Into Thin Air (22 page)

He grinned. "I am rather thankful for your friendship over the years, given my mood wasn't always sweet."

Gawan raised a brow. "I've seen very little of you for the past fifty years due to your foul humor.

Fair drove me away, last time I recall."

Tristan laughed. "Aye, I did, and I'm truly sorry for it."

Stepping back, Gawan regarded his old friend. "I swear, this woman of yours has done you good.

'Tis a fine change in you, methinks."

"The power of true love, methinks," Tristan said.

As they quit the Brooding Chamber, Gawan gave it another glance. "You know, Dreadmoor, I believe I fancy this chamber of yours enough to duplicate it at Grimm. What say you?"

"I say 'tis a fine fancy you have, and you may speak with that young pup Jason about the matter.

'Twas he who came up with the design, after all. A smart lad, that one."

"Indeed," Gawan said. "I'll keep him in mind."

With that, they quit Tristan's Brooding Chamber and made their way to the great hall.

Musty. Sweet. Clovery, maybe? Dark, too.
Veeery
dark. And the scent of dank, wet stone ...

Where was she? Gosh! If there was ever a
worse
time to vanish into thin air, she didn't know of it.

Right smack in the middle of the Number One,
Numero Uno,
Top kiss of the Best Kiss Known to Man in the history of the world, and with her Intended, no less. Why did she have the distinct feeling that was just the way her luck usually ran?

Hot. She was very, very hot. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt glued together. When she tried to lift her hand, or a foot, they, too, felt as heavy as a cement block. Yet her mind raced like the wind, taking in smells and temperatures and ...

... voices. Muffled, maybe far off, but yes! Voices. A man's and a woman's. Ellie couldn't make out the words, but by the rise and fall in pitch and tone, it didn't sound like a very happy conversation.

It sounded more like an argument.

Doing her best to clear her mind of that blazing-hot kiss she and Gawan had shared—not to mention the feel of his hands against her skin, which she swore she could still feel, nor the overwhelming sensation of feeling in her heart from the mere thought of him—she took a deep, cleansing breath and strained her ears, hoping to catch anything of the conversation.

Then, blessedly, she did.

The voices grew closer, still muffled, as if they were talking into a tin can, but Ellie was able to make out some, if not all, words.

"American ... damnit, woman ... bobby ... look ... shoulder ... dead ... Jaysus—"

"More time ... looks better ... dunno be ... fool ... more time ... jail ..."

And then the voices were snuffed out, and shards of light began piercing Ellie's eyes. She struggled to remember every word she could make out, the smells—she thought she'd even heard a cow moo.

Before she could brace herself, she was lunging headfirst into a tunnel. A tight, dark tunnel, with a teensy spot of light that grew larger and larger at the end. Where the
bleep
were the brakes?

Chapter Eighteen

Gawan stared at the photograph with utter amazement.

'Twas Ellie.
His
Ellie. Caught completely unawares by the photographer as she stood at the back of Tristan's holiday cottage, facing the North Sea as the sky's dramatic clouds formed overhead, her back straight with arms wrapped tightly about herself, that wild, riotous hair whipping about her and, had she been wearing a swath of roughened wool draped about her, and mayhap a pair of high-laced boots, a splash of indigo across her cheeks, and a dagger or two stuffed into her belt, she'd look just like a Welsh warrior maiden, in truth.

His Ellie, he'd thought.

He glanced around, without moving his head, to see if by chance he'd said it aloud.

Nay, he hadn't, he realized as he watched the men in their various chairs, reading whatever book they'd filched from the library. And certainly, if he had said it aloud, he would have heard about it by now. The Dreadmoor knights were, if anything, merciless.

"The fax is in, Conwyk," Tristan called from the library.

Indeed, just as Gawan rose from his stool by the hearth, the fax machine began a series of
beeps
as it chugged out whatever papers Tristan's solicitor had managed to send.

As he crossed to the library, the knights behind him rose, as well, and followed him into the massive reading room.

Gawan went straight to the fax machine, perched upon a heavy, solid oak desk. The first page came out, and Tristan immediately handed it over to Gawan.

The lady Dreadmoor, who leaned against the desk beside her husband, walked over to Gawan and read the paper in silence with him.

"Does it have anything of import, sir?" Jason asked.

"Aye, like mayhap her name?" Sir Christopher, who had moved closer, said. "Or mayhap an address, even."

Gawan scanned the first page. " 'Tis a questionnaire of sorts, and aye"—he felt a slight ding of excitement—"it has a name and address." He peered at the typed-in answers. "It says
Nunya Bizz
for the name." He glanced at Andi. "Nunya Bizz? What sort of a name is that?" Ellie, for some odd reason, did not look like a
Nunya Bizz
to him.

"Oh, geez," Andi said, then pointed to the address. "The whole thing is a fake. Look," she said, dragging her finger beneath the address. "One Mainstreet, Mayberry, PoDunk, USA."

"What does that mean?" Jason asked, although Gawan already had a feeling he knew what.

"PoDunk? 'Tis a strange-sounding village, to be sure."

"Nunya Bizz, I'm guessing, is slang for None of Your Business. And this address? Mayberry?

PoDunk? Those are all names used in reference to the South." She rubbed her head. "Although she was accurate in the USA part."

Gawan scrubbed his jaw. "Now
that
sounds just like something she'd do." He glanced at Andi. "But why? I wonder."

"Colonists. They do the most damnable things, in truth," Tristan said. "I did warn you, lad, about American maids, although I'll have to speak to my solicitor about being more cautious with these questionnaires. PoDunk, indeed—wait, here's another page coming through." He handed it to Gawan.

After glancing over it, Gawan read the information out loud. "Mayhap this one is correct. Name: Mary Bailey. Address: Thirteen Bedford Falls."

Andi sighed and placed a hand on Gawan's arm. "I'm afraid it's a fake, too." She pointed at the name and address he'd just read. "See here? Mary Bailey? Bedford Falls?"

Gawan gave her a blank look.

She reached out and gave her husband a punch in the arm. "Tristan, doesn't that ring a bell with you?"

At first, Tristan's face was as blank as Gawan's felt; then recognition flashed in his eyes. "Damn me, but it does now."

"Aye, 'tis that black-and-white Christmas movie the lady's made us watch a thousand times over the past two weeks," Kail said with a grumble. "I vow, if I have to watch it again, I shall hang myself."

The knights grumbled in agreement.

"I think it's a wondrous movie," Jason said, although his brow furrowed.
"It's a Wonderful Life.
But I don't understand why your solicitor didn't catch on, Sir Tristan."

Gawan stared down at the information required to let a holiday cottage from Dreadmoor Estates.

"Indeed, man, your solicitor has allowed a very slippery fish to shimmy by." And he wondered, not for the first time, what would make Ellie give false information. It didn't make a bloody ounce of sense.

"Wait," Andi said, who'd taken the fax from Gawan. "There is a phone number here. An emergency contact number." She glanced at Gawan. "It's a long shot, but maybe she left a legitimate number, just in case something happened to her. She'd have been crazy to come to a foreign country and not have an emergency contact available."

"Indeed, but I am beginning to believe that, aye, Ellie is more addled than by what caused her near-demise." He inclined his head to the phone beside Tristan. "Do you mind?"

"Aye, man, call the number." He counted on his fingers. " 'Tis but four o'clock in the afternoon there. Surely, someone will answer."

A number of ayes sounded from the knights, who'd stood close by watching with interest.
A fine lot
of men,
he thought.
Loyal. More like family.

"Here's the country code for the US," Andi said, and handed him a slip of paper with the number on it.

"Aye, thank you," Gawan said, then punched in the country code, then the area code, then the number
Mary Bailey
had left in case of an emergency.

Oy, when Ellie reappeared again, he'd have to resist the urge to wring her scrawny little neck.

Someone on the other end picked up, and Gawan held up a hand. Everyone grew silent.

"Hello?" the voice said.

A voice that sounded
exactly
like Ellie's.

"Right, this is—"

"Ha-ha, I'm not really home, silly. And this is an unlisted number, so this has to either be Dad, Kyle, Kelly, or Bailey. Or I've gotten my bleeping self in trouble over in England, which, if that's the case, I'm up bleep creek without a bleeping paddle. Leave a message, will ya? Someone's bound to check my voice mail sooner or later, I hope."

A long
beep,
followed by silence, which, Gawan took the message leaver's advice and left a short message.

"I have reason to believe your sister is in danger. Call me here, in England, at this number. As soon as possible." He left his name and number, then clicked the off button on the cordless.

"Gawan, what's wrong?" Andi said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Or heard one," said Tristan. "What did they say, man?"

"Aye, Conwyk, you're killin' me with all this waitin'," Kail said.

Gawan rubbed his brow. "Damn me, but 'twas her. 'Twas her own bloody phone." He began to pace, and hardly noticed that the knights who happened to be in his path moved out of his way. "Before I thought her quirkiness was rather charming, endearing, mayhap." He turned and faced Tristan. "But now I want nothing more than to strangle her."

"Oh, that's because you're in love with her, sir," Jason said, and he was rather proud of himself if the way he stood so cocksure meant anything. "Or else you wouldn't give a bloody fig, aye? And I must say, I've noticed it's made you rather stodgy, of late. 'Tis what love does, I assume, since Sir Tristan became just as stodgy when he first fell in love with Lady Andi."

The other knights chuckled.

Andi grinned and twirled a hank of Tristan's hair between her fingers. "Were you stodgy, my lord?"

With a swift move, Tristan pulled his wife onto his lap, and was rewarded with a squeal. "I'm passing stodgy now, and you'll humor me if you know what's good for you, wench."

The Dragonhawk knights whistled, cawed, and laughed at their leader's prowess to hush the lady Dreadmoor.

Gawan took a short moment to regard the two. Stodgy or not, the Scourge of England wore every ounce of love he felt for his lady on his tunic sleeve for everyone to see.

Damn, lucky whoreson.

"If I might intrude upon this vastly amusing revelry, I may be able to offer a bit of aid."

Gawan, like the rest of the occupants of the library, turned to the doorway, where Jameson, that stealthy Dreadmoor steward, stood ramrod rigid, his black suit as crisp as the moment he'd put it on earlier that morning, and not a bloody gray hair out of place.

Gawan wondered how he managed the like.

"Aye, Jameson," Gawan said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Any aid is welcome, as we've come to yet another dead end."

Jameson gave a slight nod. "Mayhap you could leave multiple messages on the voice mail, and leave various numbers, just in case you cannot be reached."

Gawan nodded. "Good thinking, man. I'll do it."

"And," Jameson continued, "mayhap the constable could trace the address of that number?"

"Aye," Tristan agreed, "and I daresay Hurley can be trusted. He helped settle some rather unsavory affairs before that blasted curse was broken, in truth."

Gawan nodded. His stupid self should have thought of that first. "Aye. Fine idea, that."

Tristan grinned, leaned over the legs of his wife, who was still sprawled across his lap, and gave Gawan a slap on the arm. " 'Tis the way of it, man, when your woman is at stake. The brain sort of turns to gruel."

Gawan frowned. "Gruel, indeed. Methinks it's beyond gruel. More like old, watery broth."

Several knightly chuckles filled the room.

"So, Sir Gawan," Jason said, coming to stand before him, arms crossed over his chest, and, Gawan noticed, nearly as tall as himself, "I've been giving much thought to the events of this afternoon—you know, between Lady Ellie and you."

More irritating, wolfish noises sounded from the knights.

"And," Jason continued, ignoring his mates, "well, beg pardon, sir, but methinks 'twould be justly right to accompany you back to Grimm."

Gawan studied the lad's face, ever so serious, all but for that mischievous twinkle in his eye. "And why, pray tell, do you think that, Jason?"

The young knight palmed his sword hilt and held Gawan's gaze with a most serious one, indeed.

"To guard your lady's honor, of course."

Gawan narrowed his eyes. "Against
whom?"

A smile tugged at Jason's mouth, but he held his gaze steady. "Why, against you, of course."

Through the muck of ayes and arghs and oys that spread about the room, Gawan knew right then he'd never leave Dreadmoor without the lad.

And mayhap, he thought, remembering his last encounter with Ellie, Jason had it aright.

"It is a fine idea," Jameson said, his stoic features not changing once. "That poor girl should not be left unattended whilst lingering at Castle Grimm, no less."

Gawan gave Jameson a scowl.
And well deserved,
he thought.

The old steward's mouth twitched.

A rarity.

A quick glance at Tristan proved he wholeheartedly agreed. His wife, on the other hand, had a dreamy look about her that indeed reminded Gawan of Ellie.