Spirited Away (5 page)

Tristan fell into step behind the young woman, remaining in his invisible state. She took long, graceful steps as she made her way down the corridor. A small pinch of guilt nagged at him for staring at her hose-clad legs and curvy bottom. It had only been for a fraction of a second longer than he should have. Saints, what a breathtaking woman.

She trotted down the steps to the main passageway. Without warning, she stiffened, came to a halt, and spun around. Unbeknownst to her, she stared right at him for a moment, not more than a foot away. Her nose twitched and she sniffed the air, reminding him of an inquisitive hare. Then she shrugged and continued on.

"Too many ghost stories, Andrea," she said. "There is no chain-mailed Dragonhawk, no missing knights lurking around, and you know it. Shake it off. Don't get all spooked-out on me now. Get a grip. Scientist. Remember? Smart.
Veeerry
logical."

Unable to help it, Tristan grinned at her self-encouraging words. Such a charming lass.

As they entered the kitchens a powerfully good smell must have hit her square in the nose, for her stomach rumbled—loudly. Jameson stood at the table, his back stiff, with a folded dish towel draped across his forearm. He nodded and pulled out a chair. Remaining invisible, Tristan walked around to the side of the table where he stood and watched.

"I trust you're hungry, my lady?" Jameson asked.

She flashed Jameson a smile. It nearly knocked Tristan to his knees with the beauty of it.
Ah, to be
on the receiving end of such a gift ...

"Starved. It smells wonderful."

"I'm sure it does. Now, if you'll have a seat I shall be with you in a moment." Jameson turned and headed for the stove.

Dr. Monroe sat down and shook her head. "You remind me of someone."

Jameson spared her a slight glance, then turned back to the stove. "Oh?"

Tristan frowned. Who did Jameson remind her of?

Saints, another smile. Then she snapped her fingers. "I've got it!"

"You've got what, lady?"

She beamed. "I know who you remind me of. Batman's butler, Alfred. Don't you think so?"

Alfred? Batman? Tristan ran the names through his memory. Who were they? And what sire in his right mind would name his child
Batman?
Pitiful, he thought.

"Yes, my lady. I'm quite certain that I do." With a loaded tray of food he walked over and placed it in front of her. He turned to leave.

"Jameson, I've got a few questions for you. If you could spare a moment?" She gave him a challenging glare, daring him to walk off.

He, of course, did not. "What can I help you with, Dr. Monroe?"

She swallowed a mouthful of crusty bread, followed by a sip of water, then looked him in the eye.

"First, where is the lord of Dreadmoor? Is he going to be available at all?"

Tristan could no longer stand by like an idle dolt.

Jameson wasn't one to lie, and he didn't want the poor man to slip. Moving behind Andi, Tristan materialized, then crossed his arms over his chest. Jameson swallowed his yelp, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort. Tristan flashed him a grin, then placed two fingers over his lips, cautioning his steward to gain control and be silent.

"Well, my lady, unfortunately Himself had some rather urgent business to tend to this eve. I'm sure he'll be available on the morrow." Jameson tried his best to look grave, hands clasped in front of him.

She studied him for what seemed like minutes, then nodded. "That would be great. There are several things I'd like to discuss before the excavation process begins, concerning the history of the castle and grounds." Andi took another sip of her water. "What may seem like minor details could hold a completely different meaning when investigating such a find as what's in your bailey."

Jameson patted her on the shoulder. "I do know quite a bit of the history myself. My family has worked Dreadmoor for centuries. In fact, my son, Thomas, is away at culinary school, readying to take over in my stead."

Her lips closed over a spoonful of stew. She briefly wondered where Jameson's wife was. So far, the only people she'd met were Jameson and Will, the barbican guard.

Nodding, Andi wiped the corner of her mouth, then smiled at Jameson. "Actually, I do have a few questions regarding the disappearance of Dragonhawk and his knights. Is there anything you can tell me about them? Different from the legend, that is."

A worried line creased Jameson's brow. "Very little, I'm afraid. 'Tis a blurry history verbally passed through the generations at best. Nothing documented officially, anyway. 'Tis why it's considered more lore than actual event." He straightened his coat. "Lord Dreadmoor—better known as Dragonhawk—was a legend throughout Scotland and England—even France. Still is, actually.

Young mothers used his name to frighten their children into submission. Quite the warrior, that one.

The others were his personal guard. His entire garrison, actually.

'Twas rumored he didn't employ many men. Or, rather, felt he didn't need them. 'Tis why there were naught but fourteen."

Dr. Monroe rubbed her brow. "Fourteen men plus Dreadmoor himself made fifteen. Not a large number, considering the size of the castle."

"The first lord thought 'twas guarded appropriately. He never traveled with more than five or six men, to his father and mother's dismay, I'm afraid." He shrugged a thin shoulder. "So the story goes."

"What happened?"

Jameson solemnly shook his head. "I'm not at all certain, my lady. No one is. But there have been whispers of murder and mayhem throughout the centuries, although I've never been one to speculate." He lifted his gaze. " 'Tis best if you question the likes to Himself. On the morrow."

An unsatisfied look crossed her lovely features, but she nodded. "I will. Thanks for your help. But if you think of anything else, let me know."

Jameson gave Dreadmoor's new guest a low bow. "As you wish, Dr. Monroe."

Tristan met his steward's gaze and, with a nod of approval, disappeared.

Andi kicked off her sneakers and flopped back onto the bed. "Ugh, I'm stuffed." She undid the top two buttons of her jeans and let out a sigh of relief, staring at the ceiling in complete amazement.

Old, thick wooden rafters stretched from one end of the room to the other. She followed the beams to the open window, then across the wall to the breathtaking tapestry of the jousting knights. Rolling off the bed, she padded across the wooden floor to get a closer look. A very small but fascinating detail caught her eye. She peered at the tiny stitches.

One of the knights, dressed in chain mail and wearing a black surcoat, carried a shield with the same exact rampant black and green creature as the shield propped up against the fireplace. She knelt in front of the ancient piece of armor. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she pulled it onto her lap.

The two shields were identical. The creature, unlike anything she'd ever seen before, appeared to be half hawk, half ... dragon.
Of course!
"Dragonhawk." It had the most incredible blue eye. Lethal.

Captivating. Powerful.

She studied the artifact, so carefully preserved. "A dragon warrior." In all her studies, never had she encountered another creature like it. No doubt it had probably intimidated more than one man in battle. With caution, she touched the dings and notches embedded in the wood.
The marks of
previous battles fought ...

A shiver of excitement ran through her. "Could it have belonged to the first lord of Dreadmoor?"

"Aye ..."

Andi jumped and nearly dropped the shield. "Who's there?" She looked around but found nothing.

No one. A chill grabbed her.

Who had just whispered?

With caution, she eased the shield back into place, crossed the chamber, and cracked open the door.

The darkened hall stood empty. She waited, but after a few seconds, she closed the door and shrugged. Her imagination was getting the best of her.

The shield once more caught her eye. She'd have to ask Jameson—and hopefully
Himself
—more about it. It completely intrigued her. With a stretch and a yawn, she crossed the room to her bags.

Digging through her belongings, she found her boxer shorts and tossed them onto the curtained bed.

With a decision to unpack in the morning, she started to slip down her jeans and change when a sudden wind whipped through the room. The shutters slammed shut. She jumped in spite of herself, her heart slamming against her ribs.

The lights on the wall extinguished, throwing the room in pitch-blackness. "Oh, great." Easing her way across the floor, she made for the desk on the other side of the room. Her foot struck an object in the middle of the floor. She stumbled and went sprawling onto her backside.

Stunned by the tumble, she sat in the dark for only a moment. Then, just as quickly as they'd extinguished, the lamps flickered back on. Andi looked down. She'd tripped over her sneakers.

"Good going, Monroe." With a shake of her head at her own foolishness, she picked up her shoes and set them under the bed. She drew a long, deep, cleansing breath. "I hope the old crusty battle-ax of Dreadmoor is available tomorrow. There are so many things I want to know." After brushing her teeth, she slipped into her boxers and sought comfort on the soft, feathery-down mattress.

Tristan materialized in the corner of the room and stared at Dr. Andrea Monroe. By the devil's pointed teeth, he'd nearly lost his composure when she'd started to remove her garb. As if he had expected anything less of her, being in her own chambers. "Bloody dolt."

"Excuse me?" A soft whisper rose from behind the curtains.

He squeezed his eyes shut. What a big mouth he possessed. He had only wanted to watch the woman for but a moment or two, just to see what mischief she combined. But he had become so caught up in her exploration of his shield he'd not realized the wench would soon disrobe and make ready for bed.

He crept closer. Professors of archaeology were not supposed to be fetching young maids with beautiful hazel eyes. They were supposed to be corpulent little men with balding heads and ill-fitting, brownish garments. God's bones, what a headache.

The corners of his mouth lifted a fragment. She'd called him a "crusty old battle-ax." She was, if anything, quite amusing.

A slight snore escaped from under the bedcovers, causing Tristan to take a closer look. The moon chose that moment to peek out from behind the clouds, bathing the room in a soft glow. He leaned over and studied her features. Chestnut hair fanned across the pillow, her smooth and creamy skin flawless. A small nose tipped slightly upward. Full lips, parted and relaxed, appeared soft, delicate.

Lashes the color of her hair brushed her cheek as she slept, and on closer inspection Tristan could see the pulse tap at the base of her throat.
Damnation, what a lovely creature.
The woman snored again, then made a smacking noise. He almost gave way to a smile.

Instead, he frowned. The woman had seen him before and would no doubt remember the incident.

Could he pull off Jameson's plan to conjure himself into a modern-day lord? Mayhap. It would only be for a couple of months whilst the girl excavated the bailey. Aye, he'd do it.

Saints, to be alive to help. Who, by the forked tail of the devil, was entwined within the roots of that oak? And what of the armor? He'd yet to lay eyes on the discovery, save the bones. Dirt covered the rest of the find; only a few shards of metal showed through the thick, midnight turf. Mayhap he'd recognize something? Neither his nor the lads' weapons had ever been found. Should he dare to hope?

He glanced down at the sleeping form in what was once his own bed. She'd find the answers, he felt sure of it. Excitement pitched the tone of her voice every time she spoke of the find. It had been a good decision to choose her.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned to leave. Christ, he was tired, weary, and sick of roaming.

He felt sure an answer lay hidden within Dreadmoor. Or was that wishfulness? If only they could remember. An answer, perhaps, would put himself and the lads to rest. With that gloomy thought in mind Tristan disappeared, his mood more foul, if possible, than before.

Tristan shifted what would have been considerable weight, cracked his neck as he would have in life, then waited a moment more before his patience, quite thin to begin with, deserted him.

Entering the kitchen, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "Well? How do I look?"

Jameson turned from the stove and lifted one eyebrow. "You look most modern, sir." The other brow followed. "And very much alive. I must say, I'm impressed." He cocked his head. "And where did you get such a fashion idea? The tele?"

Tristan glanced down at his conjured-up garments. A snug-fitting black tunic, soft bluish hose similar to those Dr. Monroe wore, and ankle-high leather boots. Jeans and hikers, he'd been told.

Not a bad fit. "Young Jason gave me aid in the task, and I daresay he was quite pleased with himself once finished. I don't fancy going without my blade and mail, even if it is just an illusion." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Think you she will believe, Jameson? I vow I'm no good at lying. Nor do I fancy breaking the code."

"You look quite convincing, my lord. And there's no need to fret yourself about the code. This is a delicate matter, and one you can not avoid. Mayhap you can eventually tell her the truth?"

"Tell her the truth? Are you mad? She's a scientist. A mortal.
A woman.
She will not believe."

Jameson inclined his head. "I believe. Miss Kate believes, as does her daughter and young grandson, Heath. Will believes, too. Last time I checked, we were all mortals, as well. My lord."

"Will you cut the 'my lord'? By the saints, 'tis driving me senseless." He leaned against his desk and pondered the task. "I plan on having as little interaction with her as possible, Jameson. None of this sits well with me. But you're right. It must be done." Rising, he made for the door. "I shall meet her after breakfast in the morn. Eight thirty sharp."