the knights? About the feared Dragonhawk himself? Did they hold a secret, I wonder?"
Tristan studied her as she stared out the window. Smoke all but rose from the top of her head as the wheels of her mind went round, trying to figure out the legend of Dreadmoor. Against his better judgment, he rose and came to stand a safe distance behind her. "Are you a detective as well, lady?"
She lifted a narrow shoulder and continued to stare out the window. Should he venture into asking her more personal questions? 'Twas absurd for him to want to know more, and yet he found himself wanting just that, bloody fool that he was. "And what of you, Andrea Kinley Monroe? From where do you hail?"
"Virginia."
Tristan grunted. "And what drew you to do the work you seem to love so?"
A soft laugh escaped her, and she turned to face him. "I've been fascinated by medieval history ever since I was a little kid, and I guess I never outgrew it."
Tristan's heart slammed against his ribs. At least, so it felt. Christ, the woman was beyond beautiful, and it took more strength than he'd conjured in centuries to keep from reaching out and touching her. Instead, he cleared his throat and gave a good cough. "Knights and dragons and the sort, no doubt?"
She nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."
Tristan, having lost all wits, moved closer. "Might you enlighten me on the nature of this knight? Is he someone you know?"
Softly arched brows pulled together in a mock frown. "This really has nothing to do with your find, now, does it?"
"An ancient hoard of medieval weapons. A legendary knight. One cannot be spoken of without the other, lady. They go hand in hand."
"You got me there," she said.
"Aye, I know. And I can feel your mirth from here, woman. Now make haste with your paltry tale, for I've not the patience nor the stomach to sit here all night with you." Lying dolt. He'd sit here all bloody century with her, truth be told. But he'd never let her know such drivel. "Now begin."
"Yes, sir. And no, I don't know him—only in my imagination, I guess. He's enormous—a giant," she said. "Very strong, probably from years of swinging a sword. To protect his lady's honor, you see."
Tristan scowled. Had she somehow met his uncle Killian? "Go on."
With the tip of her finger, she rubbed the steamed breath from the window. "He has long, dark hair, past his shoulders, and the most amazing pair of blue eyes. He's very strong and well over six foot and a half."
His uncle Killian was six foot and a half. The bloody whoreson. Tristan pulled his brows into a deep frown.
"He wears an armor of chain mail. It creaks when he moves. That fascinates me for some reason."
"Yes, well." He moved to his desk, resting a hip on its surface. "I suppose those are the imaginings of a foolish girl, eh?"
She ignored him. "Funny thing is, I've seen him before. In life."
Tristan's mood fouled, although he couldn't exactly fathom why. "Have you now? Where?" 'Twould be better to find out so he could at least haunt the buffoon. If he'd been alive and capable he'd soundly throttle the bloody idiot.
"I sort of saw him here, at Dreadmoor."
Tristan gulped.
"About twelve years ago."
He gulped again.
"At least I thought I had. At the kirk. I kind of snuck onto the grounds. He ... sort of saved me."
Merciful saints above. He was Andi's knight. Bloody hell.
A soft laugh escaped her, and then she turned and moved toward him. "Funny thing is, I thought it was you." She faced him straight on, her eyes holding his. "When I first arrived, that is. But of course, I was mistaken. You said as much yourself."
Neither moved, neither spoke. Their gazes remained fastened for several moments. Christ, how he wanted to kiss her.
Saints, the girl was making him daft.
"I suppose I'd better—oh!"
Tristan jumped back just as Andi's foot caught the claw of his desk. She sprawled forward, and had he not moved, she would've continued to fall straight through him.
As it was, she fell to the floor.
And just
Tristan studied her as she stared out the window. Smoke all but rose from the top of her head as the wheels of her mind went round, trying to figure out the legend of Dreadmoor. Against his better judgment, he rose and came to stand a safe distance behind her. "Are you a detective as well, lady?"
She lifted a narrow shoulder and continued to stare out the window. Should he venture into asking her more personal questions? 'Twas absurd for him to want to know more, and yet he found himself wanting just that, bloody fool that he was. "And what of you, Andrea Kinley Monroe? From where do you hail?"
"Virginia."
Tristan grunted. "And what drew you to do the work you seem to love so?"
A soft laugh escaped her, and she turned to face him. "I've been fascinated by medieval history ever since I was a little kid, and I guess I never outgrew it."
Tristan's heart slammed against his ribs. At least, so it felt. Christ, the woman was beyond beautiful, and it took more strength than he'd conjured in centuries to keep from reaching out and touching her. Instead, he cleared his throat and gave a good cough. "Knights and dragons and the sort, no doubt?"
She nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."
Tristan, having lost all wits, moved closer. "Might you enlighten me on the nature of this knight? Is he someone you know?"
Softly arched brows pulled together in a mock frown. "This really has nothing to do with your find, now, does it?"
"An ancient hoard of medieval weapons. A legendary knight. One cannot be spoken of without the other, lady. They go hand in hand."
"You got me there," she said.
"Aye, I know. And I can feel your mirth from here, woman. Now make haste with your paltry tale, for I've not the patience nor the stomach to sit here all night with you." Lying dolt. He'd sit here all bloody century with her, truth be told. But he'd never let her know such drivel. "Now begin."
"Yes, sir. And no, I don't know him—only in my imagination, I guess. He's enormous—a giant," she said. "Very strong, probably from years of swinging a sword. To protect his lady's honor, you see."
Tristan scowled. Had she somehow met his uncle Killian? "Go on."
With the tip of her finger, she rubbed the steamed breath from the window. "He has long, dark hair, past his shoulders, and the most amazing pair of blue eyes. He's very strong and well over six foot and a half."
His uncle Killian was six foot and a half. The bloody whoreson. Tristan pulled his brows into a deep frown.
"He wears an armor of chain mail. It creaks when he moves. That fascinates me for some reason."
"Yes, well." He moved to his desk, resting a hip on its surface. "I suppose those are the imaginings of a foolish girl, eh?"
She ignored him. "Funny thing is, I've seen him before. In life."
Tristan's mood fouled, although he couldn't exactly fathom why. "Have you now? Where?" 'Twould be better to find out so he could at least haunt the buffoon. If he'd been alive and capable he'd soundly throttle the bloody idiot.
"I sort of saw him here, at Dreadmoor."
Tristan gulped.
"About twelve years ago."
He gulped again.
"At least I thought I had. At the kirk. I kind of snuck onto the grounds. He ... sort of saved me."
Merciful saints above. He was Andi's knight. Bloody hell.
A soft laugh escaped her, and then she turned and moved toward him. "Funny thing is, I thought it was you." She faced him straight on, her eyes holding his. "When I first arrived, that is. But of course, I was mistaken. You said as much yourself."
Neither moved, neither spoke. Their gazes remained fastened for several moments. Christ, how he wanted to kiss her.
Saints, the girl was making him daft.
"I suppose I'd better—oh!"
Tristan jumped back just as Andi's foot caught the claw of his desk. She sprawled forward, and had he not moved, she would've continued to fall straight through him.
As it was, she fell to the floor.
And just
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