Spirited Away (25 page)

God, she hoped she had the strength for it.

Christ, he hoped he had the strength for it.

Tristan watched as Andrea slept. Mayhap 'twasn't the most chivalristic of things, to be standing over the woman whilst she slumbered. Watching. But by the saints' robes, he could not seem to help himself.

Damnation, he wanted more.

Had he substance, no doubt chivalry would have long ago left him.

A painful need unlike any he'd experienced, even whilst alive, gripped him as he let his eyes roam over Andrea's sleeping form. Moonlight streamed in from the open shutters, throwing her barely garbed body in a myriad of shadows and glow. 'Twas enchanting. 'Twas ... enticing.

He drew closer.

One arm rested above her head, the other draped easily against her exposed belly. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and Tristan found himself entranced by the movement as her sleeveless tunic pulled against her skin. He itched to touch her, to run his hands over every fair inch ...

"Hi."

Tristan nearly jumped out of his ghostly skin. Andrea's voice, heavy with slumber, seared straight through him.

"Forgive me. I—"

"It's okay," she said, and sat up just enough to prop her head with her hand, which in turn lifted her tunic to expose more of her luscious belly. "I felt you beside me."

Tristan swiped a hand across his jaw. By the saints, he was a nervous whelp.

"Sit here," she said, patting the empty space beside her. "Beside me."

No mirth in her voice, and as a matter of fact, Tristan thought he caught a bit of shyness. He rather liked it. With no more than a thought, his sword and heavy mail disappeared, emerging on the floor in a heap, leaving him wearing his tunic, hose, and boots.

He sat down.

And noticed quite suddenly his thigh rested rather close to a scantily clad Andrea Monroe. Those plaid trews she seemed so powerfully fond of had ridden up her hip, exposing a goodly amount of long leg.

However the means, she took his breath away.

He could take it no longer.

Lowering himself, he rested on his elbow and stared with a boldness that even surprised him, given the situation. His eye roamed down those impossibly long legs, back up to linger at her flat midriff, and a bit higher to her breasts, which to his notion, were just right.

He slowly raised his gaze eye level to hers. "Don't mistake this for disrespect," he said, leaning closer to her. "I just can't seem to ... help myself." He lifted one finger to her jaw, not touching but simply hovering over her skin. The shell of her ear fascinated him next, then the soft fall of her hair.

Entranced, he traced her collarbone, then ran along the low-dipped collar of her tunic.

Then, God help him, lower.

Her breath hitched.

He watched the movement of his knuckles as they grazed the swell of Andrea's breast, rising and falling, a bit faster, with each breath. "Christ, if I could but touch you in truth."

Her hand skimmed over his thigh. "I'd give anything if you could."

Tristan's groin stirred, and he had to think twice about the sensation. He hadn't thought it could occur, him being naught but a spirit.

He was, to put it bluntly, dead wrong.

Andrea moved over, just slightly, a silent invitation for him. He took it, and lay on his side next to her, his weight braced by his elbow.

He moved his free hand to her hip, marveling at the lush curves. "You've awakened something powerfully fierce in me, Andrea." His eyes lifted to hers. "Were I a live man, I could not assure your reputation."

"Funny," she countered, her hand moving to his hand, "I was about to say the same thing to you."

Tristan gave a quiet laugh, then leaned closer, his eyes boring into the most lovely green-flecked orbs he'd ever seen. "Close your eyes, Andrea," he said.

Without hesitation, she did.

He ducked his head, bringing his lips to her ear. " 'Twould be a lie to say our joining would be slow and sensual," he whispered, raking the back of his knuckle over her cheek. "I would be fair overcome by you, the first time." He slid his fingers through her hair. "I vow the second time, though," he said, and she opened her eyes and met his gaze, "and the third, 'twould last until morn."

With a hesitant hand, Andrea, not more than a mere few inches away, skimmed her fingers over his lips, then licked her own.

Tristan nearly came undone.

"This actually hurts," she said.

He paused, wondering at the thunder of his own heart. "What mean you?"

Slowly, her hand traced his throat, then drifted across his chest, where it lingered before she lifted her gaze. "Wanting you so badly."

"Christ, woman," he said, his mouth hovering above hers. "I vow I can taste you. And were I able, there would not be a single inch left I wouldn't devour."

Tristan heard her gulp.

Then Andrea smiled, and the wistful look nearly knocked him off the bed. He could have sworn he saw her chest thumping beneath that painfully thin tunic.

"I've never been seduced before," she said. "I ... like it."

Tristan felt his heart crack. Andrea's sincerity tore a hole in him he seriously doubted would ever close.

He placed a hand over hers, which rested just above the place where his heart would have been, had he been alive.

"I'll never be able to satisfy your body's cravings, Andrea. This is all I have to offer, and 'tis paltry, to my notion."

Her eyes darkened. "It's not paltry to me. It's actually pretty sexy."

He smiled and prayed she knew what she said. "Then I will forever endeavor to satisfy your desires." He slid his thumb across the air above her sweet lips. "But 'tis the most painful endeavor I've ever embarked upon."

Then she yawned a most unladylike yawn, and her eyes drifted shut. "Stay tonight, will you? I like this."

Beasties couldn't drag him from her side.

Chapter Twenty

"Lady, if I may ask. What baffles you so about the markings?"

With a light touch, Andi traced the mystical dragonhawk on Tristan's shield. "I don't know, Jason. It seems odd, but when I look at it, I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach." She looked at him.

"As if I've seen it before, but can't place it."

Having set up the downstairs study as a makeshift laboratory, Andi studied the displayed weapons now lying on protective coverings atop various folding tables, trying to concentrate on her job.

Quite a difficult task, when she could think of nothing but Tristan and his sensual words and almost-touches. "I get the same feeling when examining a few other pieces, too."

"Which ones?"

She thought a minute. "The tapestries. Tristan's sword." She turned and met Jason's gaze. "And Tristan."

"By the saints," he said in a low voice. "What could that mean?"

"That's what I can't figure out." She pointed to the creature. "What do you make of it? I mean, I know you've looked at this same picture for centuries, but when you look at it"—she pointed to the dragonhawk—"the tapestries, and Tristan's sword, what do you think of?"

Jason drew his head close to the shield and studied it first. "I vow 'tis shaped like an eye of sorts, that stone.

No lashes, no brow, but an eye all the same. 'Tis the same color as Tristan's own eyes. Passing odd, I'll warrant."

A thought hit her, and she felt as if she'd been struck by a fastball.

"Oh my God."

Jason turned his head. "What is it, lady?"

"Jason, you're amazing. I can't believe I haven't picked up on it before." She swept the room with a final look, turning in a circle. "Where's Tristan?"

"Right. Well," Jason stammered. "He is having speech in the solar with his captain. He expects to be down, straightaway. I've been given the pleasure of occupying your time thusly."

"No, this can't wait." Without a backward glance, she rushed to the great hall and up the stairs.

"Lady! I beseech you! Wait!" Jason called after her.

Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she watched as Jason disappeared.
Wonder what's got
into him.
Rounding the corner of the passageway, Andi hurried to Tristan's solar, where Jason materialized again.

"Lady!"

What a sweet kid, she thought. But she didn't have time to stop and give him assurance of her well-being. Not now. This might not be as big as she thought, but later couldn't wait. She needed to know. Now.

Pausing at the solar, Andi eased open the door. Richard's embittered voice stopped her.

"I care naught what that filth means to Andrea, nor whose mortal body he's claimed. He is a loathsome, foul idiot whom I mean to find a way to rid the world of."

Several "ayes" sounded, mixed with a few venomous curses.

Andi's heart nearly stopped. Who was Richard talking about?

"Sirs!" Jason pleaded from inside the chamber, but no one seemed to hear him over the heated discussion.

"She needs to know," Kail said. "We've got to tell—"

"Nay, we do not!" Tristan growled each word as a threat. "We tell her nothing. 'Tis none of her concern. She's here to do a job, that is all. Naught more." Silence, then, "Swear it," he commanded.

"Sirs, I beg you, cease!"

Tears stung Andi's eyes as she stood at the door, stunned. Unsure what to do, she turned, only to find herself face-to-face with a woeful-looking Jason, who'd materialized once more before her. His big, sad brown eyes made her hesitate. She almost ran, ready to pretend the harsh words hadn't been heard.

Then she changed her mind.

The voices screeched to a deafening silence when Andi slipped inside the room. Fourteen medieval knights stared at her. Her gaze pierced only one.

"Andrea, I—"

She shook her head. "Don't. I want to know." She ticked off the numbers on one hand. "One, why

'tis none of my concern. Two, who the loathsome foul idiot is. And three, why I'm here." She lifted a shoulder. "Just to do a job." She paused, then mimicked Tristan, " 'Naught more.' "

Tristan rounded the desk and moved toward her, their eyes locked. "You know not what you say, lady."

"I know what I heard. I know poor Jason tried to warn you that I was right outside the door, but you guys were bickering so loud, none of you heard him."

After a long, exasperated sigh, Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Leave us," he ordered his men.

One by one, without meeting her gaze and without question to their lord, the knights left the chamber. Only Jason remained.

Tristan inclined his head to the door. "You too, lad."

Andi turned to the young knight. "I'll be fine. Go."

He gave her a somber nod, hesitated only a moment, then disappeared through the door.

"You do not understand what you heard," Tristan said.

Andi looked at him. A coldness settled within her insides, making her stomach feel shaky. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she took a deep breath. "Yeah, and apparently I wasn't supposed to. So make me."

Moments passed before he answered. "Christ, this is passing difficult." A curse muttered from his mouth. " 'Twas not supposed to be this way."

"What way? What have you been keeping from me? God, I'm so stupid." Moving to the window, she gripped the sill and stared out at the gray clouds churning over the choppy North Sea. Without turning around, she pressed her forehead to the glass. "I trusted you."

A movement, more like a fine breeze, stroked her cheek. Tristan's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper against her ear. "You can trust me now, Andrea. I vow it."

Turning, she shuddered as she stared into piercing eyes. His body crowded her, caged her in, and although she knew it would take only the briefest of movements to pass through him, she remained locked in his ghostly hold. Breathless, she waited for him to continue.

"I've something to tell you, lass, and you won't like it. You may not even believe me. I'm not even sure I believe it myself. 'Tis why I've kept it from you this long."

Full, masculine lips formed each word, and Andi followed the movement with utter fascination.

Small lines formed at the corners of his eyes, and a white, silvery scar nicked his chin. Her heart thumped wildly against her ribs, and breathing became difficult, pinching inside her lungs. "Tell me."

No hesitation, no loss of eye contact. "We believe your Kirk Grey is my murderer, Andrea. Erik de Sabre. Rather, his spirit."

The words sounded in her ears, chimed through her head, but they didn't quite seem to touch base.

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

A muscle tightened in his jaw. "If 'tis true, he is dangerous, and I—"

Scooting past him, she stopped and turned. "What are you talking about, Tristan? Have you gone crazy? Kirk is just Kirk. I've known him nearly my whole life. He's like a father to me."

"Aye. As he was to us, as well."

Her head ached with the accusation. "It's crazy. There's no way he could be Erik de Sabre. That makes no sense at all."

Tristan moved toward her, his features set, determined. "And all this makes sense?" He swept his hand down his body. "You can accept that my men and I are spirits from the thirteenth century, but you can't fathom your man Kirk has been taken over by Erik's spirit?" He drew closer. "Truly?"

The air began to tighten in her lungs, trapping the normal route of breathing, forcing her to take short, gasping breaths. "It. Can't. Be." She glanced around the room, drew a lungful of air, then turned back to Tristan. "Why do you think this?"

He raked a big hand through his long black hair. "I had a few of my men follow you into the village when you met him for supper. They didn't identify him immediately, but recognized his voice, his mannerisms."

"That's insane. Couldn't they be mistaken?"

He shook his head. " 'Tis possible, I suppose. Mayhap he is an ancestor? But the men know his mannerisms, well and true. They had no second thoughts on the matter. Evil spirits have been known to possess mortals before, Andrea."

Silence jammed the room, the pressure of it squeezing her ears. Kirk had been the only person she'd considered family for all of her life. He loved her. No way was he this ... thing Tristan and his men claimed. "I can't accept this, Tristan. Kirk loves me. He's real. My hand doesn't slip through him."