investigate the bones and weapons. She'll be here for ... a while.
Then she'll be gone."
"How long? A sennight, mayhap? A fortnight?"
Exasperation pulled Tristan's mouth into a tight line. He sighed. "Three. Mayhap four."
"Ah, quite a spell, then." Kail moved to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, staring out the window. "Mayhap she can help, Tristan. I sense something about her, and I vow I cannot put a finger to it. But 'tis strong."
Tristan focused on the waves. "I don't know."
"The lads feel it as well. They're a might restless."
Turning his head, he pegged Kail with a hard stare. "They are not to approach her, Kail. And it will be your bloody duty to remind them of such. Saints, the girl just arrived." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I need to think on the matter. Is that understood?"
A grin spread across his captain's face. An annoying, victorious grin. "Aye. Completely understood." With that he clapped Tristan on the shoulder, turned, then stopped at the door.
"Remove that dour look on your face by this eve. Rugby tonight, little lad. The quarter finals replay.
Leinster versus Tigers." He grinned. "Should be good." With that, he disappeared through the door.
Moving back to the window, Tristan leaned a shoulder against the frame and stared out. What if Kail had it aright? Mayhap the lass could help. On the other hand, they could have a stroke of luck and his sword lay within the hoard found below the oak.
Running a hand across his jaw, he drew a deep breath and let it slide back out between his teeth. He liked the damned girl. More than liked having speech with her, and by the saint's robes, she was passing lovely. In the end, it could lead to nothing but disaster. And he damn well bloody knew it.
Mayhap he should leave well enough alone and leave her to communicate with Jameson if she needed more information. The old man knew as much as he—nearly, anyway. She would excavate the site and maybe give him a clue as to who'd been buried under that oak, and whose weapons were buried alongside him. Then, by the bones of all weary saints, he'd get his life back. Rather, his unlife. Such as it was.
He paused as a thought struck him. Mayhap the hoard and bones had not been buried beneath that oak? Instead, could the oak have been planted upon them? 'Twas something to ponder. If only there weren't chunks of his memory missing. 'Twould truly be something, if Andrea could help.
Such help would no doubt lead to fondness for the wench. And that, he'd decided, just couldn't be.
Tristan disappeared through the wall. He aimed his course for his steward, to make sure Dr. Andrea Kinley Monroe did not seek him further. Then he'd find her, have a bit of speech with her, to satisfy her curiousness regarding Dragonhawk and his men, and that would definitively be that. No more.
She could do her work without his presence. Besides, he had a rugby match to watch tonight.
A frown tightened his mouth, his mood much fouler than before.
And if he did not make haste he would surely do something absurd. Witless. Daft, even.
Such as change his mind.
Chapter Five
Andi stepped out of the main hall and into the morning sunlight. After leaving Tristan's solar, she'd stopped off in her room to gather her site kit and tool belt, exchanged her sneakers for the Wellingtons, pulled on her weatherproofs, and made for the cutaway. Although she was excited about what her efforts this morning at the site might find, her thoughts—the more girly ones—wandered back to Lord Dreadmoor.
Tristan.
Never had she met someone who'd taken her so off guard—enough to make her act like a blathering dingbat. Twice he'd had to draw her attention back to the conversation. But she couldn't help it.
Tristan of Dreadmoor made her breath escape ...
With her soles squishing through the sodden soil, she shook her head to ward off that foolishness and covered the courtyard to the bailey. As soon as it came into view, she pulled up short. It was
Then she'll be gone."
"How long? A sennight, mayhap? A fortnight?"
Exasperation pulled Tristan's mouth into a tight line. He sighed. "Three. Mayhap four."
"Ah, quite a spell, then." Kail moved to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, staring out the window. "Mayhap she can help, Tristan. I sense something about her, and I vow I cannot put a finger to it. But 'tis strong."
Tristan focused on the waves. "I don't know."
"The lads feel it as well. They're a might restless."
Turning his head, he pegged Kail with a hard stare. "They are not to approach her, Kail. And it will be your bloody duty to remind them of such. Saints, the girl just arrived." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I need to think on the matter. Is that understood?"
A grin spread across his captain's face. An annoying, victorious grin. "Aye. Completely understood." With that he clapped Tristan on the shoulder, turned, then stopped at the door.
"Remove that dour look on your face by this eve. Rugby tonight, little lad. The quarter finals replay.
Leinster versus Tigers." He grinned. "Should be good." With that, he disappeared through the door.
Moving back to the window, Tristan leaned a shoulder against the frame and stared out. What if Kail had it aright? Mayhap the lass could help. On the other hand, they could have a stroke of luck and his sword lay within the hoard found below the oak.
Running a hand across his jaw, he drew a deep breath and let it slide back out between his teeth. He liked the damned girl. More than liked having speech with her, and by the saint's robes, she was passing lovely. In the end, it could lead to nothing but disaster. And he damn well bloody knew it.
Mayhap he should leave well enough alone and leave her to communicate with Jameson if she needed more information. The old man knew as much as he—nearly, anyway. She would excavate the site and maybe give him a clue as to who'd been buried under that oak, and whose weapons were buried alongside him. Then, by the bones of all weary saints, he'd get his life back. Rather, his unlife. Such as it was.
He paused as a thought struck him. Mayhap the hoard and bones had not been buried beneath that oak? Instead, could the oak have been planted upon them? 'Twas something to ponder. If only there weren't chunks of his memory missing. 'Twould truly be something, if Andrea could help.
Such help would no doubt lead to fondness for the wench. And that, he'd decided, just couldn't be.
Tristan disappeared through the wall. He aimed his course for his steward, to make sure Dr. Andrea Kinley Monroe did not seek him further. Then he'd find her, have a bit of speech with her, to satisfy her curiousness regarding Dragonhawk and his men, and that would definitively be that. No more.
She could do her work without his presence. Besides, he had a rugby match to watch tonight.
A frown tightened his mouth, his mood much fouler than before.
And if he did not make haste he would surely do something absurd. Witless. Daft, even.
Such as change his mind.
Chapter Five
Andi stepped out of the main hall and into the morning sunlight. After leaving Tristan's solar, she'd stopped off in her room to gather her site kit and tool belt, exchanged her sneakers for the Wellingtons, pulled on her weatherproofs, and made for the cutaway. Although she was excited about what her efforts this morning at the site might find, her thoughts—the more girly ones—wandered back to Lord Dreadmoor.
Tristan.
Never had she met someone who'd taken her so off guard—enough to make her act like a blathering dingbat. Twice he'd had to draw her attention back to the conversation. But she couldn't help it.
Tristan of Dreadmoor made her breath escape ...
With her soles squishing through the sodden soil, she shook her head to ward off that foolishness and covered the courtyard to the bailey. As soon as it came into view, she pulled up short. It was
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