“I take this woman as my own, in the name of our father.” His deep voice washed over her like a wave. “Forever.”

The priest nodded, then turned his dancing blue gaze to her. “And you, Andrea Kinley Monroe of Virginia. How take ye this man?”

Andi turned to Tristan, and as soon as she looked into his blue eyes, so full of love, the tears started to roll down her cheeks. “I take this man as my own, in the name of our father.” She sniffed. “Forever.”

Tristan reached a gloved hand and caught the trail of tears with his finger. His heart filled with joy.

The priest turned the ledger around on the table before them and nodded. Tristan took the pen, dipped it in ink, and signed his name. He dipped it once more and handed the pen to Andi. Her hands trembled as she signed.

The priest nodded. “In the name of our Holy Father and before these witnessing souls, ’tis done.” He turned to Tristan. “You, my lord, may now kiss—”

“I know that.” Tristan grinned at the priest then pulled Andi into a tight embrace, lowered his head, and captured her lips, then proceeded to kiss her senseless right in front of the entire garrison and gathered ghosts. Shouts and cheers erupted around the small ancient chapel, but Andi barely noticed.

What girl in her right mind would have while at the mercy of a chivalrous knight such as Tristan de Barre? The renowned Dragonhawk.

Her husband.

Tristan broke the kiss, gave her a quick peck on the nose, and grinned. She looked down at her hand.

On her finger sat the most beautiful wedding ring. A wide silver band with a lovely sapphire setting in the center. Her head snapped up. “This is from your sword.”

“Aye.” Tristan produced another ring, much larger than the one on her finger. “I had this one fashioned, as well.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a charming grin. “So we would match.”

Andi smiled, took the ring from his palm, and tugged off Tristan’s glove. She pushed the ring into place and stared up at her husband. “It’s beautiful.”

“You, my love, are beautiful.”

Tristan swept her up into his strong arms and took off down the short aisle of the kirk, heading for the doorway.

Jameson hurried after them, Kate by his side, grinning and waving at the same time. “My lord and lady, wait!” He panted as he ran. “A feast has been prepared!”

“Well done, Jameson,” Tristan shouted over his shoulder. “Have it sent up to my chambers posthaste.”

Andi turned and glanced behind her as they left the kirk. Jason laughed, a broad smile lighting up his face. Kail slapped Sir Richard on the back, sending him sprawling. Jameson simply stood in the aisle, grinning. Andi waved and held on to her husband for dear life.

He carried her across the bailey and through the great hall. Even as Tristan held the treasured bundle in his arms, he could scarce believe his good fortune. Andi stared up at him with wide eyes as he climbed the staircase. He flashed her a quick grin.

“Lady Dragonhawk, I vow you’ll force me to lose my footing if you do not cease looking at me with such affection. ’Tis unnerving.”

Andi giggled. “You’re full of it, Dreadmoor.”

“Aye, for a certainty. Moon away, love.” Tristan reached the top of the stairs and stopped. He studied every inch of his bride’s lovely face, from her greenish-flecked eyes to her full, inviting lips. When her hand snaked around his neck and pulled him closer, it was nearly his undoing.

He bent his head and brushed her lips with his. Her sweet mouth trembled, and his poor knees wanted to buckle from the emotions it ignited within him. His throat tightened, so he swallowed. Twice. It did no good. Damn bothersome lump.

With long strides he started up the passageway and pulled to a halt just before plowing into his young knight.

Tristan glared. “Damnation, Jason. How’d you manage to get here first? Move you away.”

Jason smiled at Andi and blushed. “Shall I guard your door, my lord?”

Tristan walked past the boy and opened his chamber door. “Aye, and guard it with enthusiasm, pup.” He kicked the door shut with his foot.

“Aye, my lord!” Jason shouted from the other side.

Tristan glanced down at his lady, who gave him a bright smile. “He is very sweet,” she said.

Tristan shook his head. “That sweet lad,” he said, tossing his head in the direction of the door, “has killed more men in battle than you could fathom. I daresay ’tis best he knows you now, instead of when he was alive in the thirteenth century. The pup blushes at the mere sight of you.” He grinned. “You would have been the death of him, lady.” He brought his head closer. “As you would have me.” He brought his lips down to hers. “Do not close your eyes, Andrea of Dreadmoor.” His command whispered against her mouth. “I want you to see what you do to me.”

She forced her eyes to remain open as Tristan brushed his lips across hers, their eyes locked. He pulled back, then softly brushed them again. Arms of steel tightened around her, his muscles tense. He slowly set her on her feet, his eyes never leaving hers. Large callused hands skimmed her skin as he framed her face.

Her head held captive, Tristan lowered his mouth and kissed her, brushing his lips across hers over and over, his fingers kneading her scalp, tracing the shell of her ear, as he deepened the kiss. Her breath escaped as he tasted her lips with his tongue, softly at first, then possessive, demanding. Reaching up, she entwined her fingers in his long, silky hair and pulled him closer.

A low moan escaped him and, his breathing harsh, he said, “Help me out of this mail, woman, for I vow I cannot do it alone.”

With trembling fingers, Andi helped him out of the heavy-gauge steel. Once free, he stepped toward her and in one swift move scooped Andi back into his arms. In two strides he stood at their bed.

Following her down to the softness of the duvet, he kissed her neck, her ears, her throat. Nerves she didn’t even know existed tingled with sensation.

Tristan, breathless, lifted his head and held her gaze. “God, Andrea.” A rush of warm breath sent a shiver across her skin as his deep, accented voice whispered against her ear. “I cannot get enough of you.”

Tristan’s large hands shook as he unlaced her gown. The fire in his eyes smoldered as he slowly removed each layer of lace and then, without a word, shed his own clothes, never once dropping his gaze. He came to her, stretched out above her, and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe.

Skin to skin, body to body, they moved, and when Tristan claimed her, his gaze never faltered. Watching her intently, his own wonder of discovery turned his eyes a dark, tumultuous blue-gray.

Tears spilled over her lids, and as Tristan brushed a tender kiss across her lips, he whispered against her mouth, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“I would gladly wait another seven hundred years for your love, Lady Dreadmoor.” He caressed her jaw with his callused knuckles. “I love you, Andrea de Barre.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I will love you forever.”

When I refocus, Tristan is searing me with a sapphire blue gaze. “What did you find out this time, my lady?”

I grin, jump up, and extend my hand once more. He takes it and stands to his full height. I look up. Way up. “Wow. All that kick-ass knightliness all rolled into a big pile of mush.” I exaggerate my sigh. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

Tristan laughs. “Aye, ’tis, in truth. But keep to yourself the mushy part. I’ve a reputation to uphold, girl. A fierce one. Not one of a pansy.”

I laugh and punch Tristan’s arm. “You got it.”

“Damn me,” he says, and slaps my shoulder. I buck forward. “I renounce my earlier claim. You may fight any battle beside me. Or ahead of me.”

I grin. “Thanks. And back at ya.” I slap Tristan on the back. “For a mere mortal, you’re okay.”

Lifting my hand, he drops a light kiss there. “And I believe you’re way more than a mere human with tendencies, Ms. Poe.”

I give him a slight nod of thanks.

Just then, a pair of headlights bobs up and down over the cobbles at the entrance of Tolbooth Wynd. They stop at the gates to the Crescent. Two short blasts from the horn echo in the courtyard.

“Oy, young Jason is here,” Gawan says. He has walked closer to me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, lady,” he says. “I will give you a bit of advice about Earthbounds. Firstly, the spell in which the Fallen have chosen is a powerful one. Only another spell from the Seiagh can counteract it, which you dunna have.” He looks down at me. The light from the courtyard lamp glints off his eyes. “But you’ve the strength to save them, should you find it in yourself to do so. To go after them, though, is a tricky thing indeed. There’s not always a convenient puddle of holy water lying about.”

“What do I do?” I ask.

“Not only must you be touching the soul in which the Earthbound has been forced to take over, but you must also be submerged in the conduit yourself. Rather, a piece of you. Hand. Foot. Finger.”

“The conduit?” I question.

“Aye,” Gawan answers. “Glass. Mirror. Water. Reflections, Ms. Poe. But,” he continues, and his expression turns grim. “You must be armed, and you must be careful. Once the Earthbound is trapped inside the conduit, it cannot harm you. It might no longer look like its Earthbound self, but you can tell by the eyes. Their eyes are their own. And as you’ve seen, they’re regretful. Sad. Pleading.”

I nod in understanding. “What can hurt me? And what can I take in the conduit to kill it?”

Eli has moved close to me, stands besides me now. I know he hates this conversation. I feel his entire body crowd the space I’m already in. Luckily, I love the feeling. And, thankfully, even though that possessive, protective bone still resides in Eligius Dupré’s body, he keeps it tucked there. Unless it absolutely has to come out.

Gawan knows it, too, because he gives Eli a respectful glance before continuing. “You’ll be on another plane, like the one you were on earlier with the boy,” Gawan explains. “Usually the geography is the same, but,” he goes on, “there are things even I don’t get the full gist of in there. They hide, and in there they reign, preferably in darkness. And, yes, I am speaking of demons, Ms. Poe. And they’re not nearly as easy to tackle as a thirteenth-century knight,” he says with a glance at Tristan. “Or even a vampire.” He looks at Eli. “They’re cunning, there are a lot of them, they toy with your mind, and they want only one thing: your soul.”