Spirited Away (23 page)
Saints, how he wished he could pull her to him and kiss her. He tasted her in his mind's eye, soft, supple lips moving softly beneath his own, his tongue tasting her sweetness ...
Andrea lifted a timid hand to his jaw and stared at the place where she would have touched. Slim fingers moved from his cheek to, God help him, his lips, and he stood rigid-still, allowing her the motion. His ghostly heart pounded so hard, the place where it should have rested in his breast ached. He stared, mesmerized by her almost-touch.
"Christ, Andrea," he whispered. "I would give anything to taste you."
She looked at him, eyes darkened glassy, and gave him a wistful smile. "I think I'd let you."
But it could never be.
He sincerely hoped they both could survive the sheer torture about to be bestowed upon them.
Tristan smiled. "Come then, lady. Let us quit this chamber and go for a walk. I vow you need the fresh air."
Was it normal for her heart to feel like it would burst at any moment? Was he really hers? There he stood—tall, powerful, strength radiating, demanding. His broad shoulders corded with muscle, proving his physical strength from years of fighting. Long, dark hair draped in disarray down his back. His thighs were thick, his legs long and powerful, yet he moved with a grace that most men his size could never hope to accomplish.
Then there were his eyes, a blue so clear she felt sure he could read her innermost thoughts. He smiled, and roguish dimples pitted his cheeks, charming the Wellingtons right off her.
Yeah, he could be her knight.
Any old time.
As they looked over the treetops from the tower, she wondered how it had been centuries before.
Had Tristan looked from this same terrace, viewed the same sights as now? How utterly fascinating.
"How long have you known your employer, Andrea?" Tristan asked.
She gripped the cool stone of the terrace and stared out into the waning light. "Since I was eighteen, I guess. He was my first internship." She looked at him. "Why?"
"Passing curious, is all. You seem powerfully fond of him."
"I am. He's the father I never had. When I began my understudies, he founded the institute, securing a job for me. I wouldn't have made it this far, had it not been for him. He paid my tuition and all university expenses."
The look he gave her sank clear to her bones. "Do you trust him?"
Without missing a beat, she nodded. "With my life."
Tristan paced before the hearth, the tidings still ringing in his head. "There has to be a mistake.
Andrea's known him for years. She trusts him with her life, she says." He shoved a hand through his hair. "How could the spirit of Erik overtake a mortal? And why now? It doesn't seem possible."
Stephen, one of his first knights, answered, "How are
we
possible, Tristan? Is it ridiculous for us to reject the idea that Erik found a way to come back, when we ourselves are walking spirits?"
The orange flames filled his vision until it blurred. "Over seven hundred years, Stephen." Tristan turned and looked at his man. "And we've not heard one word uttered regarding Erik de Sabre. Not one." He lifted a shoulder. "So why now?"
"He's fearful your woman has unearthed something, mayhap?" Kail said.
"Or that he's
hopeful
she's unearthed something." Tristan rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Bloody bastard."
Everyone turned their eyes on Marrok. Usually silent, the massive, seasoned knight, once thought by many to be a vicious loup-garou, pulled his brow into a fearsome frown. He turned his penetrating stare to Tristan. "I vow, if ever I'm granted substance, that foul neck of his will be snapped in twain. By me."
Tristan squeezed his loyal friend's shoulder. "Stand in queue, man. There'll be many others craving the like. Including me." He eyed his men. "But only if it's truly him. We cannot be sure."
"How much do you trust this woman, Tristan? How do you know?"
"I trust her." Tristan turned to each of his men. "She's no part of this, that much I believe. Do not question her worthiness again."
"Aye, her actions proved thusly," said Richard. "You could see it on her face in the pub. She was just as baffled by Erik's behavior as the lot of you."
"How looked he?" asked Gareth, a tall, French-Norman knight whom Tristan had fought many battles with. "Still a woman?"
The men chuckled.
"Aye. He looks the same, other than he keeps his locks trimmed like a hedgehog."
More snickers, a few swears, then silence as Tristan addressed them once more. "If this theory proves truthful, remember that 'tis Erik's spirit who has taken over Andrea's mentor—'tis not Erik himself. And until we know further what is what, our suspicions of his identity shall remain silent to Lady Andrea. She looks upon him as a sire, and no doubt 'twould break her heart, should she know who, or what, we suspect."
A round of "ayes" sounded, and then Tristan made to leave. How he hated the deception, but 'twas unavoidable. "If it is Erik, then no doubt he is after something, and that something is here, at Dreadmoor. Andrea is not safe with him, even if it is just a spirit." He spared one last glance over his shoulder before seeking out his woman. "I vow, if it takes me another seven hundred years, I shall find out the truth of it all."
A few days later, Andi shifted on the hard-packed dirt and peered down at the five-by-five-meter square she'd dug in the dungeon. Having recovered Tristan's mail and helmet—which fascinated her beyond belief—she'd found nothing else except several animal bones and broken pieces of crockery, and a tarnished but stunning piece of jewelry, almost a charm that belonged on a necklace.
All of the men disclaimed it, so Andi had determined it'd belonged to the remains.
What did it mean, that Tristan's mail had been buried down here, instead of with his men's? A clue?
Or was the murderer just trying to cover up evidence?
With soft, even strokes she brushed the object wedged in the dirt, gently blowing as the hard-packed soil loosened. She knew it was probably just another chicken bone, but continued the excavation anyway, unable to walk away from an ancient object of any sort.
A feeling washed over her, a feeling that was becoming quite common of late. The hairs on her neck rose, and she froze.
"What have you there, lady?"
"Aye, might I see?"
"Not before I, dolt."
Andi slowly lifted her head and peered over the lip of the excavation pit. She swallowed her yelp of surprise as she gaped at three ghostly warriors, all bent over at the waist, watching her work. They looked at her, patiently waiting for an answer. She cleared her throat and smiled. This was definitely something she would have to get used to. "Hello, boys." She brushed the hair from her eyes. Uh ..."
She glanced back at the object she was working on. "I'm not really sure what it is, actually. Probably just another chicken bone."
Kail, the biggest of the three and Tristan's captain, scratched his head, puzzled. "Why, lady, are you blowing on it?"
"Aye, and scratching at it with that small horse brush?" another said.
She grinned. "Well, it is very old and I have to work with it gently or else it will fall apart." She raised herself to her knees and glanced at the three knights. "Do you guys watch me all the time?"
"Aye, but mostly—" the younger of the knights began.
"Shut you up, lackwit!" Kail's face turned red. "If Tristan heard you he'd—"
"Kick your bloody, worthless arses into the afterlife." Tristan stood on the platform above, arms crossed over his mailed chest, scowling at the knights. Within seconds he stood before them, his expression thunderous. "Kail, you idiot." He jerked a thumb toward the door. "Get you gone from the lady's presence, and take those foul-smelling whelps with you."
Kail cast a sheepish glance at Andi, bowed low, then disappeared. The other two followed without a word.
She smiled up at Tristan. "They weren't hurting anything, you know."
Tristan grumbled. Loudly. "Aye, well, they need not be watching you day and night. 'Tis my duty."
"Oh, I get it." She threw him a saucy grin. "Watching me has now become a duty, has it?"
"Watch it, wench." He knelt down on one knee and peered closely at Andi. "God only knows what happens when I'm provoked." He leaned closer to her, sapphire-blue eyes studying every inch of her face. One corner of his mouth lifted. "You have another dirt smudge on your nose, Andrea."
Andi's heart slammed against her chest. She lifted her hand and rubbed the end of her nose with her forefinger and watched as Tristan's steadfast gaze followed her every move. She wiped her palms on her thighs and changed the subject. Pointing to the object in the dirt she smiled. "I've found something."
Tristan's gaze remained glued to her. "So have I."
Heat crept up her neck and burned her cheeks. "Are you interested?"
"Very."
Andi smiled up at the lord of Dreadmoor and rolled her eyes. "Flirt. I mean in that." She pointed to the object.
Several seconds passed before he dragged his gaze to the thing she pointed at. "And what is it?"
Resuming her position on her stomach, she brushed the edges of the object, a bit firmer this time. It loosened, as she hoped it would, and she brushed a bit more. "I'm not sure." She mumbled more to herself than to Tristan. Blowing softly on it, she gently lifted it for inspection "Wow. Was I wrong!"
She set it down.
Her insides reacted before her brain could register the thought. A huge knot formed in her stomach, just before her mouth went sandpaper dry. She slowly stood, easing out of the pit to stand before Tristan.
He frowned. "What is wrong with you, woman? Your face has gone pure white."
Andi pointed to the scapula in the pit. "A human shoulder blade. Is that," she began, her voice wavering. "It isn't you, is it?"
"Saints, nay."
Andi sighed with relief. "Good." She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "Why not?"
Tristan barked out a loud, rumbling laugh and shook his head. "God's bones, wench. A moment ago you were nigh onto swooning, thinking 'twas me." He grinned as he took a step closer. "But to satisfy your curious mind, Dr. Monroe, when a soul is cursed, his earthly body does not lie about, waiting for its flesh to rot. It disappears, bones and all, until the curse is lifted." He shrugged. "So say the various and sundry other spirits who frequent my hall."
"I never thought of that, I guess." She glanced back down at the pit and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Then, who is that?"
Tristan stared down at the bone. "I don't know. I never allowed a body to stay in my dungeon. 'Twas always removed and given a Christian burial." He raked a hand through his hair. "But only God knows what de Sabre may have done before my sire arrived."
Andi looked at him, a brow raised in question. "Shall we find out?"
Tristan frowned, his eyes narrowed. "What mean you?"
"Well," Andi said, "no doubt the rest of the remains are down here. I'll finish the excavation and at least be able to sex the skeleton. Maybe find some personal effects you may recognize."
Tristan thought a moment, then took a step closer. He openly stared at Andi, from her feet to the top of her head. "Very well. But you've spent enough time in this drafty place this eve, Andrea." He looked at her, turning his head to the side and peering at her from the corner of his eye. "Proceed digging up the old bones, lady. And make haste. I've not the—"
"Patience nor the stomach for it." She grinned from ear to ear. "Somehow, I couldn't imagine you any other way."
"Woman, what fascinates you so?"
Fastening the plastic container holding her tools, Andi covered the grid and wiped her hands on her thighs. Taking a step closer, she stared at Tristan's blade, strapped to his hip. "You said before that this looks exactly like your original sword?"
"Aye. In life it was never far from my person. 'Twas given to me by my uncle Killian."
Without thinking, Andi knelt in front of Tristan, pulling her head as close to the sword as she could, her eyes glued to the hilt.
"Um, lady?"
"Hmm?"
A loud, male whistle sounded in the bailey.
Tristan snorted. "I vow the men will tease me mercilessly, if you do not rise from that precarious position on your knees before me."
She looked up and blinked. It took a couple of good, solid seconds to realize just what sort of precarious position she appeared to be in. She fought the urge to flip the whistle-blower the bird.
"Ha, ha. You'll just have to be teased." She pointed to the sapphire jewel in his hilt. "I don't know why, but this looks so ... familiar."
"As well it should. 'Tis portrayed in every single tapestry my mother stitched now adorning the walls of Dreadmoor. 'Tis on my shield, as well. 'Tis the eye of the rampant creature."
"Hmm. Maybe that's it." She stared a bit longer, trying to place the stone. She'd think on it. It had to be something else.
"Now, if you're through with your investigations for the day, I've much to show you, and I vow 'tis wearisome being out here in this soggy place."
"Well, then." Andi rose and brushed off her knees. "Be it far from me to make you weary." She turned and made for the keep. "Can a ghost run?" Without waiting for an answer, Andi took off, slipping and laughing all the way to the steps of the hall.
She burst through the door, breathless and excited. She pulled off her Wellies and rounded the corner into the kitchen, where she came to an abrupt halt.
Tristan stood against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest and a roguish smile plastered to his face. His dimples pitted his cheeks, giving him a boyish appearance.
He yawned. "What took you so long? I've waited more minutes than I could count." A wide, dimpled grin captured his features. One booted foot was casually crossed over his ankles.
"Cheater." She glanced at Jameson, who smothered a grin behind a kitchen mitt. Andi pointed and laughed out loud. "Jameson, you're smiling!"
Jameson resumed his manicured stance. "I most certainly am not."