blanch. She'd know those eyes anywhere. "Oh my God. It's you."
A look of surprise crossed his features, then quickly disappeared. "Have a seat, Dr. Monroe." He motioned with a large hand, thick veins roping up an arm bulging with muscle. He cleared his throat. "Forgive me if I don't remember. Have we met before?"
God, he acted as though she had the plague. Why had he not taken her hand? How embarrassing.
Had she mistaken? Unable to help herself, she chanced a look into those sapphire eyes, rimmed with thick, sooty lashes. He definitely wasn't wearing chain mail. Yet, he looked similar. But that incident with the knight couldn't have happened. It was absurd. It'd all been her juvenile imagination.
With a slight laugh, she shook her head and lowered herself into the soft, leather chair. "No, I suppose not. I apologize, Lord Dreadmoor. It's just that you look like someone I've met before."
He sat, and then his gaze shifted to the pen in his fingers. "You must be mistaken, Dr. Monroe, for I vow I would have banked the occasion to memory." Lifting his eyes level to hers, he sat down and made a steeple with his fingers. "First, let me say I hope your venture to the bones last night didn't prove too fearful. Jameson said you'd had a fright?"
It sounded sillier coming from someone else's lips. "I think I let my imagination run away with me a little. It was dark, misty, and I was out there alone. I'm fine. Honest."
He stared, as if not believing, then nodded. "Very well. Now, about the matter at hand? I'm a busy man."
God, she'd die from humiliation before she left this solar. "Of course. I'm actually very excited about the find and more than ready to get started." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "Have you any documents or ledgers regarding the castle's inhabitants? Its history? A blueprint perhaps?"
Tristan smothered a grin. He couldn't believe the wench wasn't the least bit fearful. Not that he wanted to scare her, but anyone else, save Jameson, would be near to bolting, had he used that tone of voice. She hadn't budged. Instead, she'd launched into a thread of excited questions—ones he wasn't truly prepared to answer. At least he'd managed to make a convincing modern-day lord. Even the illusionary pen he held betwixt his fingers looked real. He hoped.
"Lord Dreadmoor?"
Tristan thought for a moment. How much did he want this tenacious young woman to know of his past? 'Twould come to no good end, for a certainty. Truth be told, he enjoyed her wry humor and boldness more than he would be willing to admit to anyone. What harm could come of her seeing the plans? They had been well protected over the years, thanks to his sire.
Gage de Barre had been insistent his younger brother, Tristan's uncle Christopher, take over the running of Dreadmoor after Tristan's murder, so he'd been told later on. Uncle Christopher had carefully preserved the parchment under leaded glass and placed it in Dreadmoor's vault. It told nothing more than the complete layout of the castle. Let the woman have a look at it.
He nodded. "Aye, there are the original parchments. I have faith you will handle them with utmost care, Dr. Monroe. 'Tis the only set I have, and 'tis very dear to me.
Her lovely mouth dropped open. "Oh my gosh ... you have the originals? I assure you, Lord Dreadmoor—"
"By the saints, woman. Do not call me that again. It annoys me fiercely."
Andi stifled a sigh. She couldn't have told him her full name at that point, so entranced by the deep, slightly graveled voice. Plain-out sexy didn't even begin to describe it. Strange how she heard it more inside her head than, say, in the room. Downright nerve-racking. You're a scientist, Monroe. A scholar. Here on a job. Digging up bones and armor. Remember? Get a grip.
Nonetheless, a dead woman wouldn't be able to resist even a slight swoon, what with that uniquely blended, slightly medievalish accent. Where on earth had he acquired it? Actually, she didn't care where he'd acquired
A look of surprise crossed his features, then quickly disappeared. "Have a seat, Dr. Monroe." He motioned with a large hand, thick veins roping up an arm bulging with muscle. He cleared his throat. "Forgive me if I don't remember. Have we met before?"
God, he acted as though she had the plague. Why had he not taken her hand? How embarrassing.
Had she mistaken? Unable to help herself, she chanced a look into those sapphire eyes, rimmed with thick, sooty lashes. He definitely wasn't wearing chain mail. Yet, he looked similar. But that incident with the knight couldn't have happened. It was absurd. It'd all been her juvenile imagination.
With a slight laugh, she shook her head and lowered herself into the soft, leather chair. "No, I suppose not. I apologize, Lord Dreadmoor. It's just that you look like someone I've met before."
He sat, and then his gaze shifted to the pen in his fingers. "You must be mistaken, Dr. Monroe, for I vow I would have banked the occasion to memory." Lifting his eyes level to hers, he sat down and made a steeple with his fingers. "First, let me say I hope your venture to the bones last night didn't prove too fearful. Jameson said you'd had a fright?"
It sounded sillier coming from someone else's lips. "I think I let my imagination run away with me a little. It was dark, misty, and I was out there alone. I'm fine. Honest."
He stared, as if not believing, then nodded. "Very well. Now, about the matter at hand? I'm a busy man."
God, she'd die from humiliation before she left this solar. "Of course. I'm actually very excited about the find and more than ready to get started." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "Have you any documents or ledgers regarding the castle's inhabitants? Its history? A blueprint perhaps?"
Tristan smothered a grin. He couldn't believe the wench wasn't the least bit fearful. Not that he wanted to scare her, but anyone else, save Jameson, would be near to bolting, had he used that tone of voice. She hadn't budged. Instead, she'd launched into a thread of excited questions—ones he wasn't truly prepared to answer. At least he'd managed to make a convincing modern-day lord. Even the illusionary pen he held betwixt his fingers looked real. He hoped.
"Lord Dreadmoor?"
Tristan thought for a moment. How much did he want this tenacious young woman to know of his past? 'Twould come to no good end, for a certainty. Truth be told, he enjoyed her wry humor and boldness more than he would be willing to admit to anyone. What harm could come of her seeing the plans? They had been well protected over the years, thanks to his sire.
Gage de Barre had been insistent his younger brother, Tristan's uncle Christopher, take over the running of Dreadmoor after Tristan's murder, so he'd been told later on. Uncle Christopher had carefully preserved the parchment under leaded glass and placed it in Dreadmoor's vault. It told nothing more than the complete layout of the castle. Let the woman have a look at it.
He nodded. "Aye, there are the original parchments. I have faith you will handle them with utmost care, Dr. Monroe. 'Tis the only set I have, and 'tis very dear to me.
Her lovely mouth dropped open. "Oh my gosh ... you have the originals? I assure you, Lord Dreadmoor—"
"By the saints, woman. Do not call me that again. It annoys me fiercely."
Andi stifled a sigh. She couldn't have told him her full name at that point, so entranced by the deep, slightly graveled voice. Plain-out sexy didn't even begin to describe it. Strange how she heard it more inside her head than, say, in the room. Downright nerve-racking. You're a scientist, Monroe. A scholar. Here on a job. Digging up bones and armor. Remember? Get a grip.
Nonetheless, a dead woman wouldn't be able to resist even a slight swoon, what with that uniquely blended, slightly medievalish accent. Where on earth had he acquired it? Actually, she didn't care where he'd acquired
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