Andi reassured him with a pat on the shoulder. "Jameson, I'm used to staying in a tent during an excavation." She looked around the room and felt another ping of excitement. "This is way more than I expected. And don't worry. I'm quite used to the he/she mix-up. And no excuse for myself—
I'm sorry for being rude earlier." She gave a lopsided grin. "I suppose I should check on the guard at the front gate. I sort of ... pushed my way through."
"Not to worry, my lady. Will is a sturdy lad. He'll be fine." Jameson gave Andi a low bow, then stood and straightened his already-straight suit coat. "Have your bath and then hasten down to the kitchens for a late supper." Turning on his heel, he walked out of the chambers, pulling the heavy oak door behind him.
Andi looked around the room and shook her head. Walking over to the window, she threw open the sturdy wooden shutter. While she'd expected the tangy balm of fresh air, she was instead met with double-paned glass. Funny—while a good portion of the castle had been modernized, a greater portion hadn't. It fascinated her. She flipped the twin latches at the bottom and shoved the glass up.
The rain had slowed to a light sprinkle, and a moistened, mid-June sea breeze wafted in. The briny air washed over her, comforted her. What good fortune she had, being selected for such a fantastic job.
Thanks, Kirk.
Had it not been for his connections with the coroner, another private firm might have been chosen.
Smiling to herself, she grabbed some dry clothes from her bag, along with her toiletries, and stepped into the bathroom. God, this was great! She could hardly wait to get started. After the initial inspection of the site in the morning, she'd get a lift into the village and start with a verbal investigation. She wanted to know more about the legend of the missing knights before laying out the grid. There was a great chance the two could be connected.
Her stomach rumbled—loud. The pack of digestives pilfered from the mess tent in Northumberland had long ago worn off. She was starving.
Ooh, fish 'n' chips.
A craving to visit one of the chip shops in the village tweaked her stomach. Steaming batter-fried haddock, a heap of fried chips smothered in vinegar and brown sauce all wrapped up in thick, white paper ... yum.
With a spring in her step she set to her task, anxious to meet Jameson in the kitchens and, not only eat, but ask a few questions about the lords of Dreadmoor, past and present—
"What?" Andi peered around the doorjamb. Hadn't someone just spoken? "Hello?" Her gaze crossed the empty chamber. With a shake of her head, she ducked back into the doorway. On second thought, she flipped the lock.
Either she was going crazy, or she'd just heard another whisper. It was the same message from earlier.
Save them.
Tristan materialized in front of his man at the bottom step in the great hall. Jameson, damn his arse, gave him a deep, scolding frown.
One gray eyebrow lifted. "Have you nothing better to do with Dr. Monroe than use her as sport?"
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. "What?"
"Dr. Monroe. She came running in from the fallen oak, scared out of her wits. She said someone spoke to her in the bailey, but no one was about. I would like to know who ... and why. She's here to help—and by your bidding."
Tristan scowled. "I don't know what you're talking about, old man. I had nothing to do with it. She just began turning and asking aloud 'What? Who's there?' I thought mayhap she'd seen me. Finally, she bolted. After I made sure she was at the door, I went to question the others."
Jameson's gray brows furrowed. "And had one of them done the teasing?"
Tristan shook his head. "Nay. The lads all denied it."
The blood drained from Jameson's face. "If you didn't do it, sir, nor the others, then who did?"
Tristan crossed the great hall to the hearth and stared into the burning embers. "I vow I don't know.
She said someone spoke to her?"
"That is what she said."
Tristan cocked his head. "And what did the voice say?"
"Save them."
Save them?
What by the devil's horns did that mean? He hadn't heard a voice, and he'd been right behind her, every step of the way. "I did follow her out. She shouldn't go alone. But I vow I didn't speak a word aloud." He thought a moment. "She was rather edgy. I knew she was afraid, but by the devil, I couldn't see what of." He met his butler's worried gaze. "Is she settled now?"
"I believe she is, my lord."
"Well, it's a bloody good thing I switched on the lamps in her chambers, since you didn't bother to.
She could've fallen in the dark." He rubbed his jaw. "What is she doing now?"
"I believe she is bathing, my lord."
He cleared his throat. "Of course she is. She was soaked to the bloody bone. Now, we've another issue at hand. There is a small change in plans as to Dr. Monroe meeting me."
Jameson raised one gray eyebrow. "How's that?"
Tristan began to pace. Pacing always did seem to help him ponder. With a quick wave of his hand, he created the dying embers to instantly blaze. "I cannot allow Dr. Monroe to see me."
Jameson inclined his head. "And why, pray tell, is that?"
Tristan stopped and stared. "You know good and true, old man, that I did not want strangers traipsing over my land. I'm a private sort." He raked a hand through his hair. "If only that storm hadn't turned over the bloody tree." He leveled his gaze to his manservant. "I certainly didn't want any bothersome females to have to worry over. And now I have one for the saints only know how long."
"That, my young lord, is a most lame excuse. Besides, you yourself said you'd like to find out more about the bones and armor."
He paused. "Aye, true. 'Tis baffling." He let out an exasperated breath. "We've met once before, I'm afraid."
Jameson blinked. "Come again?"
"The wench. I've, er, well." He coughed. "We've met."
"When, exactly?"
Tristan paused. "Right after your Margaret passed." Saints, how it pained him to remember that sweet woman. Jameson's beloved wife had worked her way into Tristan's heart and taken root, and he mourned greatly for her. Yet another reminder of how useless it was to allow his heart to grow close to a mortal. 'Twould lead to nothing more than an eternity of pain.
Jameson's expression softened at the mention of his Margaret. "I was gone but for a fortnight, sir. I had no idea you'd gained such trouble in such a short time."
"I know." Tristan shook his head. "She was a lovely thing, even back then, although a bit gaunt. She came rambling onto Dreadmoor's lands, eyes wide with wonder, and then came up from the shore side as if she had no fear of the place, or what may lurk here." He shrugged. " 'Twas after that we hired our first barbican guard."
Jameson cleared his throat. "I see. Strange, you've never bothered to inform me of this little adventure before."
"Be you quiet, Jameson. As it goes, the silly lass decided to enter the kirk—no doubt to simply explore. The next instant, the stone steps caught her eye."
"Those steps are quite treacherous, my lord."
Tristan frowned. "I know that. 'Twasn't as though I invited her in. But in she went anyway, of her own accord." He waved his hand in the air. "Then her foot went through a crumbling step and she nearly fell. There she was, stuck and flailing about, with no one around ... save my bloody, useless self."
"How—"
"I followed her from the barbican, and had even attempted to frighten her off with a few crisp gusts of wind. But the wench was determined." He looked at Jameson and shrugged. "I had no choice but to appear before her and talk her out of the situation. She was nigh onto breaking her skinny neck."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. "If only that were the whole of it." He peered at Jameson. "She made a grab for me, and before I could retreat, she ..." He closed his eyes. "Her hand fell through me."
"Oh dear. This does change things a bit."
"Aye." Tristan paced in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped and whirled around. "I've got it. Tell her I've come down with the ague, and I mustn't see anyone in my weakened condition." He walked over to the fireplace and extinguished the flame with another flick of his wrist. "The small room at the end of the corridor will be suitable, I suppose. You can tell her that is my chamber, and it is not to be entered at any cost—physician's orders. My solar is to be kept locked at all times, for I doubt these past years have been long enough to douse her curiosity."
Tristan came to stand in front of Jameson once more. "Got it?"
" 'Tis a broom closet, my lord."
Tristan frowned. "I know that. She, on the other hand, does not."
" 'Twould be a simple excursion to the west tower for her to find your solar."
"Aye, and 'twill be your duty to make sure she does not." Tristan drew a deep breath. "I do not want her meddling in any other aspect of my business, save what she was hired for. I've no idea whose bones are lying about my bailey, but mayhap we'll recognize the weapons. Other than that, I've no interest in her. I've had privacy for over seven centuries. I prefer it that way. Besides, the lads are already restless. They don't relish having to hide whilst she is about. Nor do I."
Jameson shook his head. "I do not think you will be able to fool Dr. Monroe. She seems quite bright, my lord. But ..."
Tristan frowned. "But what?"
"I don't know, sir, but I think you should consider changing your attire befitting to a modern-day young lord and face her directly, as planned." He brushed his cuff. "You look as average as I, you know. 'Tis only you have no substance."
Tristan grimaced. "I need no reminder of that, Jameson."
"I'm sorry, sir. No disrespect intended. Only stating the facts." His wise gaze met Tristan's. "She was a young girl before, and you appeared in your mail. Certainly, she'll think you a different sort, dressed in modern-day clothing."
Tristan walked to the hearth. "I just don't know, man. What if I bumble through a wall and she sees I'm not, well,
of the living?"
He shook his head. Not that it'd stopped him from getting close to her before. "Let me think on the matter. I shall let you know on the morrow."
Jameson headed for the larder. "Very well, my lord, but don't ponder it overmuch. She's asked on your whereabouts more than once. Quite anxious, that one. Now, I'm off to the kitchen. Dr. Monroe will be down shortly for her supper, and I don't want her to have to wait." With that he strode away.
"You're taken with her, old man."
Jameson didn't even bother to turn around. "I most certainly am, my lord."
Tristan glowered at his steward's retreating back, frowned a good, lordly frown, and then disappeared through the wall.
Jameson had it aright. Things were about to become quite interesting at Dreadmoor Keep.
Andi stepped out of the tub and quickly dried off. Wrapping the thick, white towel around her, she inspected the room. How many times had she envisioned this place, about what it would be like on the inside? Hundreds of thousands. Even her dreams didn't match up.
Except for the mysterious man she thought she'd seen dressed as a medieval knight twelve years before. She remembered his rugged, handsome face, his long, dark hair and the most intriguing shade of blue eyes she'd ever seen. He'd been rough, demanding, yet kind enough to offer his assistance. Why he hadn't physically helped her, instead of barking orders at her from the steps below, still baffled her. And had her hand literally fallen through him? No. She refused to believe it.
She'd just been scared.
A smile pulled at her mouth as she recalled his words. His voice, very deep and raspy, had shaken her to the bone. God, she could still hear it echo in her mind.
Now, if you'll reach with your left
hand, there, and grasp for that stone—aye, like that. Well done. Now pull yourself up
... She remembered her knight as being mammoth, with wide shoulders and chunky biceps, all covered in chain mail. "Boy, talk about a realistic vision." With the palm of her hand, she wiped the fogged moisture from the mirror and shook her head. "Dr. Monroe, you seriously need to get a life."
A life—unlike the poor soul wrapped around the thick roots of the oak tree out in the bailey. What had happened? And why had the body been buried with a bundle of armor? Hopefully, after a forensic inspection, the photos, and a few field tests, she'd be able to determine the gender and approximate age of the skeleton—which, given that the tree itself rivaled close to seven hundred years old, so must the remains be at least that many years. After gridding the area, then placing several cuts in the soil, she could begin sifting. Perhaps she'd find coin, pottery shards—maybe one of the weapons found would have an identifying mark. A peek into the past sat right at her fingertips.
God, I love my work.
And could this one body be tied in with the missing fifteen from 1292? So many questions brewed in her mind. If only Kirk could be here to assist. He'd agreed to meet her in Berwick for dinner in two weeks to discuss her findings, but she'd phone him tomorrow after the first set of tests. Maybe she could even convince Dreadmoor to allow Kirk to help her on the first day of bone removal. On second thought, she'd call him first thing in the morning. That is, if he didn't phone her first. He had no patience. Hopefully, she'd have a decent report to offer.
She'd start with Jameson at dinner. If Dreadmoor made himself available tonight, she could speak with him, as well. Then, first thing tomorrow morning, she'd inspect the area. After that, she'd head into the village. Townspeople always had a stow of information. Even if it came in the form of lore and legend, usually there were hidden truths in the verbals.
Lord Dreadmoor would be her first choice. A perusal of the castle library, if there was one, would be heaven. At this point, a few old xeroxed copies of documents shoved into a shoe box would make her happy. Anything.
Hanging up the towel, she quickly dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a clean tank top, and sneakers, then pulled her wet hair into a ponytail. Satisfied, she stepped out into the passageway.