finish her sentence, Tristan abruptly stood. "Unfortunately, I've no more time for you this morn. I'm late as it is. Mayhap on the morrow?"
Wow. Talk about fast-changing gears. One minute, he was asking her questions, the next he was booting her out on her ear. She glanced down at her watch, pretending the dismissal didn't sting.
"Would you look at the time? I've got to run anyway. I need to inspect the cutaway and take photos before obtaining samples. In other words, a ton of work to do." She rose and this time, didn't offer Tristan a hand. "I appreciate your time, Lord—"
"Tristan."
She smiled. "Tristan. Can I meet with you later and hear your version of the legend of Dragonhawk and his knights?"
He inclined his head. "Aye. Until then, Andrea."
Dear God, the way he said her name made her knees wobble. "Yes, until later," she answered. With that she quickly left the chambers, pulling the heavy door closed behind her.
Before he saw her drool.
Andrea Kinley Monroe. Tristan stood and walked over to the wooden shutters. With a flick of his wrist the wind banged them open. Although he could not feel the air, his unobstructed view of the sea calmed him immediately.
Merciful saints above, he'd enjoyed talking with the wench. 'Twas as though he spoke with her as he would have in life; as though he were not a spirit. Worse yet, he had agreed to meet later with her.
A comforting image of himself, soundly bashing his head against the battlements for his stupidity, came to mind. His wits had fled. The important thing at present was solving the bloody mystery of the hoard and bones, so he could get on as before.
He thought of his existence—of endless days and nights, of continuous waking hours, of growing close to someone, only to watch them grow old and die. 'Twas a lonely life a ghost led. Weary didn't even begin to describe it.
But damnation, she intrigued him. Would that he were a live man ...
Tristan pushed off the sill. Nay, he would not doom himself with another heartache, not this time.
He'd not allowed himself a mortal friend in hundreds of years, save Jameson and his wife, Margaret.
'Twas more than he could stand.
Christ, how he missed that sweet woman, Margaret. The grief he'd experienced when she'd passed away pained him to this day. And he knew the same pain would engulf him when Jameson's time to leave this world came. 'Twas bad enough, he'd already started thinking fondly of Miss Kate and that whelp Heath who came to clean twice a week. He had a suspicion Jameson was sweet on Miss Kate, as he became a bumbling fool any time the woman was about.
Tristan blew out a gusty sigh. He had watched Jameson grow from an infant to the impossibly arrogant manservant he presented now. In the same manner, he'd watched Jameson's own son, Thomas, grow to the young man he was today. And although he would not admit it to either, he loved them dearly. And one day Jameson would die, as would Thomas—they'd all die, leaving Tristan alone. Again.
Aye. He was finished growing close to mortals.
"Tristan?"
Tristan jumped at the sound of his captain's voice. "What do you want, Kail?"
Kail appeared, stood with legs wide apart, and crossed his meaty arms over his chest. "By the saints, man, you look comely."
Tristan frowned. "Shut you up, fool. 'Tis for the lady's benefit. Naught more."
Kail grinned and walked a slow, perusing, annoying circle around him. "Hmm. No doubt."
Following the dolt with his eyes, Tristan all but growled. "Is there a purpose for your intrusion, Kail? Or are you here simply to irritate me?"
The big, burly knight had the decency to look hurt. "'Me? Irritate?" Kail stopped. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile, one eyebrow shooting skyward. "Never. The lads and I, well, we're interested, is all."
Tristan narrowed his eyes. "In what?"
"Her."
"What of her?" Tristan walked to the window and stared at the whitecaps dotting the North Sea.
"I've already told you. She's here to
Wow. Talk about fast-changing gears. One minute, he was asking her questions, the next he was booting her out on her ear. She glanced down at her watch, pretending the dismissal didn't sting.
"Would you look at the time? I've got to run anyway. I need to inspect the cutaway and take photos before obtaining samples. In other words, a ton of work to do." She rose and this time, didn't offer Tristan a hand. "I appreciate your time, Lord—"
"Tristan."
She smiled. "Tristan. Can I meet with you later and hear your version of the legend of Dragonhawk and his knights?"
He inclined his head. "Aye. Until then, Andrea."
Dear God, the way he said her name made her knees wobble. "Yes, until later," she answered. With that she quickly left the chambers, pulling the heavy door closed behind her.
Before he saw her drool.
Andrea Kinley Monroe. Tristan stood and walked over to the wooden shutters. With a flick of his wrist the wind banged them open. Although he could not feel the air, his unobstructed view of the sea calmed him immediately.
Merciful saints above, he'd enjoyed talking with the wench. 'Twas as though he spoke with her as he would have in life; as though he were not a spirit. Worse yet, he had agreed to meet later with her.
A comforting image of himself, soundly bashing his head against the battlements for his stupidity, came to mind. His wits had fled. The important thing at present was solving the bloody mystery of the hoard and bones, so he could get on as before.
He thought of his existence—of endless days and nights, of continuous waking hours, of growing close to someone, only to watch them grow old and die. 'Twas a lonely life a ghost led. Weary didn't even begin to describe it.
But damnation, she intrigued him. Would that he were a live man ...
Tristan pushed off the sill. Nay, he would not doom himself with another heartache, not this time.
He'd not allowed himself a mortal friend in hundreds of years, save Jameson and his wife, Margaret.
'Twas more than he could stand.
Christ, how he missed that sweet woman, Margaret. The grief he'd experienced when she'd passed away pained him to this day. And he knew the same pain would engulf him when Jameson's time to leave this world came. 'Twas bad enough, he'd already started thinking fondly of Miss Kate and that whelp Heath who came to clean twice a week. He had a suspicion Jameson was sweet on Miss Kate, as he became a bumbling fool any time the woman was about.
Tristan blew out a gusty sigh. He had watched Jameson grow from an infant to the impossibly arrogant manservant he presented now. In the same manner, he'd watched Jameson's own son, Thomas, grow to the young man he was today. And although he would not admit it to either, he loved them dearly. And one day Jameson would die, as would Thomas—they'd all die, leaving Tristan alone. Again.
Aye. He was finished growing close to mortals.
"Tristan?"
Tristan jumped at the sound of his captain's voice. "What do you want, Kail?"
Kail appeared, stood with legs wide apart, and crossed his meaty arms over his chest. "By the saints, man, you look comely."
Tristan frowned. "Shut you up, fool. 'Tis for the lady's benefit. Naught more."
Kail grinned and walked a slow, perusing, annoying circle around him. "Hmm. No doubt."
Following the dolt with his eyes, Tristan all but growled. "Is there a purpose for your intrusion, Kail? Or are you here simply to irritate me?"
The big, burly knight had the decency to look hurt. "'Me? Irritate?" Kail stopped. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile, one eyebrow shooting skyward. "Never. The lads and I, well, we're interested, is all."
Tristan narrowed his eyes. "In what?"
"Her."
"What of her?" Tristan walked to the window and stared at the whitecaps dotting the North Sea.
"I've already told you. She's here to
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