed her, too. In the way she thought, her beliefs, her dire requirement for scientific proof. Would she ever get used to it?

As difficult as the concept was to grasp, Erik de Sabre had obtained bewitching powers and enough knowledge to use them to cast impossible curses. His spirit had taken over poor Kirk, who reeled with the knowledge of it. He remembered everything, and yet had not been able to stop Erik's spirit from doing the evil that he'd done. By Erik's hand, he'd murdered the woman and the three thugs from Berwick, and would no doubt have difficulty coming to terms with it. The police had no witnesses, no evidence or fingerprints—nothing to prove Kirk had done it. Which, in reality, he hadn't. But no one would ever believe the circumstances. Kirk had flown back to the States to be with his wife and family, and Andi could only hope he'd heal.

The ever-so-slight sound of the tide lapping at the rocks soothed her. Thousands of stars littered the sky, and she'd counted at least four shooting ones over the past hour. She remembered a time when there wasn't a shooting star around that would go unwished upon—but her dreams had come true, and she honestly couldn't find a single solitary thing she'd rather have.

Today being her wedding day and all.

She was marrying a thirteenth-century knight and moving into a castle garrisoned by fourteen medieval warriors. Amazing.

Remembering their trip back to America to gather her belongings and settle her affairs made her grin. Himself had been so preoccupied with flying for the first time, he'd just held her hand and stared out the window the entire time.

Not so with the flight home.

After devouring close to three trays of food at each meal, to the chagrin of the flight attendant, Tristan had two brawls with the ornery eleven-year-old twins seated in front of them, walked around inspecting everything allowed, and had finally resigned himself to simply staring at Andi.

Until he fell asleep.

Andi grinned. Seven hundred years of roaming could cause one to be in desperate need of a nap, she supposed. Unfortunately, his snores were so loud even the twins stopped giggling and turned to scowl. Tristan had cracked open an eye and winked, then repositioned his long legs, which even in the spacious comfort of first class, had no other place to go except out in the aisle. Then he'd drifted back off to sleep. God, she'd watched him for hours.

Pushing away from the window, Andi moved to the bed and lay down. One single moonbeam streamed through, shooting a shaft of light across her bedcovers. Staring up at the canopy she realized there was no way in burning Hades she'd get one ounce of sleep.

She kept seeing Tristan's face before her, saw how his eyes burned with such fierce desire, such admiration—she thought she'd faint dead away from the sheer force of it. He'd been pretty chivalristic about the whole thing, though. After blatantly informing her of his powerful desire in detail, which had turned her cheeks several shades of red and her brain to mush, he'd proceeded to tell her they would indeed wait until after their nuptials before sleeping together. He'd then kissed her completely senseless and left her at her chamber's door. She sighed.

Sometimes chivalry stunk.

A rough rap on the door made her jump. A deep murmuring, followed by a few French-Norman curses and a rough clearing of throat, left no doubt who bellowed on the other side of the oak.

She hurried across the cool wood floor and flung open the door. The love of her life stood with his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at her guard. Jason bravely returned Tristan's glare, then straightened and gave Andi a bright smile.

"My lady, I am sorry for this disturbance, but Himself would not listen. I informed him of your wishes, but 'twas no use."

Andi smiled up at Tristan. He stood not three feet away, wearing a navy blue and white rugby shirt and sweatpants. His sword, as usual, rested against his side.