Spirited Away (7 page)
"By the saints, woman. Do not call me that again. It annoys me fiercely."
Andi stifled a sigh. She couldn't have told him her full name at that point, so entranced by the deep, slightly graveled voice. Plain-out
sexy
didn't even begin to describe it. Strange how she heard it more inside her head than, say, in the room. Downright nerve-racking.
You're a scientist, Monroe. A
scholar. Here on a job. Digging up bones and armor. Remember? Get a grip.
Nonetheless, a dead woman wouldn't be able to resist even a slight swoon, what with that uniquely blended, slightly medievalish accent. Where on earth had he acquired it? Actually, she didn't care where he'd acquired it, as long as he kept on talking to her.
"Lady! Have you heard a word I've spoken?"
Andi jumped, embarrassed. Where, and more to the point, why, had her thoughts rambled? Wow, so unlike her. Good thing he couldn't read minds.
She cleared her throat. "Yes, of course. Calling you Lord Dreadmoor annoys you. So what should I call you?"
"Tristan will do. Now, what else do you need of me today? I grow weary of all this speech and I've important business to tend to."
Tristan.
The name certainly fit the voice. Andi tucked her hair behind her ear and continued. "Do you know of any disputes, whether real or lore, that might give a clue as to the owners of the hoard?
Any murders or disappearances—any hint as to who might have been buried under that oak? I mean, the oak itself is pretty amazing. Over seven hundred years old—one of the oldest and largest I've ever seen. The girth is over ten meters wide." She rubbed her brow. "What about notable battles? Witch burnings, maybe?"
One, dark eyebrow lifted. " 'Tis a thirteenth-century castle, lass. Battles, swords, bloodshed, head-lopping, jousts ... aye, disputes aplenty occurred. No witch burnings to my knowledge. 'Twas the way of life, although I did manage to keep a peaceful way of sorts here at Dreadmoor."
Andi blinked. "Excuse me?"
A brief look of surprise flashed his features, then disappeared. "I said, they did manage to keep a peaceful way of life here. 'Tis why the castle remains intact."
Now she was hearing things. Hadn't he said
I?
After a moment's silence he cleared his throat. "What do you really want to ask me, Dr. Monroe?"
She smiled. "Anything you have to offer would be of great help, of course. But I have to admit, I do have a curiosity surrounding the legend of Dragonhawk and his missing knights. It's fascinating. Is there anything you can tell me about it?"
He studied her, an intense observation she felt clear to her bones. "Nothing in writing, nothing official. Nothing that has been found, anyway. 'Tis a verbal legend passed down through the centuries."
She leaned forward. "That's what Jameson said. I'd love to hear it."
A slight hesitation, only for a moment, and then his look, if possible, grew more intense. "First"—he shifted in his chair—"I would have your name, if you please."
"Andi."
"Nay. Not your nickname. Your full, given name at birth. Your Christian name."
Andi gulped. His voice washed over her like a heavy sea mist, escaping to land from a turbulent storm.
Oh God,
her inner voice groaned. From scientist to sappy poet?
Puh-leez.
Her interns would have a field day with that.
She cleared her throat, making sure she wouldn't crack as she spoke. "Andrea Kinley Monroe." She lifted a shoulder. "At least, that's what they tell me."
He stared, apparently awaiting more.
"Who's interviewing who here, anyway?" she asked, smiling.
"Humor me. Then I'll answer your questions."
"Deal. I was adopted by a sweet older woman named Mary Monroe. I called her Aunt Mary. She died several years ago." She shrugged. "I had a typical Catholic school upbringing, then college."
He frowned. "You've no family, then?"
She nodded. "Only my mentor, Kirk Grey."
"The owner of the research institute who sent you?"
"Yes. He's been like a father to me. He taught medieval history at St. Catherine's School when I was in tenth grade, and sort of took me under his wing when I showed such a great interest in the subject. He was my professor in college, as well. After that, I came to work for GAR Institute."
Shaking her head, she smiled. "I would never have come this far, had it not been for him. He is the one who told me about Dreadmoor and its legends. Got me completely hooked on the place."
A slight frown, then a nod. "Aye. Well, they are fortunate to have you, from what I hear. Jameson says you've quite a name for yourself in your field."
"Thanks. Now, what can you tell me about the legend? You know I've already been warned by Mrs.
Dawson—"
Before she could finish her sentence, Tristan abruptly stood. "Unfortunately, I've no more time for you this morn. I'm late as it is. Mayhap on the morrow?"
Wow. Talk about fast-changing gears. One minute, he was asking her questions, the next he was booting her out on her ear. She glanced down at her watch, pretending the dismissal didn't sting.
"Would you look at the time? I've got to run anyway. I need to inspect the cutaway and take photos before obtaining samples. In other words, a ton of work to do." She rose and this time, didn't offer Tristan a hand. "I appreciate your time, Lord—"
"Tristan."
She smiled. "Tristan. Can I meet with you later and hear your version of the legend of Dragonhawk and his knights?"
He inclined his head. "Aye. Until then, Andrea."
Dear God, the way he said her name made her knees wobble. "Yes, until later," she answered. With that she quickly left the chambers, pulling the heavy door closed behind her.
Before he saw her drool.
Andrea Kinley Monroe.
Tristan stood and walked over to the wooden shutters. With a flick of his wrist the wind banged them open. Although he could not feel the air, his unobstructed view of the sea calmed him immediately.
Merciful saints above, he'd enjoyed talking with the wench. 'Twas as though he spoke with her as he would have in life; as though he were not a spirit. Worse yet, he had agreed to meet later with her.
A comforting image of himself, soundly bashing his head against the battlements for his stupidity, came to mind. His wits had fled. The important thing at present was solving the bloody mystery of the hoard and bones, so he could get on as before.
He thought of his existence—of endless days and nights, of continuous waking hours, of growing close to someone, only to watch them grow old and die. 'Twas a lonely life a ghost led. Weary didn't even begin to describe it.
But damnation, she intrigued him. Would that he were a live man ...
Tristan pushed off the sill. Nay, he would not doom himself with another heartache, not this time.
He'd not allowed himself a mortal friend in hundreds of years, save Jameson and his wife, Margaret.
'Twas more than he could stand.
Christ, how he missed that sweet woman, Margaret. The grief he'd experienced when she'd passed away pained him to this day. And he knew the same pain would engulf him when Jameson's time to leave this world came. 'Twas bad enough, he'd already started thinking fondly of Miss Kate and that whelp Heath who came to clean twice a week. He had a suspicion Jameson was sweet on Miss Kate, as he became a bumbling fool any time the woman was about.
Tristan blew out a gusty sigh. He had watched Jameson grow from an infant to the impossibly arrogant manservant he presented now. In the same manner, he'd watched Jameson's own son, Thomas, grow to the young man he was today. And although he would not admit it to either, he loved them dearly. And one day Jameson would die, as would Thomas—they'd all die, leaving Tristan alone. Again.
Aye. He was finished growing close to mortals.
"Tristan?"
Tristan jumped at the sound of his captain's voice. "What do you want, Kail?"
Kail appeared, stood with legs wide apart, and crossed his meaty arms over his chest. "By the saints, man, you look comely."
Tristan frowned. "Shut you up, fool. 'Tis for the lady's benefit. Naught more."
Kail grinned and walked a slow, perusing, annoying circle around him. "Hmm. No doubt."
Following the dolt with his eyes, Tristan all but growled. "Is there a purpose for your intrusion, Kail? Or are you here simply to irritate me?"
The big, burly knight had the decency to look hurt. "'Me? Irritate?" Kail stopped. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile, one eyebrow shooting skyward. "Never. The lads and I, well, we're interested, is all."
Tristan narrowed his eyes. "In what?"
"Her."
"What of her?" Tristan walked to the window and stared at the whitecaps dotting the North Sea.
"I've already told you. She's here to investigate the bones and weapons. She'll be here for ... a while.
Then she'll be gone."
"How long? A sennight, mayhap? A fortnight?"
Exasperation pulled Tristan's mouth into a tight line. He sighed. "Three. Mayhap four."
"Ah, quite a spell, then." Kail moved to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, staring out the window. "Mayhap she can help, Tristan. I sense something about her, and I vow I cannot put a finger to it. But 'tis strong."
Tristan focused on the waves. "I don't know."
"The lads feel it as well. They're a might restless."
Turning his head, he pegged Kail with a hard stare. "They are not to approach her, Kail. And it will be your bloody duty to remind them of such. Saints, the girl just arrived." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I need to think on the matter. Is that understood?"
A grin spread across his captain's face. An annoying, victorious grin. "Aye. Completely understood." With that he clapped Tristan on the shoulder, turned, then stopped at the door.
"Remove that dour look on your face by this eve. Rugby tonight, little lad. The quarter finals replay.
Leinster versus Tigers." He grinned. "Should be good." With that, he disappeared through the door.
Moving back to the window, Tristan leaned a shoulder against the frame and stared out. What if Kail had it aright? Mayhap the lass could help. On the other hand, they could have a stroke of luck and his sword lay within the hoard found below the oak.
Running a hand across his jaw, he drew a deep breath and let it slide back out between his teeth. He liked the damned girl. More than liked having speech with her, and by the saint's robes, she was passing lovely. In the end, it could lead to nothing but disaster. And he damn well bloody knew it.
Mayhap he should leave well enough alone and leave her to communicate with Jameson if she needed more information. The old man knew as much as he—nearly, anyway. She would excavate the site and maybe give him a clue as to who'd been buried under that oak, and whose weapons were buried alongside him. Then, by the bones of all weary saints, he'd get his life back. Rather, his unlife. Such as it was.
He paused as a thought struck him. Mayhap the hoard and bones had not been buried beneath that oak? Instead, could the oak have been planted upon them? 'Twas something to ponder. If only there weren't chunks of his memory missing. 'Twould truly be something, if Andrea could help.
Such help would no doubt lead to fondness for the wench. And that, he'd decided, just couldn't be.
Tristan disappeared through the wall. He aimed his course for his steward, to make sure Dr. Andrea Kinley Monroe did not seek him further. Then he'd find her, have a bit of speech with her, to satisfy her curiousness regarding Dragonhawk and his men, and that would definitively be that. No more.
She could do her work without his presence. Besides, he had a rugby match to watch tonight.
A frown tightened his mouth, his mood much fouler than before.
And if he did not make haste he would surely do something absurd. Witless. Daft, even.
Such as change his mind.
Andi stepped out of the main hall and into the morning sunlight. After leaving Tristan's solar, she'd stopped off in her room to gather her site kit and tool belt, exchanged her sneakers for the Wellingtons, pulled on her weatherproofs, and made for the cutaway. Although she was excited about what her efforts this morning at the site might find, her thoughts—the more girly ones—wandered back to Lord Dreadmoor.
Tristan.
Never had she met someone who'd taken her so off guard—enough to make her act like a blathering dingbat. Twice he'd had to draw her attention back to the conversation. But she couldn't help it.
Tristan of Dreadmoor made her breath escape ...
With her soles squishing through the sodden soil, she shook her head to ward off
that
foolishness and covered the courtyard to the bailey. As soon as it came into view, she pulled up short. It was an amazing site. The ancient branches of a partially upturned oak tree stood up like bristles as it lay on its side, sunbeams filtering through the long, crooked arms. A large canvas tarp tented the base and roots. She remembered the tree from before, when she'd sneaked onto the Dreadmoor estate. It'd stood in the bailey like a giant, its massive branches gnarled and reaching, protecting. She remembered running past it when ...
When she'd run screaming from the chain-mailed knight. The one who'd looked a lot like Tristan.
But that hadn't really happened. It couldn't have.
Sad, now, that after so many years, so many centuries, the majestic tree lay on its side, lifeless.
Just like the bones entwined within the roots.
Setting her site kit aside, Andi knelt at each stake and released the tarp. Massive hunks of sod clung to the tree's origins, the scent of fresh-turned earth and rotting vegetation mixing with the ever-present salty sea air.
There, nestled within the intricate root system, lay the soil-stained bones, coughed up by the storm and bound by ... something. Dark—almost black—and thick, it appeared to be a separate root, or vine, entwined with the skeletal remains. A hole, several meters deep, rested beneath the tree.
Squatting down, she peered into the dark mouth of the cutaway—too dark to make anything out.
