neck aching with tension, Tamsin forced herself to nod. None of this made sense. “If you want information, why not just ask? You don’t need to scare me half to death.”
His eyes narrowed. “I have enemies. I never know what face they wear. Thus far, you have not attacked. Perhaps you are what you seem.”
Tamsin felt her pulse jump with alarm as she swallowed against the dryness of her throat. The man was a paranoid lunatic. “What do you want to know?”
“There should be tombs here,” he said in that same impatient manner. “Where did they go?”
Gawain’s stare penetrated right through her, boring deep into private places she barely admitted to herself. It was too much, especially from an utter stranger. He advanced a step, closing the gap between them again. The movement was almost a glide, showing the perfect balance of someone trained to use his body. Whether he meant it or not, it was intimidating and—she freely admitted this went against all common sense—incredibly sexy.
Tamsin held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Which tombs are you talking about? There is a lot of statuary in this place, and much of it’s been moved to make room for the exhibits.”
His eyes flashed with impatience. Without warning, he pulled her into the center of the church, his strides long enough that she was forced to trot. Rough calluses grazed her skin when he finally let her go, and she automatically rubbed the spot where his fingers had been. The guy was clearly used to working with his hands.
He pointed toward the center of the floor. “They were right here. Look around you. The sleeping guardians are absent.”
Tamsin hesitated, unwilling to take her eyes off him. Then she complied, viewing the place with a historian’s eye. This wasn’t a typical church by any stretch, seeming to adhere to no defined period and no typical design. The main area was a large, perfect circle with a ring of black marble slabs set into the floor. Tamsin knew from nineteenth century sketches that each slab had supported a tomb topped with the effigy of a sleeping knight. In the middle was a space for a larger monument guarded by enormous stone lions. The beasts had many symbolic meanings, but the basic message was clear—the knights who slept there were sworn to protect, even beyond the gates of death.
And now the army of knights was missing. Tamsin made a slight noise of understanding. “You’re right, there are some pieces gone.”
Gawain was silent for a moment, that hot blue gaze considering her from head to toe until it came to settle on her mouth. For a moment, Tamsin’s heart pounded with tension, a push-pull of attraction and wariness making her skittish. She’d seen that look on men about to kiss her.
Then, just as suddenly, he turned away. “There were one hundred and fifty knights buried in the church. Ten here, and the remainder in the crypt.”
Tamsin shook her head. “The crypt was filled in when the main structure was moved from England.”
He closed those startling blue eyes and ducked his head, almost as if she’d struck him. “By God’s bones,” he muttered, so low that she barely heard.
Still, the old oath made her catch her breath. “I’m sorry. Did you have ancestors buried there?”
“No.” He took a shaking gulp of air, staring again at the empty space. “Where did they go?”
“I think they’re on loan to different places. Museums. Universities.”
“Scattered.” His jaw muscles flexed, as if he clenched his teeth. His dark mood was gathering like a storm. “I need the exact locations.”
Tamsin cast a glance toward the door, wondering if she could escape. “I don’t know those details.”
“Then you will find out.” The words were hard, but beneath them there lurked pain and need.
Tamsin froze, still staring at the gray day outside the door. Right then, in that brief moment, he slipped under her emotional guard. She hadn’t—not for one instant—forgotten that he had crept up on her, eluding even her magical senses. But now she could feel his grief and desperation, and it was impossible not to respond.
Her power opened again, almost of its own accord. He was no longer trying to hide, and she could touch his words, touch him, with her inner senses. She’d expected a lunatic. What she found instead was enough to raise the hair along her nape. This man was a killer, brutal and steeped in violence. More than that, he was surrounded by danger.
He was danger.
“I need your help,” he said, making it a quiet demand.
Before she could answer or turn back to him, he reached out, laying rough, warm fingers against her cheek. It was gentle, almost a caress, but he had her rattled. She jumped, gathering her power to defend herself. “Don’t touch me!”
The instant her magic rose to strike back, his mouth dropped open and he pulled away as if she’d stung him. He recovered in a heartbeat, though now he was clearly wary.
He grabbed her wrist, glaring at the tattoo as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “Witch,” he said in a low, threatening growl.
Tamsin turned cold at the word. Most thought witches were extinct, and the covens preferred things that way. But her temper was roused, and she pulled away, heat mounting in her cheeks. “Felt that, did you? I think you’ve got a touch of the blood yourself. You certainly have impressive shields.”
“No.” He said it with fierce finality. All trace of softness was gone from his face, reducing it to bloodless, harsh angles. “Now you will tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t know where the tombs are,” she snapped. “I’ve already tried to locate some of the artifacts that should be in the church, but the old owner died and the information was lost. What paper records they have here are a mess. That’s why the new owners have hired me—to figure all this out.”
Silence hung heavy between them, and his face darkened again, promising thunder. “Then have answers for me the next time we meet.”
“And why would I do that for you?” Her temper was up and the words out before she could stop herself. Her gut knotted, bracing for the backlash.
“Because scholars like riddles, witchling, and there is a cost if you fail to find the answer.” Gawain wheeled and headed for the door.
Alarmed, Tamsin followed only to see him clear the steps in one graceful leap.
“Wait!” What consequences? How did he know about witches, anyway? And what was the big deal about the tombs? But by then, Gawain had disappeared into the throng, gone as fast as he’d burst into her universe.
Urgently needing to sit, Tamsin sank to the cold steps, suddenly shaking. “By Merlin’s pointed hat,” she muttered, and wondered if historians ever got hazard pay.
Flushed with temper, Gawain stormed away from the Church of the Holy Well. He rounded the edge of a green-and-gold pavilion and slipped into the stream of foot traffic passing by—or rather, he tried to. Business had picked up in the theme park and crowds filled the pathways, slowing progress to a crawl. Bright
