Spirited Away (19 page)

"He was grief-stricken, to be sure. He and his wife had borne their son late in life, and he'd lost his love during childbirth. He'd raised his son alone, with the help of the housemaids, and he'd never remarried." He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I suppose he'd become a bit aloof, after we laid his boy to rest, and we hadn't seen him at all until my cousin's nuptials. Only his behavior in the dungeon enlightened us to the extent of his hatred." He was silent for a moment, remembering. "He claimed I'd stolen his life, that he'd given me everything and I'd killed him inside."

"It's actually quite sad," Andi said.

Tristan shook his head. " 'Tis why it shocked us so."

"And your family never knew what happened to you?"

"Nay. De Sabre hid it well, I'm sure. Me and the lads awoke two hundred years after our demise, my family long since having passed on." His face hardened. "No doubt Erik's end came, and while I regret the death of his boy, I cannot forgive the intentional murder of my men."

"So, he killed you with your own sword and cursed you to roam Dreadmoor Keep forever."

"Aye."

"And he managed to lure all fourteen of your knights into the dungeon, where he locked them in to die."

"Aye."

"Do you ... remember them coming into the dungeon?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I remember their voices, faint, as though far, far away. Then there was nothing, until I came to."

How awful it must've been, experiencing all that Tristan and his men had. It made her brain ache, just thinking about it. "How old are you?" Andi gave a sheepish smile. "I mean, when you ..."

"Aye, I know what you're asking, girl." Tristan raked a hand through his hair. "I was a score and twelve." He turned sideways against the parapet to face Andi. "And how old are you, Andrea Kinley Monroe?"

Tristan stared at her with such intensity, it made her skin tingle and her stomach do flips. It was as though he were touching her. And good Lord, if he said her name like that one more time, she knew she would melt on the spot, her body pooling in a big, waxy puddle on the floor.

"Andrea?"

She took a quick peek at the floor to see which part of her body had begun to melt first. Feet?

Ankles? Knees? Everything blurred together.

"Look at me."

She couldn't. No way. Nope, she just couldn't look into those sapphire blue eyes and admit to herself she was attracted to a very dead Tristan de Barre.

Unfortunately, her head had a mind of its own.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his, and her breath crammed in her throat. The results were far worse than simple attraction.

Oh God. She was starting to fall for him.

Andi felt her heart swell with that revelation. And it scared the hell out of her. "I'm, uh, twenty-nine.

I think."

He frowned. "You think?"

She nodded. "Before Aunt Mary adopted me, I was literally dropped off at St. Mary's Cathedral—no paperwork, no note with my birth information—nothing. So the hospital I was taken to approximated my date of birth, and that was that."

Intense blue eyes studied her, his dark brows pulled together. "You seem to have faired well. Not many can accomplish what you've done."

"Thank you. I've worked hard for it, believe me."

Tristan's eyes bored into hers, and her mouth went dry. He lifted his hand and traced the length of her hair. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she froze.

"By the saints, I could stare at you all eve. You're even more beautiful than you were all those years ago."

Andi could do nothing except stare into his hypnotizing eyes. Her breath hitched, as though he was going to kiss her ...

Just then, the alarm on her watch beeped and she jumped. Glancing down, she noted the time. "It's getting late. I'd better run if I'm going to get any work done today." She turned to leave, then stopped and gave him a grin. "You're not so bad, Dragonhawk."

He tipped his head and returned the smile. "Don't tell anyone. I vow I'd never live it down."

Andi punched the pillow and stared at the ceiling. She knew every stitch and variation in the thick, velvet canopy above her head. She'd lain there for hours, unable to sleep. So many things stormed her mind—Tristan, his ghostly men, Tristan, their murder, Tristan, the body and hoard in the bailey, the spooky presence that she was beginning to think existed only in her imagination ...

And then there was Tristan.

They'd almost kissed. Well, it wouldn't have worked, but the chemistry was there. Had he been alive, he'd have laid a big one on her. No doubt about it.

No wonder she couldn't sleep.

After a full day's work, she'd eaten a light supper of sautéed chicken and vegetables, excused herself for the night, showered, and flopped into bed. She'd been tired the moment her head hit the pillow.

Maybe, she'd even drifted for a bit. But thoughts of Tristan and ghosts filled her mind, and she hadn't been back to sleep since.

Tristan had asked that she keep it all a secret. As if she'd tell anyone. In a flash, Kirk would have her settled into the first sanatorium he could locate. Although he cherished the past and all its treasures, he constituted the epitome of reality and science. Besides, she couldn't betray Tristan.

She'd wanted to kiss him, too.

With a huff, she kicked out of her covers, her mind whirling around Tristan, his knights, and their unusual curse. Didn't they have an out? A way they could undo the curse? And even if they did, what would happen then?

Come on, Monroe,
her inner voice scolded.
You can't undo the dead. It's final. Once there, you can't
come back to life.
Once that sword found its way into Tristan's gut, the damage was done. Finite.

"Yeah, but you didn't believe in ghosts until now, did you?" she said aloud. Punching the pillow, she flipped over onto her stomach and buried her face, muffling her voice. "What am I going to do?"

Silence filled the room, only the faint ticking of her Indiglo watch making the slightest of sounds.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick
... Then it came.

It is here.

Like an icy fingernail dragging across her spine, the whisper raked over her, causing her body to shudder. Maybe, if she lay very still and pretended to be asleep, it would go away. Only seconds passed.

You are their only hope.

Leaping out of bed, she scanned the darkened room. There, in the corner of the room next to the hearth, a faint light began to glow. Similar to squinting against a hazy sunlight, it floated weightlessly above ...

Andi blinked.

Above Tristan's shield.

Slowly, she crossed the floor.

The mist evaporated as soon as she drew close to the shield.

"Hello?" Andi checked every nook and cranny of the chamber, but the mist had truly disappeared.

No whisper. No mist. Nothing.

Nothing, save the medieval shield.

"Lady? Is aught amiss?"

Her heart jumped to her throat as Jason of Corwick-on-the-Sea spoke through the door. Walking over, she flipped on the light and cracked the heavy oak. "Did you see anything?"

He shook his head. "All is quiet out in the corridor." He cocked his head. "Why? Did you encounter anything unusual?"

Andi nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of a ghost knight asking her if
she'd
seen anything unusual. She turned and walked back to the shield. "Yes, I did. It—"

"It what, Andrea?"

She jumped again. Tristan appeared beside Jason as they both entered her room.

Lowering herself to her knees, she pulled the shield close and inspected its front. "The voice—whisper—whatever you want to call it. It got me out of bed." She turned the shield over. "It was a faint wisp of mist, hovering over this. The voice said, 'It is here,' and 'You're their only hope.' "

Tristan squatted down beside her, the chain mail groaning as he moved.
"What
is here?"

She shook her head. "I don't know." Lifting her eyes, she set her jaw. "Yet." Turning back to the shield, she began to examine it more closely. "The eye of Dragonhawk ..."

"Mayhap a clue of sorts," Jason added, kneeling on the other side of Andi. "But to what, I wonder?"

Yellow-painted wood trimmed in black and banded with steel, notched by battles and cleaved with swords, the shield held a secret Andi was determined to uncover—especially if it meant breaking the curse for Tristan and his men. Running her fingers lightly over the surface, she traced the mystical rampant creature in its center. Drawing closer, she searched, staring hard, squinting at each variation. Half dragon, half hawk with a piercing blue eye, something about the black-and-green creature looked familiar.

"What see you, lady?" Jason asked.

Mystified, she again shook her head. "I swear, I don't know. There's something, but I can't seem to place it."

" 'Tis the middle of the night, Andrea," Tristan said as he slowly rose. "You've plenty of time to gaze upon my shield and decipher the riddle. You need your rest."

Propping the shield in its place, she stood. "I suppose you're right." She slid him a sideways glance.

"But sleep? After all this? You're nuts."

It was then Andi noticed the frown tightening Tristan's face. "What's wrong?"

"Jason!" Tristan shouted.

"Right here," Jason answered.

"Stand your post on the other side of the lady's door."

Jason threw Andi a grin before nodding. "As you wish." With that, he disappeared.

"You get more puzzling by the minute. Why did you just throw him out?"

Tristan's hot gaze simmered with way more than anger. "You've little on, woman, or did you notice?"

Andi glanced down at herself. Half shirt, shorts—her usual sleeping attire. Lifting one shoulder, she grinned. "Sorry. I was in bed, you know."

The muscles in Tristan's jaws tightened and his eyes turned a smoldering gray blue. "So you were."

"Um," she stammered, suddenly aware of the intense interest in the knight's even more intense stare.

"I ... guess I'll see you in the morning, right?"

It was a moment longer before he gave a slight bow. "Aye, then. Till the morn." Without another word, he disappeared.

Andi let a pent-up breath slip past her lips. Wow. That man reeked of sexuality. Raw, unleashed-for-centuries male sexuality.

With a final glance at his shield, Andi flipped off the lights, crept over to the bed, and slipped under the sheets.

Had Tristan de Barre of Dreadmoor been a flesh-and-blood live man, she'd hardly know what to do with all that raw maleness.

As her eyes grew heavy, a grin tipped her mouth.
Yeah, Monroe. You'd know exactly what to do with
him.

Chapter Fifteen

A woman.

A bloody, mortal woman. Tristan patted his ghostly steed's neck and sucked in a deep breath. A bloody beautiful mortal woman—one he could not keep his mind off, small, useless thing that it was. He thought back to the night before, when Andrea had stood in her chamber, barely garbed.

Even dead, he'd felt the profound attraction. The lass fascinated him, intrigued him beyond belief.

Intelligent, beautiful, a bit quirky. How his sire and brothers would roar at his compromising situation.

Tristan stiffened as his keen hearing picked up the slightest of sounds. Immediately, he knew who interrupted his thoughts. "Kail, you bumbling idiot. Even in death you lack stealth." He turned toward his captain. "What want you?"

"Damn, Tristan." Kail grinned. "You are a besotted whelp."

Tristan glared. His captain did indeed lack stealth; in life the man, who reached nigh onto seven feet in height, couldn't sneak up on a deaf man; size and strength alone had saved his sorry hide more than once. But the whoreson had intuition, damn him to hell.

Tristan's horse snorted and pawed the ground. He swung down, sending the ghostly steed running with a swat to the rump. A sharp crack of thunder sounded in the distance. Tristan inhaled, as though he might actually be able to smell the ensuing storm. If only he could. With a glare he turned to Kail. "I'm not a whelp, witless."

Kail stared at him for a moment, just before he broke out into laughter. The big man held his stomach as he continued his fit, until he gained a small amount of control. Kail wiped his teary eyes and smiled at Tristan. "She is beautiful, Tristan. You've chosen well."

Tristan frowned at the laughing idiot before him, then turned and strode across the bailey. "I've chosen nothing, fool. She is merely here to excavate the body and weapons. Nothing more."

Kail caught up to him. "I think you like her. My lord."

"Have you no men to oversee?" Tristan thumped him on the chest. "I vow you are powerfully close to irritating me already, Kail. Be gone."

"Pitiful, Dreadmoor. I'd expect a bit more out of you than a simple 'be gone.' "

Tristan stopped in his tracks and glared up at the giant. "You want more, captain? What do you care to hear? That I am unable to spend barely a waking moment without her in my thoughts? That I find myself seeking her out and watching her, but am too cowardly to present myself to her?" Tristan took a step toward his captain and frowned. He raked a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

"Do you want to hear how I would give anything to simply inhale her scent?"

Kail cleared his throat. "Nay, my friend. 'Tis no need." He slapped Tristan on the back, nearly sending him reeling. "But you should consider telling your lady, aye?"

Tristan rounded on him. "What mean you, tell my lady? She is definitely not mine to tell. For the saints' sake, man. She's alive. I'm ... not. 'Twould be nothing more than heartache, for the both of us, in the end. You know that. Even if she accepted me in my sorry state, 'twould only end in misery."

Kail grinned at Tristan. "Mayhap, my lord. Mayhap not. Only you can choose the correct path.

Now, think no more of it, for it pains me thusly. Come you with me, man. A bit of training with the blades will get your murky thoughts cleared."

Tristan shook his head. A good round with the swords might be the best thing for now. 'Twould certainly get his mind off Andrea for a spell. "Aye. Mayhap you've the right of it."