it, as long as he kept on talking to her.
"Lady! Have you heard a word I've spoken?"
Andi jumped, embarrassed. Where, and more to the point, why, had her thoughts rambled? Wow, so unlike her. Good thing he couldn't read minds.
She cleared her throat. "Yes, of course. Calling you Lord Dreadmoor annoys you. So what should I call you?"
"Tristan will do. Now, what else do you need of me today? I grow weary of all this speech and I've important business to tend to."
Tristan. The name certainly fit the voice. Andi tucked her hair behind her ear and continued. "Do you know of any disputes, whether real or lore, that might give a clue as to the owners of the hoard?
Any murders or disappearances—any hint as to who might have been buried under that oak? I mean, the oak itself is pretty amazing. Over seven hundred years old—one of the oldest and largest I've ever seen. The girth is over ten meters wide." She rubbed her brow. "What about notable battles? Witch burnings, maybe?"
One, dark eyebrow lifted. " 'Tis a thirteenth-century castle, lass. Battles, swords, bloodshed, head-lopping, jousts ... aye, disputes aplenty occurred. No witch burnings to my knowledge. 'Twas the way of life, although I did manage to keep a peaceful way of sorts here at Dreadmoor."
Andi blinked. "Excuse me?"
A brief look of surprise flashed his features, then disappeared. "I said, they did manage to keep a peaceful way of life here. 'Tis why the castle remains intact."
Now she was hearing things. Hadn't he said I?
After a moment's silence he cleared his throat. "What do you really want to ask me, Dr. Monroe?"
She smiled. "Anything you have to offer would be of great help, of course. But I have to admit, I do have a curiosity surrounding the legend of Dragonhawk and his missing knights. It's fascinating. Is there anything you can tell me about it?"
He studied her, an intense observation she felt clear to her bones. "Nothing in writing, nothing official. Nothing that has been found, anyway. 'Tis a verbal legend passed down through the centuries."
She leaned forward. "That's what Jameson said. I'd love to hear it."
A slight hesitation, only for a moment, and then his look, if possible, grew more intense. "First"—he shifted in his chair—"I would have your name, if you please."
"Andi."
"Nay. Not your nickname. Your full, given name at birth. Your Christian name."
Andi gulped. His voice washed over her like a heavy sea mist, escaping to land from a turbulent storm. Oh God, her inner voice groaned. From scientist to sappy poet? Puh-leez. Her interns would have a field day with that.
She cleared her throat, making sure she wouldn't crack as she spoke. "Andrea Kinley Monroe." She lifted a shoulder. "At least, that's what they tell me."
He stared, apparently awaiting more.
"Who's interviewing who here, anyway?" she asked, smiling.
"Humor me. Then I'll answer your questions."
"Deal. I was adopted by a sweet older woman named Mary Monroe. I called her Aunt Mary. She died several years ago." She shrugged. "I had a typical Catholic school upbringing, then college."
He frowned. "You've no family, then?"
She nodded. "Only my mentor, Kirk Grey."
"The owner of the research institute who sent you?"
"Yes. He's been like a father to me. He taught medieval history at St. Catherine's School when I was in tenth grade, and sort of took me under his wing when I showed such a great interest in the subject. He was my professor in college, as well. After that, I came to work for GAR Institute."
Shaking her head, she smiled. "I would never have come this far, had it not been for him. He is the one who told me about Dreadmoor and its legends. Got me completely hooked on the place."
A slight frown, then a nod. "Aye. Well, they are fortunate to have you, from what I hear. Jameson says you've quite a name for yourself in your field."
"Thanks. Now, what can you tell me about the legend? You know I've already been warned by Mrs.
Dawson—"
Before she could
"Lady! Have you heard a word I've spoken?"
Andi jumped, embarrassed. Where, and more to the point, why, had her thoughts rambled? Wow, so unlike her. Good thing he couldn't read minds.
She cleared her throat. "Yes, of course. Calling you Lord Dreadmoor annoys you. So what should I call you?"
"Tristan will do. Now, what else do you need of me today? I grow weary of all this speech and I've important business to tend to."
Tristan. The name certainly fit the voice. Andi tucked her hair behind her ear and continued. "Do you know of any disputes, whether real or lore, that might give a clue as to the owners of the hoard?
Any murders or disappearances—any hint as to who might have been buried under that oak? I mean, the oak itself is pretty amazing. Over seven hundred years old—one of the oldest and largest I've ever seen. The girth is over ten meters wide." She rubbed her brow. "What about notable battles? Witch burnings, maybe?"
One, dark eyebrow lifted. " 'Tis a thirteenth-century castle, lass. Battles, swords, bloodshed, head-lopping, jousts ... aye, disputes aplenty occurred. No witch burnings to my knowledge. 'Twas the way of life, although I did manage to keep a peaceful way of sorts here at Dreadmoor."
Andi blinked. "Excuse me?"
A brief look of surprise flashed his features, then disappeared. "I said, they did manage to keep a peaceful way of life here. 'Tis why the castle remains intact."
Now she was hearing things. Hadn't he said I?
After a moment's silence he cleared his throat. "What do you really want to ask me, Dr. Monroe?"
She smiled. "Anything you have to offer would be of great help, of course. But I have to admit, I do have a curiosity surrounding the legend of Dragonhawk and his missing knights. It's fascinating. Is there anything you can tell me about it?"
He studied her, an intense observation she felt clear to her bones. "Nothing in writing, nothing official. Nothing that has been found, anyway. 'Tis a verbal legend passed down through the centuries."
She leaned forward. "That's what Jameson said. I'd love to hear it."
A slight hesitation, only for a moment, and then his look, if possible, grew more intense. "First"—he shifted in his chair—"I would have your name, if you please."
"Andi."
"Nay. Not your nickname. Your full, given name at birth. Your Christian name."
Andi gulped. His voice washed over her like a heavy sea mist, escaping to land from a turbulent storm. Oh God, her inner voice groaned. From scientist to sappy poet? Puh-leez. Her interns would have a field day with that.
She cleared her throat, making sure she wouldn't crack as she spoke. "Andrea Kinley Monroe." She lifted a shoulder. "At least, that's what they tell me."
He stared, apparently awaiting more.
"Who's interviewing who here, anyway?" she asked, smiling.
"Humor me. Then I'll answer your questions."
"Deal. I was adopted by a sweet older woman named Mary Monroe. I called her Aunt Mary. She died several years ago." She shrugged. "I had a typical Catholic school upbringing, then college."
He frowned. "You've no family, then?"
She nodded. "Only my mentor, Kirk Grey."
"The owner of the research institute who sent you?"
"Yes. He's been like a father to me. He taught medieval history at St. Catherine's School when I was in tenth grade, and sort of took me under his wing when I showed such a great interest in the subject. He was my professor in college, as well. After that, I came to work for GAR Institute."
Shaking her head, she smiled. "I would never have come this far, had it not been for him. He is the one who told me about Dreadmoor and its legends. Got me completely hooked on the place."
A slight frown, then a nod. "Aye. Well, they are fortunate to have you, from what I hear. Jameson says you've quite a name for yourself in your field."
"Thanks. Now, what can you tell me about the legend? You know I've already been warned by Mrs.
Dawson—"
Before she could
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