an amazing site. The ancient branches of a partially upturned oak tree stood up like bristles as it lay on its side, sunbeams filtering through the long, crooked arms. A large canvas tarp tented the base and roots. She remembered the tree from before, when she'd sneaked onto the Dreadmoor estate. It'd stood in the bailey like a giant, its massive branches gnarled and reaching, protecting. She remembered running past it when ...
When she'd run screaming from the chain-mailed knight. The one who'd looked a lot like Tristan.
But that hadn't really happened. It couldn't have.
Sad, now, that after so many years, so many centuries, the majestic tree lay on its side, lifeless.
Just like the bones entwined within the roots.
Setting her site kit aside, Andi knelt at each stake and released the tarp. Massive hunks of sod clung to the tree's origins, the scent of fresh-turned earth and rotting vegetation mixing with the ever-present salty sea air.
There, nestled within the intricate root system, lay the soil-stained bones, coughed up by the storm and bound by ... something. Dark—almost black—and thick, it appeared to be a separate root, or vine, entwined with the skeletal remains. A hole, several meters deep, rested beneath the tree.
Squatting down, she peered into the dark mouth of the cutaway—too dark to make anything out.
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
When she'd run screaming from the chain-mailed knight. The one who'd looked a lot like Tristan.
But that hadn't really happened. It couldn't have.
Sad, now, that after so many years, so many centuries, the majestic tree lay on its side, lifeless.
Just like the bones entwined within the roots.
Setting her site kit aside, Andi knelt at each stake and released the tarp. Massive hunks of sod clung to the tree's origins, the scent of fresh-turned earth and rotting vegetation mixing with the ever-present salty sea air.
There, nestled within the intricate root system, lay the soil-stained bones, coughed up by the storm and bound by ... something. Dark—almost black—and thick, it appeared to be a separate root, or vine, entwined with the skeletal remains. A hole, several meters deep, rested beneath the tree.
Squatting down, she peered into the dark mouth of the cutaway—too dark to make anything out.
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
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