She pushed by the barbican guard and through the gates with the swiftness of a seasoned warrior.
By all of the merciful saints above, she'd gained his castle. And with naught but a swift kick!
Tristan watched the stiff, retreating back of Andrea Monroe as she stormed his keep, armed with no other weapons save her lethal foot and razor-sharp tongue. How the lads would roar when they found out.
He materialized before Will, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared.
After a startled gasp Will lowered his head. "I'm sorry, my lord."
"Hmm." Tristan disappeared into the pounding rain. He would not miss the well-deserved dressing-down his wily old steward was about to receive.
For the first time in over seven hundred years, he had something to look forward to.
Jameson quickly dialed the outer barbican and waited for the guard to pick up. "Yes, Will? Please cease your harassment of Dr. Monroe and allow her to pass. And be a good lad and assist her with her luggage."
Will grunted. "I can't, Jameson. She's already passed. As did Himself."
A loud clap of thunder boomed in the background. "Oh dear." He set the phone back in its cradle and grabbed an umbrella from the coat closet. His Lordship was not going to like this one bit. He hurried through the kitchens to the great hall, skidded to a halt, and threw open the door. His mouth dropped open.
Dr. Monroe stood on the steps, drenched to the bone.
Jameson quickly composed himself. "Oh, my dear girl. I do so apologize for this inconvenience."
He grabbed what appeared to be the heaviest bag. Gently grasping her elbow, he pulled her inside.
"You must be Jameson."
He followed her gaze down to a rather large puddle on the floor at her feet. She looked back up and dropped her rucksack on the floor. It landed with a heavy
thud,
followed by a squishy
splat.
"Everyone seems a little ... surprised to find that I'm a woman." Her eyes narrowed and she tapped a sodden hiking boot, awaiting his answer. "Know anything about it?"
"Dr. Monroe, allow me to retrieve a dry towel for you."
"Oh no, you don't. Is there a reason you kept my gender a secret?"
Jameson felt his face blush. "My lady, I assure you—"
"Everyone thought I was a man. Even the cabbie thought I was a man. Under usual circumstances, it's no problem, my being mistaken for a man." She frowned. "But you knew. The Northumberland coroner told you."
Jameson's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the not-so-unexpected sight of His Lordship, who materialized behind Dr. Monroe, a wicked smile upon his face. Jameson knew the young lord was enjoying himself, and at his expense.
Dr. Monroe turned to look behind her. Himself quickly disappeared, the white of his teeth the very last thing to go.
"I extend my most gracious apologies, Doctor." Jameson gave her a low, proper bow. "I truly did not think the lack of information would be so bothersome." He drew the most solemn expression he could muster and met the young colonist's gaze, awaiting her forgiveness. As he'd hoped, it came right away.
"Well, no harm done, I suppose." She took a deep breath and smiled. "I apologize. I'm usually not so cranky. I guess I'm just exhausted." She glanced around, then met his gaze. "So. When do I get to meet the lord of Dreadmoor?"
"My lady." Jameson produced a dry towel and gave it as a peace offering. "Wrap this about you and let us be off to your chambers, shall we? His Lordship would no doubt be passing irritated if I allowed you to catch your death." He placed the towel in her hands and gently pulled on her elbow.
"Come now, Dr. Monroe."
Andi accepted the towel from Dreadmoor's steward. The steward with, apparently, only one name.
"Thanks, Jameson." She wiped her face and hands, and squeezed some of the water from her hair.
"About Lord Dreadmoor?"
Jameson gave a solemn look. "I apologize, Dr. Monroe. Himself is indisposed at the moment. I will show you to your chambers where you can unpack and freshen up."
Hmmm. Too busy to greet her. Oh well. Maybe he was old and sickly and had to remain in bed.
Kirk had described him as eccentric. Since she didn't want to be rude and ask, she settled for seeking him out later. Eventually, they needed to talk.
"Oh. Jameson. I've got to do one thing before I clean up." She squatted, unzipped her site bag, and pulled out the jacket to her rubber weatherproofs and a lantern. She pushed her arms into the coat.
"I need to check the cutaway. Something I'm a little retentive about." Exchanging the wet hikers for her tall, waterproof Wellingtons, she gave him a reassuring smile. "I just want to make sure it's properly covered."
Jameson nodded. "Of course. 'Tis located in the far end of the bailey. I'll call Will from the gatehouse to assist you."
Setting her site bag off to the side, she stood, fitted her tool belt around her waist, and zipped her coat. She waved Jameson's offer aside. "No, that's okay. I know where the bailey is, and this will only take a few minutes."
A puzzled look flashed across his stoic features, then quickly disappeared. "Then I shall accompany you. If you'll give me but a moment to—"
Andi shook her head. "No, really. It's all right, Jameson. I won't be long. I just want to make sure everything is secure." She grabbed her soaked boots and waited.
With a wary gaze, he nodded. "Very well, Dr. Monroe." He led her back to the door and threw a switch on the wall. "Mind the grounds as you walk. It's quite murky out this eve and these outdoor lamps don't quite reach the bailey."
Andi flipped on her torch and pointed the wide beam across the ground. Had it been a clear day, the late-evening light would still be bright. As it was, the heavy mist and blackened sky dimmed the light to near darkness.
Eerie.
She set her hikers on the stone steps to dry. "Thanks, Jameson. And don't worry. I'll be careful." Pulling up the hood of her weatherproofs, she then headed once more out into the drizzle.
Wet, spongy turf squished under her Wellingtons as she made her way across the castle grounds.
The heavy scent of sea life permeated the moist air, and the North Sea waves crashed against the rock base that served as Dreadmoor's foundation. God, she couldn't wait until morning so she could see everything in bright light. The place tagged a spot deep within her, unexplainable, powerful—an insatiable craving she'd experienced since the first encounter. The legend of Dragonhawk pulled at her, too.
Sweeping her torchlight left to right, she made out the silhouette of the old kirk through the mist, where it nestled near the cliffs, along with a few other outbuildings.
She knew, though, that Dreadmoor had a six-foot stone wall encircling the property. Had it been to keep enemies out, or keep those within prisoner? She'd read everything she could about the castle—what little there was in print—and filled in the blanks with what she knew of medieval history. But she couldn't wait to get firsthand information from the present lord. If, that is, he ever showed up.
A crisp wind brushed her cheek and she paused. Turning in a slow circle, she swept the lantern light in an arc and stared into the dark, thick blanket of mist slipping over the bailey. "Who's there?" No response. "Hello?"
Hairs bristled on her arms and she drew a deep breath. Another circle, this time faster, but the light landed on nothing unusual. Deciding to walk the strange feeling off, she headed for the oak.
There, a few meters ahead and to the right, a large tarp covered what Andi knew to be the uprooted end of a large oak tree—along with the remains and hoard of armor. With hurried steps, she crossed the distance and stopped at the corner of the canvas.
She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. "What?" Her heart slammed against her ribs, thumping the same erratic rhythm as the adrenaline rushing through her veins. Hadn't someone just spoken?
Pointing her torch, she peered into the gray mist, following its beam to the end of the shaft. "Is someone there?" Again, no answer.
With a deep breath, she turned back to her task. Following the line of canvas, she knelt and made sure each corner was knotted and secured over the stakes. The last one jiggled. She lifted the mallet from her belt and knocked the head of the spike into the ground until it sat flush with the soil.
With a yelp, she jumped and turned. "What? Who's there?" A chill came over her, the sensation turning her insides frosty. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck stood rigid and a burning lump formed in her throat. Moving as fast as her Wellingtons would allow, she rounded the tarp and, finding it secure, took off, slipping across the sodden soil, back to the keep, her torch beam bobbing through the thick, murky haze.
The sudden urgency disappeared as soon as she stepped into the glaring outside light implanted into the stone face of the castle. Andi didn't stop running until her hand rested on the iron knob of the front door. Pushing open the heavy oak, she turned and looked over her shoulder, expecting to find something, or someone.
She found nothing.
Jameson greeted her, his brows pulled close in a frown. "Dr. Monroe? Is there something amiss?"
Andi stepped into the great hall and closed the massive door behind her. After a few gulps of air, she caught her breath. "It felt like ..." She reached down to unlace her Wellingtons. "I thought someone was out there." She shook her head and took a deep breath. "I ... could've sworn I heard someone speak. It sounded so real." She gave a nervous laugh. "Crazy, huh?"
Jameson frowned. "What did you hear, lady?"
Peeling off her weatherproofs, she met Jameson's questioning gaze. "Save them."
Jameson's eyebrows shot up. Anger flashed in his eyes but disappeared so fast, Andi wasn't sure it had happened. Then he smiled.
"I'm sure it was only the wind, Dr. Monroe. Very brisk off the North Sea, you know. I assure you the grounds are quite private and secure." He placed an age-spotted hand on her shoulder. "You've nothing to fear in this place, lady. I swear it."
God, now she felt like an idiot. Of course she didn't have anything to fear. All those tales of missing knights and see-through knights in chain mail with no bodily substance and skeletons clinging to tree roots had her imagining things. "Thanks, Jameson. I guess it was my imagination working overtime. I truly appreciate the opportunity to work this find. It means a great deal to me."
He nodded his gray head. "I'm so glad that it does. Now. Shall I assist with your baggage whilst we venture above? No doubt you'll want to rid yourself of those sopping garments?"
Andi smiled and shouldered her site bag. "Absolutely. Lead the way."
For the first time since entering Dreadmoor's great hall she looked—really looked—at her surroundings. A smile pulled at her lips as she took in the room.
Bold stone walls and exposed wooden beams, just as it would have been in the thirteenth century, made up the interior of Dreadmoor Castle. Tapestries that appeared to be centuries old adorned a good amount of wall space. A monolithic fireplace took up the space of an entire wall. Medieval torches—finely crafted replicas, anyway—situated in their cradles cast a dim glow over the enormous room. Very impressive, to say the least, and just as she'd dreamed it would be.
"This place is perfect." She didn't miss a thing as she allowed Jameson to pull her through the great hall toward a massive staircase leading to the chambers above.
They passed an immense tapestry, and she stopped for a short look. The color had faded, but someone had done a wonderful job of keeping it preserved. Such tiny stitches! The scene depicted two knights at tournament, their lances lethally pointed at one another while their magnificent chargers raced forward. A large flag waved in the background, a mystical beast with its head thrown back, roaring.
Dragonhawk.
"Dr. Monroe?"
"I'm coming." She turned and followed Jameson up the stairs, down a long, shadowy corridor until they reached another set of steps.
"The tower chamber, Dr. Monroe." He indicated their direction with a slight nod.
Andi's skin prickled. She couldn't believe her good fortune. "The tower chamber?"
"Yes, now if you'll step with utmost care ..."
Jameson's words trailed behind her. Excitement bubbled as she mounted the darkened stairs and rushed ahead into the darkness.
"Colonists."
"I heard that," she said. A single door stood open at the landing. Pitch-blackness poured out. "Hey, Jameson, where are the—"
Lights from the tower chamber flickered on. Andi turned to look behind her. Jameson took the remaining two steps as he approached her room. She turned back to her chambers. She hadn't bumped into any switches. Jameson must've hit one in the hall. With a shrug she walked into her room, then pulled up short. She could do nothing but stare, openmouthed, and hope with all her might she didn't drool and loll her tongue.
"This is so great ..." More tapestries, similar to the ones in the great hall, draped the rounded stone wall, each depicting a knight either at battle or at tournament, the figures stitched to perfection. A huge, four-poster curtained bed sat in the center of the room, the heavy velvet a lush, dark burgundy. The fireplace, which took up the breadth of the wall directly in front of the bed, had a large, wooden, medieval shield in use as a hearth screen.
She set her site kit on the floor and walked to the shield. She skimmed her hands over the aged wood and steel straps. It measured at least six inches thick and was painted yellow, with a black and green mystical creature rampant in the center. The animal, whose origin Andi didn't recognize, had a sapphire-colored eye. She turned and smiled at Jameson, her waterlogged state forgotten.
"Dragonhawk's crest, right? Is this dated?" She fingered the creature.
"Yes, my lady." The old steward beamed, unable to hide the pride in his voice. He cleared his throat.
"Thirteenth century, I do believe." He glanced around the room, then walked across the hardwood floor to a small door. "The lavatory, Dr. Monroe." He took a step inside, pulled back the curtain on the tub, then stepped back out. "Everything you need should be here." Jameson gave her a somber look. "I do apologize for tonight's events, Dr. Monroe. I hope these facilities suit you."