Into Thin Air (11 page)
'Tis the way of the Order."
Christian let out a low whistle. "By the saints."
"Aye. So you see why I must keep her at arm's length. 'Tis bad enough, me knowing the truth of the matter. I'm by no means in love with her—by the saints' toes, I've only just met her. But knowing what
could
be is fair temptation enough, I assure you. There's no sense in causing the girl grief by telling her about it, as well."
The ghostly knight grinned. "You're mighty confident in your abilities to woo her successfully, my fierce warrior friend, all on the oath of a mere marking of the lip. How know you that she'd gain any feelings but scorn and distaste for your pathetic self, anyway?"
Gawan met his friend's stare with a scowl. "There won't be any wooing, so therefore it doesn't matter. Ellie's not to know of it, Chris. Not a single bloody word."
"Not a single bloody word of
what?"
Both Christian and Gawan glanced up at the same time. There in the doorway stood Ellie, and behind her, every annoying castle spirit residing at Grimm. Accompanied by Nicklesby, of course.
Gawan cursed under his breath.
Bleeding priests.
Gawan fought the urge to run a finger round the collar of his wool tunic. Damnation, he felt choked.
Why was it so blasted hot in the library, all of a sudden? He glanced at Ellie. "Er, what I mean to say is—"
Ellie's face grew pinched and her eyes pierced him straight through. "No, no. That's all right, Conwyk. Gosh, stop all that stammering. You look like you're choking on a chicken bone or something." She moved closer and peered at the list lying on the desk of cottage rentals in the area.
"I, uh, do appreciate all your help." She slid a hip against the desk corner. "But I'm not quite sure why you're helping me." She rubbed her chin, much, he guessed, in the same fashion he himself frequently did when perplexed. "But that'd be rude of me to ask, wouldn't it?" She tapped him on the nose. "Of course it would. I'm just a goofy, mostly dead girl with no memory of who she is, just lollygagging around the castle for no real purpose, other than waiting on my fate. So, since I really have no other choice but to hang out here and wait on that fate, I think I'll just take Nicklesby up on that guest room he offered."
Gawan sighed. "Ellie."
She stood and cocked her head, studying far closer than he liked. "You know, there's something about you, Gawan Conwyk. Something so not normal. Other than the fact that you not only see ghosts, but live with them." Her eyes squinted as she stared at him. "No, it's something waaay different than that, even." She turned, gave Christian a stern look, then advanced to the door, where the silent cadre of Grimm spirits awaited her. "I'm watching you, Conwyk." She made a V with her forefinger and middle finger, pointing first at her eyes, then at Gawan's. "Closely." After a few hard seconds of the thorniest stare-down he'd ever had, Ellie Aquitaine turned, marched through the doorway, passed the lingering ghosts, and shouted over her shoulder, "Sir Godfrey! I've a mind to best ye in a game of knucklebones! I've no idea how to play the bloody game, but I've a mind to best ye, all the same!" She snorted. "Hey! I'm a bloody poet, and I didn't even bloody know it!" Her thick, fake accent grew thicker. "I rather like saying bloody, Godfrey! 'Tis rather amusing!"
Godfrey, the old poop, gave Gawan a dodgy smirk, then clambered after Ellie. "Aye! Ye'd best have a wee pull on the whiskey bottle first, girl! I'm by far the best knuckleboner in all of England!"
Godfrey's booming laugh echoed down the passageway.
Davy, who'd been standing in the doorway, unusually quiet, dashed after Godfrey. Lady Beauchamp and Lady Follywolle stood. Staring.
Soundlessly.
"Did he just say
knuckleboner?"
Christian said, clapping Gawan on the shoulder. "Well, my unpopular friend, at least you weren't forced to break the Code and lie to the wench." He glanced in the direction Ellie went. "Quite ferocious, that one." He grinned. "I like that in a maid, methinks. If you've no mind to woo her, mayhap I will."
"Oh,
sir,"
Lady Follywolle said with distaste, "don't be so vile. The poor lamb is simply confused
—"
"And it appears, my good Grimm, that you're keeping something from her apurpose," Lady Beauchamp interrupted. "Tripping over your tongue and such." She
tsk-tsked.
" 'Tisn't very becoming of a young man in your position. I do suggest if you're going to keep secrets, discuss the keeping of the secrets in secret!" She turned to Lady Follywolle. "Come, Millicent, let's leave the boys here with those thoughts to ponder."
With that, the two lady spirits looped arms and sauntered out of the library and through the wall.
"Does her bird coif seem more crooked to you this eve?" Christian asked, cocking his head. "I vow, it looks ready to fly."
"The least of my worries, Chris, is the position of Lady Follywolle's bloody coif." Gawan mumbled a curse and strode to the door. "Come first light, we're off to visit the cottage owners. Mayhap something will jog Ellie's memory? The sooner the better." He stepped out into the passageway, and Christian followed. Gawan pulled the doors closed. "A gut instinct tells me I've not much time left to solve this mystery."
Ellie sat curled up in the comfy corner of the leather sofa, and closed the large volume perched on her lap. She'd gone through pages and pages, with nothing at all jostling her memory. Interesting stuff, but nothing familiar. Just a lot of history about the nobles of Northumbria. With a grunt, she slid the heavy text off her lap, leaned her head back, and stared at the flames as they licked the logs.
A snore made her lift her gaze, and she smiled as she watched Sir Godfrey's chest rise and fall with each deep breath, his head bent forward, and a long plume from his hat catching each gust and quivering to tickle his nose. He slapped at it a time or two, yawned, smacked his lips, then drifted back off.
He indeed was a champion knuckleboner.
If only she could go to sleep. No, if only she could
wake up.
Wake up from whatever kind of coma she was in so she could recover and live out the rest of her life. With
live
people. Although, she had to admit, Sir Godfrey, young Davy, Christian, and the ladies were all pretty fascinating. Skip the fact that they were spirits from various centuries. That in itself was beyond imaginable. They were all individually interesting people, and they'd immediately taken her under their ghostly wings.
They seemed genuinely concerned for her well-being, and for that, she'd be eternally grateful.
No matter the outcome.
Her stare returned to the fire. Gawan, on the other hand, was another story. What was it about him that intrigued her? Okay. He was more than good-looking. That was a given. The guy reeked of pent-up power and male sexuality. Beneath that wool and denim lay a hard, muscular frame that seemed built by sheer physical strength and hard work.
What
sort of hard work, she had no clue, other than that he had the ability to help ghosts when called upon. And he did work out with swords. That much she knew.
So who
was
Gawan Conwyk?
She glanced around the great hall. How on Earth did he afford Castle Grimm? It was massive, very medieval, yet cozy at the same time. Safe, maybe? Covered in tapestries and centuries-old relics, it boasted the ambience of times gone by, and she could easily imagine ladies in long, flowing gowns slipping down passageways for trysts in shadowy alcoves, and men in tights and tunics, swords strapped to their sides, striding across the great hall floor carrying roasted leg quarters and shouting
Aye!
at the tops of their lungs.
Ellie suddenly noticed something.
There were no pictures. No photos of parents, of grandparents. No brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews. Didn't he have a family? Anybody? Or was it simply Gawan and the ghosts? And Nicklesby.
Weird.
Uncurling her legs, Ellie rose and crossed the hall to stand before the large tapestry of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The scene depicted a battle, with a regal Eleanor dressed as a warrior and straddling a magnificent rearing steed.
Behind her, an army of others, some on horseback, some on foot. The fine stitching showed the most minute detail, including the adoring looks on the soldiers' faces as they stared upon her.
As Ellie gazed over the tapestry, which looked to be centuries old, one of the soldiers in particular caught her eye. She hadn't noticed the detail before now, but then she hadn't taken the time to study it. A mounted warrior, long, wild brown hair hung in disarray down his back, wearing what appeared to be a heavy, steel-studded leather vest, gripped with powerful, hose-clad thighs and tall boots, the sides of a magnificent black horse. With a sword that looked as big as Ellie poised high above his head, that guy meant
business.
His face was streaked with an indigo blue war paint, so his facial features weren't too clear. But something else was.
Down the length of the bare, muscular arm wielding the sword were markings stitched so tight and fine into the tapestry that Ellie had no trouble at all recognizing them. Tattoos. Ancient markings.
The same ones that Gawan had.
Ellie's memory ebbed and flowed, until something washed up. Eleanor of Aquitaine had been a great queen of both England and France. She was fierce and brave and, according to legend, had led an army into battle during the Crusades. Of course, she'd finally been sent back home, being a woman and the queen. Probably didn't go without a fight, though.
A memory sliced through her ... voices ...
You were named after your great-great-grandmother, Eleanor. Who was named after her great-great-grandmother. All the way back to the greatest of Eleanors.
Oh, Dad, everybody claims to be related to someone famous in history. There're at least ten kids in
my grade that say they're related to George Washington. There's no way I'm related to Eleanor of
Aquitaine.
Ellie's vision blurred, clouds swirling before her as though she were lost in a thick, soupy fog.
Through it pierced a small shaft of light that grew wider and wider, until a scene appeared before her.
Another great hall. No, just a living room, cozy, much smaller, with a fireplace. A sofa, with a tall, nice-looking man sitting beside a young girl. Fifteen, maybe? Father and daughter. A photo album stretched across both of their laps, their heads bent as they flipped through the pages, pointing and laughing.
The girl suddenly glanced up and looked straight at Ellie.
"Ellie?"
The vision vanished and Ellie jumped at the raspy, lilting voice of Gawan, who was standing right behind her. She knocked her head against the tapestry. "Ow!" she said, rubbing her forehead. Just the sound of the buttery-smooth accent, and in such close proximity to her ear, made her stomach fill with butterflies and, God help her, made her knees go weak.
Dang it.
She really was in no mood, or capacity, to have the hots for some rich, gorgeous, sword-swinging Welshman.
"Sorry," Gawan said. "Is there aught amiss? Are you ill?"
Ellie wondered why he kept staring at the corner of her mouth. Inconspicuously, she slipped a hand to that corner to wipe away any remnants of drool that may be lingering. "Other than the half-dead thing, no, everything's peachy."
He grinned.
Her knees wavered.
"Um, yeah, I was just looking at this tapestry," Ellie said. She pointed to the warrior with no armor.
"That guy there? He has the same tattoos you do. Well," she said, sliding him a glance, "you have more, I think." She met his gaze full-on. "Is that where you got the idea for yours? From this tapestry?" She looked again at the stitchings. "He must have been pretty crazy."
Gawan moved closer and stared at the warrior. "Why do you say that?"
Why did she have the urge to lean into him? Touch him in some way? She took a breath and ignored the mushy thoughts. "Well, look at all the other guys," she said, pointing to several other soldiers. "They all have on chain mail and such. This guy doesn't even have head gear on."
"Mayhap, 'tis that this warrior was fierce enough not to need it overmuch."
"Fierce doesn't protect you from the business end of a sword," she said. "I'm sticking to the crazy idea, myself."
Gawan chuckled. "So be it, then. He was indeed daft, for sure."
With a hearty sigh, Ellie shoved her hands into her pockets. "I can't sleep. I feel sort of tired, but I just seem to stare off. Sleep won't happen."
Another loud snore erupted from the corner of the great hall, and both turned to stare at Sir Godfrey.
"It seems to come rather easily for him," she said. "Why is that?"
Gawan looked down and stared into her eyes. "He's completely dead, girl. You are not."
Again, the way he said girl, which sounded like
gill,
or
gel,
was charming. Cute, even. She liked to hear it. "Oh, I see."
"If you're not fearful of the cold, we, er, could make for the wall walk, I suppose."
He was staring at her mouth again.
And before she could stop herself, that same mouth opened and said, "Sure. Thanks."
After retrieving two thick, wool cloaks—literally
cloaks,
complete with cowls and big metal brooches of sorts—Gawan helped her into one, adjusting it over her shoulders and wrapping it just so, before clasping it snuggly. He threw the other one over himself, as though he'd been doing it forever, and inclined his head. "Come."
Gawan led her to a single door tucked around the corner of the hall entrance. He flicked a light switch on the wall and opened the door. Through the soft, hazy lamp light lay a set of narrow winding steps leading upward. A thick rope stretched from top to bottom, secured tightly. She
hoped,
anyway.
"Grasp the rope, Ellie, and mind your step," he said, right behind her.
"You don't have to ask me twice."
His chuckle seemed right against her neck, and it made her shiver.