She turned and surveyed the Grey Archaeological Research team, busying themselves in their bright orange and yellow GAR weatherproofs under the steady pelting of rain. She shouldn't just leave them. Some of them, the volunteers, were first-year students. They were relying on her.
They'd been called to the remote moors of Northumberland where a pair of hill walkers had discovered skeletal remains. They were excited about it. She hated quitting a job.
Loathed it.
"But what about—"
Kirk pulled Andi under the tarp. Tapping her on the nose, he then pushed a strand of wet hair from her eyes. "I'll take over as site manager here. I know, it's been a while since I've gotten my hands dirty. Besides, you've done nothing but bore me with tales of yearning for that desolate heap of rocks, not to mention the tiresome tale of that scourge Dragonhawk. You'll just continue to do so if you don't get this dig out of your system." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you don't think you can handle it alone?"
Excavating alone, without even one little intern. Was she crazy?
Yes, Monroe, you are.
She grinned.
Dreadmoor Keep.
Situated on an ancient shelf of rock overlooking the blustery North Sea, the thirteenth-century hold had a haunted, mysterious past. Fifteen knights, the original Lord Dreadmoor, a.k.a. Dragonhawk, included, vanished from the keep in 1292. No trace of them had ever been found. It was as though they'd never existed.
The memory of the majestic keep took her breath away. It had been years since she'd first crept onto the castle grounds—how old had she been? Eighteen? What a little daredevil she'd been. But she'd never forgotten it—had never forgotten
him.
A strange experience, one she wasn't too sure had even happened.
Obsession
didn't quite sum it up.
A massive man, dressed in thirteenth-century chain mail, had appeared out of nowhere. He'd saved her from falling through a hole in the crumbling steps of the kirk.
She'd reached ... her hand had
fallen right through him.
Like a faded image on an old projector movie, he'd been there ... but hadn't been there. She'd caught herself, screamed, and he'd been there again, talking her down from the jagged stone hole. When she'd reached the bottom, he had vanished. She'd chalked the mishap up to an overactive teenage imagination. Youthful drama. Yet, her scientific thought process aside, she couldn't help but wonder sometimes ...
Had he been one of the missing knights?
She'd gotten into big trouble with the dean of forensics. But it'd been worth it. Never would she forget that day, or those piercing sapphire eyes ...
"Dr. Monroe?"
Andi met Kirk's steady gaze. A striking man of fifty-eight, he kept his salt-and-pepper gray hair clipped as close as his trademark pencil-thin goatee. Andi felt as though she'd known him forever—practically had. He'd been not only the dean of forensics, but also like a father to her, and the closest thing she'd ever had to family. An implanted Brit from Canterbury, he'd groomed her through all of her college years into the respected forensic archaeologist she was today. And he'd just offered her the chance of a lifetime.
"I take it
yes
is the official answer? I need to ring Daughtry, posthaste. No patience, that one."
Dreadmoor Keep. The legend of Dragonhawk and his private order of knights—gone without a trace of their physical existence. And now a body of bones and a hoard of medieval weapons turn up on Dreadmoor's land.
Could it be?
She'd longed to return, but being that it was private property, GAR had never been given an invitation. Until now. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she grinned. "Absolutely. You tell Daughtry I'll be there yesterday."
"We're nearing the castle grounds, missy. Best ye get your belongings together," Gibbs, the cabdriver, said.
"We're already there?"
"Aye, 'tis but a few more miles ahead."
She glanced out the window. Black and gray clouds twisted and churned overhead. Great. Another storm, and it looked like a big one. Storm or not, she couldn't wait to see Dreadmoor again. Even if it meant excavating the site alone.
A familiar feeling of anticipation knotted her stomach, just like the first time she'd laid eyes on the hauntingly beautiful keep. No guard had been at the gate, and it hadn't taken much maneuvering to sneak in from the shore side. Adrenaline had flushed through her veins with each new discovery.
The dark corners, the rough old stones, and the ancient church near the cliffs—what a thrill! Now only minutes separated her from the castle—not to mention the fascinating find last night's storm had unearthed. What if the medieval weapons truly were clues to the castle's mysterious past? She couldn't wait to grid the area and get to work.
Andi pressed her nose against the cool glass of the window. Just south of Northumberland, she admired the quaint little seaside townships hugging the North Sea coastline. Beautiful stone cottages and old cemeteries flashed by. Although there was still daylight, the stores were all closed, their lights turned off. This time of year, the skies didn't darken until well after eleven p.m. A thick mist crept in from the sea, settling over the green landscape and slipping through the weathered, dark stone buildings like a silvery blanket. It gave the place a ghostly glow. A shiver scurried through her. She could barely stand the wait.
Gibbs shot her a lopsided grin through the rearview mirror. "You're that American archaeologist, ain't ye? Truth be told, we all thought ye was a gent."
We?
It'd been less than a day since she'd accepted the job, and the whole village knew about it? "I'm kind of used to the name-gender mix-up. Happens all the time." She smiled at Gibbs in his mirror.
"And yes, I'm an American."
"Figured as much. Well. Best ye watch yer step, girlie." His eyebrows lifted. "Strange things have been known to go on round that old spooky pile o' rubble."
Andi's thoughts rushed back to her own weird experience and Dreadmoor's unexplained past. "What kind of strange things?"
Gibbs shrugged, his bushy gray eyebrows disappearing under the bill of his cap. "Battle cries.
Fierce ones, too. They can be heard all the way round to the village, on a good day. I even once heard a terrible thundering, like horse hooves pounding." He glanced back at the road ahead. "I got paid an extra fifty pounds just to pick ye up and drive ye out here, ye know. No one else would do it."
Andi stared back at the old cabby and raised an eyebrow. They were no more than two or three miles from the village. "What's there to be afraid of at Dreadmoor?"
Gibbs ignored her and pointed a long, bony finger. "Get your bags ready, missy, 'cause I ain't staying long."
Andi looked up, surprised to find the castle perched high on the cliff ahead. Her breath caught in her throat. It was just as wonderful as it had been twelve years before. "Aren't you going to drive me through the gates?"
"Nope." He turned onto the gravel path leading up to the outer barbican. "Jameson's the butler. He'll help you, once inside. A bit daft, that one, as were his ancestors before him, to work in that haunted heap. And there'll be young Will, the guard at the drawbridge. He just don't know any better. But that's as far as I go."
Andi stifled her own concern. "All right, then. No problem." She gathered her pack and site kit.
Gibbs pulled up near the outer barbican and came to a halt.
Barely.
"Okay, missy. Here ye go." The cabby's eyes darted back and forth across the castle grounds. Did he expect the ghost of Dragonhawk to jump out at any moment and run him through? Or was it all hype? England was full of ghost stories, and nearly every castle had one or two. Green Lady. White Lady. Lady in Gray. None, she thought, as fascinating as Dragonhawk and his missing knights.
What, then, had she seen all those years ago?
"Ye heed my warning, girlie," Gibbs said. "Watch yourself."
"Don't worry. I will." Andi cast the driver a smile and jumped out of the cab. She grabbed her bags and tools from the trunk and stepped back just in time. Gibbs pulled away as soon as her bags cleared the back end.
The car rambled down the cliff's path. With a shake of her head she faced the aged stone building and drew in a satisfied breath.
The barbican. In medieval days it would have housed several heavily armed and mailed guards.
Hopefully, the present owner would be eccentric enough to at least house one, and maybe that one would help her lug her bags to the great hall. As she trudged closer, bags in tow, a man stepped out from the thick-stoned entranceway.
Without the first trace of a welcoming smile, the guard held his hand up. "Stop right there, miss."
The young man wore a solid navy blue uniform—like the constables she'd met on the moors. She smiled and shrugged her pack. "Hello. I believe I'm expected?"
"Nay, miss." He shook his dark head to reaffirm his
nay.
"I've no lass on my roster." He cast her a stern look. "I'll call your driver back. This is not a touring castle."
"No, wait." Andi hurried forward as the guard stepped back into the barbican. "Does your roster include a Dr. Monroe?"
The guard didn't even spare a look at the clipboard he held. "I'm afraid that is none of your concern, miss. Now. Himself doesn't take kindly to mishaps. So if you would step to the side and wait for your cabby—"
"Wait—I am Dr. Monroe." Andi flipped open a side pocket on her backpack and dug for her Grey Archaeological Research Institute ID badge. Normally, the confusion wouldn't bother her so much.
But she ached, was tired, and had a gnawing sense of uncertainty that she'd like to have the owner of Dreadmoor alleviate—ASAP.
A booming clap of thunder made her jump. Fat, heavy raindrops fell, one by one, and plopped on top of her head.
Great.
She flashed the guard her badge. "I am Dr. Andi Monroe—Andrea, actually, a she, not a he." She threw him a pleading look. "Please, let me in."
Please, let me in.
Tristan's head snapped up. A woman at the outer barbican? By the saints! He'd been waiting in anticipation for Dr. Monroe's arrival, and by the devil's horns something was amiss at the gates. He stormed out of his solar, down the long, winding stone steps to the kitchens where Jameson busied himself preparing the evening fare.
"Jameson, what in bloody hell is going on at the barbican?" His shout echoed through the larder.
"We are expecting Dr. Monroe at any moment."
Jameson, unmoved by his bark, lifted the lid from a pot on the stove, stirred its contents a time or two, then replaced the top. Folding the dish towel into a perfect rectangle, he set it aside and looked up. "I believe," he said, his tone bored, "Dr. Monroe has arrived."
"Do you have sealing wax in your ears, old man? I said there's a woman wailing at my gates!"
Jameson flicked a piece of lint from his jacket. "I know." He looked up, stone-faced.
It took only a moment before Tristan grasped what Jameson had so eloquently pulled off. "Are you telling me, you old meddling busybody, that Dr. Monroe is—"
"Dr. Andrea Monroe." The corners of his mouth twitched. "My lord."
"Saints' coats!" Tristan threw his hands up, paced a time or two, then stopped and glared at his steward. "You know how I feel about wenches in my hall. Why was I not informed of this sooner?"
"Dr. Monroe is by no means a 'wench.' Besides, it never came up, my lord."
"Cease the 'my lord' nonsense, Jameson. You kept it from me a-purpose!"
"As you wish, young master Tristan."
Tristan rolled his eyes heavenward. "If I could throttle you, old man, I would do so straightaway."
Jameson didn't even flinch. "Of course you would, my lord."
Tristan raked a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. A moment passed before he slowly opened them and glared at his man. "Why is Dr. Monroe wailing so?" A loud crack of thunder sounded across the castle grounds and rumbled the walls of the keep.
He lifted one eyebrow.
Jameson instantly paled. "Oh dear." He hurried across the room and lifted the phone off its cradle on the wall.
"I suppose Will has no inkling Dr. Monroe is a woman?"
"Nay, he does not."
With one last lordly glare, Tristan turned and stormed off. He walked right through the kitchen wall.
He heard Jameson mutter a faint retort.
"This will be a most interesting summer, indeed."
Tristan grumbled to himself. The humorous lilt in his steward's voice more than annoyed him.
Mortals.
He banked the comment to memory. He would deal with the meddler later.
At the outer barbican, Tristan remained invisible and watched as his guard argued with their new guest in the pouring rain.
Bloody bones, man, move out of the way!
The damned buffoon blocked his view. Frustrated, Tristan drew closer, standing to the right of Dr. Monroe. Quite a fetching wench, even soaked to the bone, She had her face turned from him, waving her arms about, brandishing a small piece of parchment about and arguing her professional status with Dreadmoor's barbican guard. Saints, if she would be still and look his way.
Then she did.
Tristan's mouth dropped open. It couldn't be. By God's blessed bones, if he'd had a heart that beat within a live body it would surely have ceased at that very moment. He stared, not trusting his eyes.
It was
her.
The gangly-legged wench from—how long ago? He'd lost count. He recognized her, though, immediately. She flicked the rain from her eyes, tucked her wet hair behind her ears, and continued to argue. Aye, 'twas truly the same lass as before, only no longer gangly.
Rain ran down her bare arms, her newfangled hose soaked and clinging to her long, shapely legs. A thin tunic formed to her breasts, then flattened against her stomach. His mouth went dry. Nay,
'twasn't possible. Dead men didn't lust.
He suddenly had a craving for a large tankard of ale.
He was going to kill Jameson for this.
Dr. Andi Monroe reared back her soaked and booted foot, then soundly kicked poor Will in the shin.