He frowned at Andi. "Do not grin at me so, woman. What kind of rot is this, anyway? I cannot see my very own betrothed before we wed?" He turned to Jason and thumped him in the chest. "And you, pup. You forget your place in this hall, do you not?"
Jason had the good grace to blush. "Nay, my lord."
"Begone. I'll tend to this wench on my own."
Jason peered at Andi. "My lady?"
She burst out laughing and waved the young knight away. "I'll yell if I need you."
Jason bowed low, turned, and sauntered up the passageway.
Andi grinned at her husband-to-be. "Lord Dreadmoor, do you know what time it is?"
Tristan took one step, which brought them nearly nose to nose. The dim light of the corridor shadowed every sharp plane and angle of his handsome face. His eyes burned a bright sapphire that scorched her clear to the bone.
The roguish grin he gave her lit up his features. "Aye, but from the looks of your lovely face you were not exactly hard sleeping, love." He opened his arms for her, and Andi wasted no time at all in sinking against the hard wall of his chest. His strong arms folded around her, his chin resting on top of her head. " 'Tis a ridiculous custom you Americans have. I vow I won't tolerate it."
Andi smiled against his shirt. "That's quite apparent, my lord." She sighed and snuggled closer.
"Something is bothering you, love. I can sense it." His deep and raspy voice, with that ever-present sexy accent, made her shiver.
She lifted a shoulder. "I guess I'm the only bride not to have a bridesmaid. Do you think Jameson will be my maid of honor?"
Tristan's laugh rumbled through the passageway. "You have that insufferable man in the palm of your hand, Lady Dreadmoor. You could talk him into anything, I'd wager. But," he said, his voice low, "I understand completely how he feels." He stilled, a tenseness so rigid Andi could feel every muscle in his broad chest tighten. He cleared his throat, tilted her head up with one finger, and held her gaze with very little effort. "We are betrothed, Andrea. In my day, by truth and by law, we'd be legally wed."
She couldn't look away, or even blink. A smoldering blue gaze burned into hers. His eyes remained open as he lowered his head and settled his mouth against her lips. After a moment they nudged hers open and demanded more. His tongue tasted her, swept the inside of her mouth, traced her teeth. He sucked her lower lip and she all but pooled to the floor from the sensations washing over her. She didn't know if the quivering came from her or him.
What she did know, though, is she definitely didn't want him to stop.
One large hand held her tight at the small of her back, the other buried in her hair, kneading her scalp and neck. Tristan deepened his kiss even more, and Andi thought she would die from the wave of emotion. Her heart pounded as he robbed her of breath. All at once he pulled away, letting his forehead rest against hers.
"Saints, woman, but I love you." He kissed her nose. "You know not how long I have dreamed of holding you this way." His mouth moved to her ear. "Of feeling you beneath me ..." Tracing the curve of her jaw, he ran his thumb across her lips. Drawing closer, he lowered his head and inhaled.
A callused knuckle grazed her skin as he pushed her hair aside, settling his mouth against her neck.
Firm, demanding lips mouthed against her ear, "I want you powerfully bad. Was it me that said we should wait?"
"Uh-huh." What with the tiny amount of brain function still remaining, Andi knew, for a certainty and without a doubt, just how badly he
did
want her.
It was, she noticed as Tristan leaned into her, quite obvious.
A loud, annoyed grumble interrupted any betrothed thoughts she and Tristan might have had. They both turned to the annoyed grumble-maker.
Jameson stood in the corridor, back stiff as a metal rod, draped in an old-fashioned nightgown and slippers. A disapproving frown crinkled his face. One graceful gray eyebrow shot up and disappeared into his impeccable gray hair, and he tapped a slippered foot against the floor. Andi smothered a grin, thinking he looked as though he had stepped out of the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.
"Master Tristan, I do believe 'tis time to allow Herself to retire for what remains of the night. Surely you don't wish her to have dark moons under her eyes for the ceremony?" Jameson glared at Tristan.
"Go back to bed, Jameson. I don't recall asking your permission to seek out my betrothed. Besides, we're doing naught but ... visiting." Tristan pulled her tighter against his chest. She nearly wheezed from the loss of air.
"Nay, my young lord, you did not. But I am here to remind you of your vast amount of patience and chivalry." Jameson took one step closer. "You
do
remember those charming qualities you possess, aye?"
Andi watched as Tristan and Jameson had a stare-down. In the end, Jameson, of course, won.
Tristan mumbled a curse under his breath. "Begone, you meddling old man. I never go back on my word. Allow me to say my good-nights without your bothersome presence."
Andi could have sworn she'd seen the corner of Jameson's mouth lift in a smile of victory. He bowed low to her and Tristan. "Good-night, then, my lord and lady." He straightened, turned, and strode back up the corridor.
Forcing her chin up with his knuckles, Tristan sighed. "I've waited over seven hundred years to have you, wench." He groaned and pulled her mouth to his. "I can wait a few more bothersome bloody hours." He kissed her long and deep, his hungry lips claiming every inch. The stone wall dug into her back as Tristan leaned into her, kissing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. His breath rushed against her ear and she shivered.
A loud clearing of throat snapped them both back to reality. Tristan jumped so hard, he knocked his head on the wall above Andi's head. He cursed, gave her a quick peck on the nose, then turned and stormed up the corridor. Andi lost count of the medieval curses that poured from his mouth.
As if after that kiss she could actually walk. Andi pushed away from the wall and felt her knees sway. She caught Jameson, the throat-clearer, out of the corner of her eye. He gave a slight nod, then turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Andi smiled and turned to go back to bed. Just before she closed her door she saw Jason step into place by her door. He grinned and gave her a low bow. What an adorable guy he was.
It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours, she was unsure. Sleep had claimed her, the ebb and flow of the tide lapping at the base of Dreadmoor lulling her into slumber.
Then something woke her up.
Cracking open first one eye, then another, Andi peered into the darkness. The skin on her neck went icy, and she knew immediately that someone was in the room with her.
"Hello?" she whispered. "Who's there?"
As she stared, the soft, flimsy waft of familiar mist gathered and formed, suspending in midair.
Although she'd encountered it several times since arriving at Dreadmoor, it never failed to unnerve her. She continued to stare, as her mouth had once again locked up.
This time, though, things were different.
The mist shifted, focused, blurred, then shifted again, right before Andi's eyes. Slowly, it began to take shape. Within seconds, the form of a woman shimmered before her. Dressed in a long-sleeved dress, a simple shift covering it, her hair pulled back and covered with a small cap, she folded her hands in front of her and simply stared.
Andi swallowed past the lump of uncertainty and astonishment in her throat and attempted to speak.
"You're Erik's mother. Aren't you?"
The woman gave a simple nod.
Breathing deeply, Andi tried to get her erratic nerves under control. "Thank you for what you've done. Without your help, this mystery would never have been solved, and Tristan and his men would still be cursed."
The woman smiled and nodded again.
"I'm sorry about your son—about what he was and all you had to go through," Andi said. "Tristan never meant for your grandson to die, and would have done anything to save him. They didn't know he was there." She paused when the ghostly figure simply stared. "Tristan and his men were—are very fond of you."
Another smile touched her lips, and then she began to slowly fade. She inclined her head and spoke, a soft, feathery whisper. "Thank you. Love him forever ..."
Then she was gone.
Andi smiled. Two days before, she, Tristan, and the entire garrison had not only buried the skeletal remains from the dungeon, who according to Erik was one of Tristan's housemaids, but erected a gravestone in honor of Erik's mother, in the village cemetery. Her true death unknown, her true final resting place unfound, Tristan wanted a formal Christian burial for the old woman he'd been so fond of. At last, the ghost who'd helped rescue Dragonhawk and his knights from an eternity of roaming as spirits, who'd known they'd suffered at the hands of her own demented son, finally found peace.
Good Lord, her nerves pulsed. Andi couldn't remember when she'd been more fidgety. More than the time she had to give her oral book report in front of the entire seventh grade. More nervous than the time she'd lectured her first class of 120 students at the university. Even more nervous than the time she had to do a television interview with
60 Minutes.
Andi chanced a peek, and not for the first time that hour, into the large, oval mirror standing in the corner of her room. She couldn't believe the image staring back at her was, well,
her.
The long, cream-colored gown she wore had been hand-sewed, according to Tristan's explicit instructions. Trimmed in gold braid and thread, the delicate stitching adorned the bodice, and sewn into one of the sleeves was a small embroidered mystical creature—Dragonhawk. Kate, the sweet woman, had done a wonderful job. She'd even helped Andi with her hair. With a masterful touch, she'd swept Andi's straight, shoulder-length hair up into an elegant twist, adding pearled pins and sprigs of baby's breath. She actually felt ... beautiful.
Jameson had said all brides were beautiful on their wedding day. What a sweetheart. She'd made the skin under his white eyebrows turn beet red from the giant kiss she'd given him.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. With a final glance she turned and crossed the floor. When she opened the door she faced Jameson, whose mouth literally fell open. An unlikely response from him, to be sure. She quickly scanned downward, hoping to find everything in order.
Just her luck the hem of her gown would be caught up in the waistband of her hose, exposing God-knew-what to God-knew-who.
A slow grin crossed his weathered and usually stoic face, and he lifted his gaze. "My lady Andi, you look absolutely breathtaking. I daresay Himself will be pleased beyond words."
Andi's skin flamed from the compliment. "Thanks, Jameson. Is it time?"
Jameson nodded briefly. "Aye, 'tis time." He held out his arm for her to take, which she gratefully did, then started down the corridor.
A very small number of people attended the celebration. Live people, that is. Jameson, his son Thomas, who looked just like Jameson, Miss Kate, her daughter, and Heath, the priest, to name a few. Tristan and his knights, of course. Even Constable Hurley showed up. Dreadmoor had quite a haunted reputation, but there were a few who put their fears behind and dared to come forth.
The remainder of the guests were restless spirits, ghosts from all corners of England, Scotland, and France. They had poured in through the front gates in droves, just to see the arrogant Dragonhawk and his lady wed. The news had apparently traveled fast, because there were knights and warriors of all shapes and ages, littering the bailey, the lists, the great hall, and the chapel—ghosts Andi had not once even laid eyes on. And they'd been there all week. From what she heard, they'd planned on staying.
That was to be expected, she guessed.
She was marrying a fierce and, apparently, notorious battle-seasoned thirteenth-century knight.
By the time the sun began its descent and the sky turned various shades of purple, gray, and orange, Tristan had threatened to toss her over his massive shoulders and haul her to the kirk. She wouldn't have minded, really. Not one little bit.
As Jameson led her to the staircase her heart began to pound. That is, until her eyes landed on Tristan. Dragonhawk.
Then her poor heart nearly stopped.
The groom-to-be stood at the foot of the stairs, speaking with his captain. Kail must have announced her, because Tristan's head turned. He stared, a feral glint lighting his eyes, a muscle tightening in his cheek. It almost made her turn and flee.
Almost, but not quite.
Jameson led her down the stairs, and it was a darn good thing, too. She would surely have tripped had he not been holding her steady.
Jameson approached Tristan, gently placed her hand on his arm, then stepped aside and gave Andi a low bow.
The lord of Dreadmoor all but robbed her of breath. He was so big, she thought. His very presence demanded respect and authority and power, reeking of self-confidence. It lingered in each and every knight's eye, whether live or ghostly.
She, on the other hand, thought him a deliciously dreamy and chivalristic hottie.
He wore his mail, new of course, as was the other knights', and a teeny bit less creaky. Dark hose strained to cover his massive calves and thighs, followed by boots and a black surcoat. The mystical Dragonhawk, same as the one on his shield, was stitched on the front, its head thrown back as though issuing a mighty command. Its eye eerily glowed the same shade of sapphire as Tristan's.
More of Kate's beautiful handiwork. His sword, now polished and gleaming, hung low on his lean, narrow hips. Then she noticed something odd.
The sapphire stone was missing from the hilt. It'd been filled in with a black stone. Onyx?
But before she could think further on that, a voice, deep and raspy, growled in her ear.
"Lady, you're gaping. I vow 'tis immensely satisfying."
The corner of her mouth lifted. "No doubt."