She pulled a torch from her tool belt and pointed the beam of light into the hole.
Save him.
The faded whisper caused Andi's spine to stiffen. Oh no. Not again. Slowly, she turned and peered over her shoulder.
Tristan walked toward her, only a few meters away. Too far to have been the speaker, his voice too male.
Find me.
Andi stood, her eyes darting first left, then right. No one about—just her and Tristan. She wasn't imagining that whisper, and it wasn't the wind. An icy shiver crept through her as she watched the big man grow closer.
Tristan.
The voice had said
save him,
and when she looked, the handsome lord was the only one around.
Wait, Monroe. Did you just say the voice?
God, she sounded like an idiot, even to her own ears. But it wasn't just a voice. It was ... she shuddered at the thought.
A presence.
What was wrong with the wench? Her face had gone pale, and she looked as though she searched for something. Or someone.
He knew he risked his guise by approaching her, but he preferred to be in control of their meetings
—which is exactly what he'd told Jameson would happen from here on out. Besides, damn his own self, his interest steadfastly grew in not only the mysterious and unfortunate bones of the unknown buried in his bailey, but in the one researching those bones. Whether he liked it or not.
Unable to stop himself, he drank in the sight of her. Small hands with slender fingers smoothed her dark hair behind her ears. She tried to look as though nothing was amiss, but he knew better. The look of fright on her features was unmistakable.
Striding up to her, he stopped a safe distance away. He prayed she wouldn't reach for him again.
Saints' souls, what a disaster that would be. Before he could say a word, she spoke.
"Did you just say something?"
Tristan frowned. "Nay, you haven't given me such a chance."
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him; then she lifted her shoulder in a slight shrug. "I didn't think I'd see you again until this evening." She turned and waved a hand at the uprooted tree. "I've just removed the tarp and was about to take the initial notes and photos. I'd like my boss to assist me when I remove the bones, if that's okay?"
He gave a good, lordly nod. "So long as you finish your task as agreed upon. Alone." Truly, he didn't want any more strangers traipsing across his estate than need be.
He pondered her earlier reaction. What had baffled her so? Did his visage appear odd? 'Twasn't as though she could see through him. Even in sunlight, he appeared as alive as any mortal, or so Jameson had said. Could she have heard another voice? When he'd questioned the lads, none laid claim to the deed. So who? Devil's hooves, he didn't want to seem inadequate.
Deciding to turn the subject until he could find out more, he pointed to the overturned oak. "Explain to me the order in which your tasks will proceed. I want to make sure your duties go accordingly while on Dreadmoor land. Then, if you've any further questions for me, you may ask them now."
"Okay. First, the photos."
She discarded the brightly colored waterproof cloak, laid it aside, and crouched down, pointing to the bones and the surrounding soil. The tunic she wore rose above her waist, exposing the small of her back, the slight bones of her spine raising her smooth skin. Damnation.
Focus on her words,
dolt, not her body.
"I want to get as much on the digital as possible before touching anything. Once the area is disturbed, especially once the bones are removed, all facts and evidence are destroyed." Shielding her eyes from the sun, she gave him another smile. "That's why it's so important to get it down right from the start. I can't miss one little detail, or it's lost. Forever."
Tristan stared at the tenacious woman, squatted down in the black muck with her knee-high waterproof boots on,
enjoying herself.
By the blade, he shouldn't be here. Leave her alone and let her be, he'd told himself. He'd had business to tend to this morn, 'twas true enough. Having used a portion of the ghastly amount of gold he'd accumulated before his death, not to mention that of his uncles—secured through the years by the thrifty Jameson family—he had procured a trustworthy solicitor and had several lucrative investment properties throughout the south of England, which not only kept his bank account more than plentiful, but paid the taxes on the castle and managed the running of it. Without a doubt, the best course of action should have been to leave Dr. Monroe to the digging of the bones.
But nay. He'd watched her take her leave from his solar, then found himself staring whilst she worked. He'd hurried through his phone meeting with Mr. Adams, his solicitor, and had sought her out. He'd regret it later, he knew. But for now, he wanted to know more.
He felt ... drawn to her.
"Tristan?"
Damn. Crossing his arms across his chest, he frowned.
"I'm glad to see my coin has not been wasted." He peered over her head into the gaping hole. "And what do you expect to find after fetching all the bones out?"
Andi rose and walked toward a canvas bag on the ground. She unzipped it and lifted a camera.
"Well, although not my primary profession, I do have a background in forensic anthropology. It won't be a fast procedure. There are 206 bones in the adult skeleton. I'll be able to tell you whether the bones are male or female, if the right bones are available. I may be able to tell how long they've been in the ground, which, since they're rooted under this tree, I'd estimate at least six or seven hundred years, maybe more. And how old the person was. At least, an approximation." She unscrewed the cover protecting the lens. "After the photos are taken and I've made a record of how everything is laid out, I'll slowly collect the remains and send them to a friend of mine—a pathologist. He'll do more extensive examinations on the bones while I excavate the rest of the site here."
Tristan nodded, hoping he appeared more interested in her work than how fetching she looked in the modern trews snugged against her bottom. He swallowed. "Good. I expect you'll do a thorough job."
She gave him a half grin. "I always do." Then she turned and began snapping photos.
Hmmm. A saucy wench. He rather liked that. He liked her confidence and determination, as well. It nearly gave him the courage to trust her.
Saints, would that he could.
"Does this mean you won't be meeting with me this evening?"
Go on, Dreadmoor. Answer her.
He looked into round, hazel eyes, widened with expectation.
Waiting for an answer. Wanting to meet with him tonight. Where was his bloody strength? The more he met with her, the more he wanted to meet with her again. And again. Besides, what about the quarter finals? Of course he couldn't meet with her.
Damn his arse.
"Aye. Mayhap for a short spell. I am very busy. You can always confer with Jameson. He knows a great deal regarding the castle's history."
She nodded. "I don't want to be a nuisance. But the more you have to offer, the more I'll have to offer." Turning, she began taking more photos.
Now. What was he to say to that? Not what he wished. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I'll do what I can. In the meanwhile, I've Dreadmoor business to attend to." Which he didn't, but that was a fact she need not be aware of. Before she could answer, he turned and made for his very unimportant Dreadmoor business.
A cool breeze brushed Andi's cheek as she walked through the kitchen's double doors. "I forgot to ask you this morning. Did you light my fireplace last night, Jameson?" She glanced at her watch.
Three thirty. She'd been surveying and recording for six hours.
The aging butler spared her a glance. "Yes, my lady, I'm afraid I did take the liberty of doing the like. 'Tis a dreadfully drafty place, the castle. Even in the summer months, the north of England is a tempestuous place." He cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. "I take it you made headway with your tasks this morn?"
She crossed the floor and sat down at the kitchen table. "I did, actually. All the photos have been taken of the remains and area, and I began the recording. I've got to note every grain of dirt, every rock, and every misplaced bit of tree bark surrounding the exposed soil."
Jameson raised one gray eyebrow. "I see you've been busy. But you mustn't make a habit of missing tea, Dr. Monroe. You're passing thin as it is."
As if in response, her stomach growled. "I guess I got busy and forgot." She smoothed the tablecloth before her. "Lord Dreadmoor came out and viewed the area."
The other eyebrow shot up. "Did he, now? Were you able to gain any more information regarding the Dragonhawk legend? I daresay if anyone would know, 'twould be Himself."
Andi shrugged. "I think I annoyed Himself, actually. Although he halfheartedly agrees to meet with me for information, he seems to do it with reluctance. I did find out he has the original plans of the castle, which I've been given permission to examine. I didn't have time to ask him about the shield in my chambers, though."
"Ah, well, I can enlighten you somewhat." Jameson placed a plate before her. "I do hope you like egg and dill salad with mayonnaise on wheat?"
She nodded. "Absolutely. Thanks." Lifting the packed sandwich, she took a bite.
Yum.
"Of course. Now. 'Twas the original Dreadmoor's war shield, passed down from the centuries. Quite a sturdy piece of armor. You can feel the battle notches carved in the wood."
Wiping the corner of her mouth with a white linen napkin, she met his gaze. "The original Dreadmoor—that would be the infamous Dragonhawk, right? I discovered that fascinating detail earlier, but I'll be sure and ask him about the rest this evening."
Jameson cleared his throat. "I daresay you must have made quite an impression on him."
Andi took a sip of tea, placed the mug down, and eyed the steward. She crossed her arms over her chest. He knew something, and she wanted to know what. "Okay, Jameson. Give it up." She rapped her fingertips on the tabletop, awaiting his answer.
Jameson slowly turned. The bored expression on his face gave nothing away. "Give what up, my lady?"
Andi raised an eyebrow. "He is not a typical English lord—not what I expected at all." She pinned him with a stare. "Himself. I want to know about
him
—and why he doesn't want to talk to me."
The corners of Jameson's mouth twitched, just a bit. He straightened his already straightened jacket.
"Yes, of course. Lord Dreadmoor—"
"Oh no. His name is Tristan." She smiled. "Tristan
what?"
The collar of Jameson's coat rustled, as if a breeze had caught it. He stiffened again, then went on.
Weird.
She hadn't felt a breeze. Maybe the kitchen vent had rushed a pocket of air near him.
"Tristan de Barre, my lady."
Andi crossed one leg under her rear end and propped her chin in the palm of her hand. Whoa. De Barre. What a sexy name. Man oh man. "Go on. I want the scoop. The skinny. Details, man."
Jameson straightened himself and walked to the pantry. "I daresay 'tis much like gossip, if you ask me."
"I didn't. Proceed."
"Ahem."
Andi looked around the room. She saw no one but the steward. "Was that you?"
Jameson cleared his throat, then coughed several times. "Aye. Allergies." He confirmed that with another bout of throat-clearing, followed by a few sniffles.
She narrowed her eyes at the butler. "Hmm." Finishing her sandwich, she drained her mug of tea, stood, and pushed the heavy oak chair under the table. Her brows furrowed together. "If you won't give up the information I want, then I'll just have to ask Tristan myself. Tonight." She smoothed her hair behind her ears. "Now, are we still on for a trip to the village?"
"Well, old man, you've done it now. You'd best answer the lady."
Jameson, used to years of having been sneaked up on, didn't even grace Tristan with a jump. "Of a certainty, my lady." Jameson lifted his chin. "I'll be ready to leave promptly at five."
Andi grinned. "Great. I'll just clean up a bit and change my clothes." With that she turned and nearly bounced out of the larder.
As soon as she was out of sight, Tristan materialized, his mirth now gone. He turned a brooding scowl on his man.
"Yes, my lord?"
Tristan's brows rutted as he crossed his arms over his chest. "That woman is not to return to my solar—tonight, nor in the morn."
"But you invited her to have speech with you this eve."
"I don't care. Fix it."
Jameson inclined his gray head. "I take it the meeting did not go as you'd hoped?"
"Nay, it bloody well did not. God's bones, the wench is infuriating. Passing nosy. She wants to know too much regarding the legendary Dragonhawk. I just won't have it."
"What could she possibly have done to foul your humor so?" Jameson blinked, flicking something off his shirtsleeve. "She is quite polite."
"She is too bold, for one, and 'tis just the beginning." He paced behind Jameson. "She has haughty ways, which explains why you've taken to her." He stopped to stare down at the stone floor. "She is intriguing. Beautiful. Witty. Tenacious beyond belief." He looked up at Jameson. "And she thinks me a live man."
"Did she remember you?"
"Aye." Tristan rubbed his chin. "But I convinced her 'twas not me she'd seen all those years ago."
He hardened his stare once more. "I do not wish to speak with her again."
"My lord, if you will." Jameson inclined his head. "I'm quite sure Dr. Monroe meant no harm. She is rather enthusiastic regarding her work and the legend surrounding Dreadmoor. Allow her to at least speak with you this eve." He raised an eyebrow. "Besides, you've already agreed to do so. I do believe she is only interested in the history, but in case you haven't noticed, she is quite persistent.
More likely than not, she'll continue to pursue you until she is satisfied."
"Persistent hardly describes her," Tristan muttered as he walked away, then turned back to glare at his steward. "I will see her tonight, answer her ridiculous questions, and then tell her I'm off on a business trip and won't return until her work is complete."