Spirited Away (30 page)

And they did.

Then he stopped.

They stared at each other for a long, long time. Andi drank in every small detail of his face, every small knick and scar, every line, until her eyes collided with his, and they stared some more.

"I vow, we'd best cease," he said, his voice hoarse. "You drive me witless, woman. Painfully witless."

Catching her breath, she nodded, but continued to stare. She just couldn't help herself. He was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

And to crave his touch yet be unable to have it nearly killed her. And that's how it would be ...

forever.

She forced a smile and buttoned her shirt. "Okay, then. Tell me about your family. Did you have brothers or sisters?"

Tristan heaved a gusty sigh and leaned back, his gaze turning serious. "I could pretend all night to touch you, and to whisper things I've dreamed of doing to you. Indeed, I vow I cannot promise not to. But for now, we'll have speech. And just so you'll know, I am not in the least bit finished with you concerning your attack. I had Jameson phone the constable as soon as you left the inn, and I daresay he will be calling you first thing in the morn."

"You did?"

"Aye. But for now, so we can catch our breath, I'll tell you of my family, beginning with my sire first, since you're near bursting with curiosity. And aye, I had three brothers who tormented me for many years."

"You probably loved every minute of it. Do you look like your father?" Andi pulled one leg up onto the sofa and rested her chin on her knee. She waited for him to answer, glad of the diversion to take her mind off how it felt to have his ghostly mouth slide over her skin.

"Aye, it has been said I am the spitting image, the same eye color, same hair, same height. Big, strappin' lads, the lot of us."

"The lot of you?" Andi asked.

"Aye. My sire, my uncles, my brothers, and I. All a bit rather—"

"Enormous?"

Tristan chuckled. "Enormous it is, then. My sire's younger brother, Killian, jesting oaf that he was, looked enough like my sire to be his twin. 'Twas unnerving at times. The only thing telling the two apart, save their personalities, was my sire's scar and eye."

"Scar and eye? What happened to him?"

"He was wounded while at war, and 'twas quite fierce looking, I assure you. He wore a patch over the eye, for the most part. 'Twas macabre to some, although my mother quite loved it." He reached out his hand and held his finger close to Andi's temple, the skin tingling in its wake. "The scar ran from here," he said, drawing an imaginary line down her face, then across her eye, "all the way to here." He finished tracing the imaginary scar, ending it across Andi's lips. A second went by before he withdrew his hand, and she immediately missed the sensation. "The sword blinded that eye, turning it nearly white. I remember my mother telling him how roguish she thought it made him appear. And I remember my grandmother constantly begging him to remove 'that bloody patch.' "

Andi smiled. "I bet your mother thought him to be the most handsome man in all of England."

Tristan laughed. "My mother was a full-blooded Scot, as was my grandmother. They both hated all things English, until they met their loves. They liked each other immensely. And aye"—his gaze bored into hers—"my mother and sire were very much in love. But 'tis an amusing tale of how they came to be."

"What were their names?"

Tristan stared into the fire. How he missed them. "Gage and Kaila."

"Gage and Kaila," Andi repeated. "How lovely."

Tristan laughed. "My sire would scowl at you, had he heard you refer to his name as 'lovely.' But he would have enjoyed it—secretly, mind you."

Andi yawned. "Tell me."

"Tell you what, sleepy one?"

"Gage and Kaila's story."

"Nay, love," he said. "You need to rest."

"Please?" She stifled another yawn and lay over onto the sofa, near Tristan's lap.

Tristan took a deep breath. Having Andi lie so close to him, and him unable to do a damn bloody thing about it, was nigh onto making him a daft idiot. The fact she did not realize what she did caused him even more discomfort. "Saints, woman." He sighed. "All right, if it will please you, I shall tell you just a bit." He shifted on the sofa to give Andi some room, stretched one arm over his head; the other he draped close to Andi's head, tracing the length of her hair, and began. "It all started when my mother highwayed my sire and held him for ransom in her dungeon."

"Oh, I like her already."

"I'm sure you do, wench. Now rest and I'll tell you a bit more ..."

Tristan glanced down at Andi and smiled.

Gage and Kaila's tale would have to wait.

His lady was already fast asleep.

He watched his finger glide along the lines of her brown tresses. They looked powerfully soft, and he could nearly imagine what they must feel like between his fingers. He continued, tracing the soft bones in her wrist, the long fingers, and, God help him and his lecherous self, the shape of her hip.

She stirred him in ways he never thought possible. He felt almost mortal again.

Almost, but not quite.

Andi cracked open an eye and stretched. A good-sized fire blazed in the hearth. A soft fleece blanket had been draped over her. A hazy darkness lingered in the room, waiting for daybreak. She blinked, suddenly aware she wasn't in her room. Confused, she sat up and looked around.

"Settle down, love."

Andi turned to see Tristan, stretched out and in the same place on the sofa as he was when she fell asleep.

Monroe. MON-ROE! You were being entertained, not to mentioned fondled, by the most handsome,
chivalristic medieval knight in the entire world, and you fell asleep? Dumb, dumb, dumb.

"How long have I been dozing?" She stifled a yawn. "Have you been here the whole time?"

"Aye."

"You're sweet, Tristan de Barre."

"Have a care not to let such a tale get around the garrison, if you will." He winked. " 'Twould be unbearable."

Then it hit her.

Again.

"Your eyes."

Tristan frowned. "What's that?"

She pulled closer and stared. "Your eyes."

One side of Tristan's mouth slowly lifted. "What about my eyes, love?" He lowered his head, coming within an inch of her face.

The breath in her lungs stilled for an instant. She jumped up and tried to calm her jittery nerves caused by his pure, raw maleness. At the hearth, she turned back. "That's why I came to your solar the other day in the first place. I made a connection."

Crossing his arms over his chest, he inclined his head. "Go on."

Pacing, she spoke her thoughts aloud. "Well, Jason actually made the connection. Your eyes are the first thing that caught my attention all those years ago. Stunning. I never forgot them."

"Aye, I've been told they're rather comely."

She shot him a glare. "Stop that, you conceited man. Now listen."

Holding up his hands in defense, he nodded. "I apologize. Proceed, woman."

"Thank you." She began to pace again. "When I arrived at Dreadmoor, the next thing I noticed were the amazing tapestries covering the walls. The scene depicts the same knight in all of them." She met his gaze. "You. The legendary Dragonhawk."

Another smile. "Guilty. My mother and grandmother stitched them."

Andi nodded and resumed her pacing. "Then Jameson took me to my chambers, where I noticed your shield." Pushing her hair back, she continued. "Even then a familiarity came over me, but I couldn't place it."

"Place what?"

"Then," she continued, ignoring his question, "that voice, or presence, or whatever you want to call it led me to the dungeon, where I dug up your mail. Now I've discovered bones. Bones that do not belong to you."

Tristan rose and crossed to the hearth. She stopped pacing and stared at him. "Jason and I were in the study going over all these items—the shield, the tapestries—and then we discussed your sword, and that's when it hit me."

"Saints, woman, tell me. My patience, as you know, is very short."

"It's the eye, Tristan. Your eyes. The eye of that mystical rampant creature on the front of your tunic, your shield, your crest. The stone in your sword. They're all the same. That amazing, stunning shade of sapphire."

Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he stared into the dying flames in the hearth. "So you've made this ...

connection. With the eyes." He turned to her. "What do they mean?"

She shook her head. "I believe the answer is in the hilt of your sword. In the Dragonhawk's eye.

See? The presence is trying to tell me something. I know it." She rubbed her temples. "But without your sword, how can we figure it out? I feel positive if we can locate it, it would be huge.

Important. Phenomenal."

Those stunning, piercing blue eyes studied her, searched her, grew hungry and dark. "Then you may just have to remain at Dreadmoor until you piece the puzzle together, aye?"

A smile pulled at her mouth. "I'm serious, Tristan."

"So am I."

Oh, there went her breath again. Escaping her. God, she'd never seen a more intense look on a man's face before. At least, never directed at her. "You don't mind me staying past the original contract date?" She batted her eyes.

"You're passing tolerable. I suppose you can stay."

"Ha, ha. Then I'd better get busy figuring this out." She stretched her arms above her head, and several bones cracked. "I've got to earn my keep, you know."

"Indeed. Tell me you are still intact after that snapping."

"Just getting rusty, I guess," Andi said, sighing. "I'm getting old, you know."

"Hmm. I seriously doubt you could catch up to me, even if you tried." He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "When is your birthday?"

"It's in two weeks."

Tristan stared, then laughed. "Truly. By the saints, woman. We shall celebrate it."

"Really, Tristan," she said. "It's just another day—not even my real birthday. Not that big of a deal."

He threw her a scowl. "Well, it is now." He stood, paced a time or two in front of Andi, then stilled before her. "As much as I detest leaving your charming company, there is a matter of utmost importance I must see to. It cannot be delayed for another moment." He cocked his head to the side and grinned. "Might you amuse yourself this morn? Or should I have Jameson fetch young Heath to give you company? The pup adores you, you know."

"What are you up to?"

Tristan had the decency to look shocked. "Business, and none of it yours at the moment. Now, will it be Heath or Jameson? Perhaps one of the knights can divert you for a bit?"

Andi laughed and shook her head. No one ever made a big deal about her birthday.
Ever.
Well, Kirk always took her out to dinner. Her aunt Mary hadn't been too big on celebrations of any kind, actually. She'd sort of gotten used to it.

Andi had a sneaking suspicion this would be a birthday unlike any other.

"Will you force me to choose your companion?" Tristan crossed his arms across his chest. "I've not the time to stand here and wait for your thoughts to gather."

"I promised Heath a day. Or I could spend it with Kail." She grinned at Tristan. "Yeah, I think I'd better have them both for the day."

Tristan frowned. "Very well. Young Heath and Kail the lackwit it shall be." He glared for a moment or two, then broke into a grin. "I'll have my captain fetched posthaste, and Jameson can send Heath over once he arrives. And behave yourself, if you can muster up the strength." He took a step closer and stared down at her. "Jameson will alert you to the constable's call today. I want to be present whilst you speak to him, as I shall have my own queries. Until then," he said, his deep voice graveled and sexy, "I shall moon over you immensely until I can have you to myself once again, lady." He stepped back and made her a low bow. "Good morn to you, then." With a dimpled grin he turned and strode from the hall.

Andi stared after him. He had a confident, raw male swagger of a walk that made her throat go dry.

Cocky. Arrogant. And she liked it. A lot.

He was going to plan something for her birthday. Exactly what that something would be was another question entirely. With a thirteenth-century knight behind the project, she could do nothing more but wait. Ooh, and she hated waiting. Two whole weeks of it, too.

In the meanwhile, she'd try and get Kirk to answer his mobile. And she had the dungeon to finish.

Just as she entered her chamber, her own cell phone began to chirp. The screen flashed PRIVATE, indicating it was an unknown caller. She flipped the cover and answered. "Hello?"

"It's good to hear your voice again, Andrea."

"Kirk! Where have you been? I've been trying to—"

"I know, I know. I skipped the dig in Northumberland for a few days to investigate an artifact further north. Not to worry, though. There's a responsible intern there in my stead. Dreadfully bad weather most days, I'm sorry to report. I lost my mobile in the process. I'm sorry, love."

"It's okay." The past few days crashed over her, and yet she hesitated to tell him anything. Why?

Because it sounded nuts, that's why. How do you tell a person you've known all your life he may possibly be harboring the spirit of a thirteenth-century murderer in his body?

Right. She just couldn't bring herself to do it. The closer it got to her lips, the more absurd it sounded. One thing she did want to know. "I could have sworn I saw you in Berwick."

"You were in Berwick? When?"

"Yesterday. I followed you into a pub but—"

"I wasn't in Berwick yesterday, Andrea. I only just arrived from Edinburgh an hour ago. Clearly, you are mistaken." He chuckled. "Who would have thought there'd be another as dashing as me walking the streets of England, hmm?"

Andi smiled. "You're right. It must've been someone else." The person had looked just like Kirk.

How uncanny.

She felt as though she should tell him of the attack at the inn. But he'd worry, maybe even pull her from Dreadmoor. And she just wasn't ready for that yet. She'd wait, tell him about it later.

"Have you taken the photo card in for developing?" she asked.