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As Greg ascended the steps, brown eyes beckoned from her clipboard, drawing her attention. Erin scowled down at the sexy chevalier. The man was too good-looking for words. According to her drawing.

“Don’t forget what I said about blue moons,” called Greg over his shoulder.

“I won’t.”

Blue moons. Pfft! All day Greg had regaled her with the folklore surrounding blue moons.

How the superstitious perceived them as a portent of new beginnings.

How Wiccans believed they could amplify things.

She stared up the stairwell, the shuffle of Greg’s footsteps retreating. Was he hoping for a romantic evening?

Her gaze dipped to her clipboard. Greg was no Gaharet d’Louncrais.

She cast a baleful eye over her sketch, and tossed her clipboard to the ground, out of her way. The minute she got back to the hotel, she’d bin that thing. Screw it up and chuck it in the trash. Promise? Maybe. Okay, probably not.

She huffed out a breath, knelt beside the skeleton. Opening her kit, she chose a brush, turned her back on that damned drawing and got to work.

From a cursory examination of the skeleton’s pelvis and leg bones, they’d established the remains belonged to a tall, over six-feet-tall, male.

She’d found some signs of ossification, though the scan would give them a clearer indication of age.

D’Louncrais had died around the age of thirty-five, but a lifetime of fighting would’ve impacted his body.

The bones could belong to d’Louncrais. They could belong to anyone.

She’d need time in a lab and a thorough study of the bones before she could reach any real conclusions.

Her gaze shifted to her sketch. Again. Dark eyes stared back at her, taunting her.

Even in death, the man had the power to captivate and intrigue.

That’s the only explanation she had for the creation on her clipboard—a chevalier in shining armor worthy of a leading role in any blockbuster movie.

A flutter started in her belly. Erin groaned, rolling her eyes.

Come on, Erin. He’s dead. It’s a simple drawing, and you know there’s no such thing as a knight in shining armor.

She pulled her gaze back to the bones. Sure, he was good-looking.

The women of his time had thought so, if they could believe the written evidence of them swooning in his presence.

And he hadn’t risen to his position as the count’s adviser, or commander of his army, by being dim-witted either.

Although, his inherited wealth, title and a level of ruthlessness would’ve helped there.

Bestowing on him qualities of a romantic hero… well…that was ludicrous.

Of its own volition, her gaze strayed to the drawing again, and an unwanted thrill skipped through her veins. She forced the sensation down.

What is wrong with me?

How many men like him had her mother dated?

Too many, and none of them had lasted the distance.

Erin had always aspired to something more, something stable, a deeper lasting connection with someone who inspired loyalty, conversation and a meeting of minds.

A best friend and lover. A stayer, not a player.

You didn’t get that with a man like d’Louncrais, no matter how much you wished it.

Not even a modern version of him would deliver. And someone living would be handy.

So why are you so obsessed with him?

Maybe it was genetic—a recessive gene that had remained dormant until now. God, she hoped not.

Puffing out her breath, Erin slammed the door shut on Gaharet d’Louncrais’ distracting image. She returned to the last vertebrae, brushing away the remaining dirt. She peered closer.

“What have we here?”

Incised bone trauma. She’d examine it more closely in the lab, but its existence suggested a cause of death.

Decapitation. That added credence to Greg’s theory of a rift between Count Lothair of Anjou and his most trusted vassal.

If the bones belonged to d’Louncrais, what had changed between him and the count?

What had he done? Had an affair with the count’s wife?

She dug around for the skull and found it not at the apex of the spinal column but off to the side. More evidence to support beheading as the prisoner’s demise.

Erin set to work on it, humming along with the rhythmic movement of her hands, her brush sweeping deftly across the cranium. Ridges appeared and orbital arches took shape. The more she revealed, the deeper her frown until her humming dwindled into silence. She sat back on her haunches.

“What the hell?”

Leaning forward, she peered at the alabaster expanse of bone. She pried it loose. This was unexpected. If the silver shackles weren’t unusual enough, or an underground cell in a tenth-century keep, this really upped the ante on strange.

She held up the skull, the long muzzle, the flat forehead, curved mandibles and large canines white in the harsh, electric lighting. Definitely not a human skull. Nor that of a dog. No, this belonged to a wolf.

She stared at the cranium crusted in dirt.

Had some poor, rabid, half-starved animal been thrown in here to kill the prisoner?

They’d already revealed the ribs, humerus, pelvis, clavicle and femurs, and she’d given them a cursory examination.

None of them showed any signs of damage pertaining to an animal attack.

Or evidence of a wolf having devoured the prisoner after he’d died, gnawing on the bones until it, too, succumbed to death.

If she located the wolf’s body and the man’s skull, would they provide the answers? Or raise more questions.

There was always the possibility the count had removed the prisoner’s head, taken it to display on a pike and used it as a warning to others. As one of the more notorious counts of the period, that wasn’t out of the equation. What about the wolf, though?

She frowned at the skull, letting the dirt sift out.

Something solid dropped to the ground.

A tooth dislodged when she’d moved the skull? She picked up the loose piece.

“Oh.” Erin’s eyes widened. Not a tooth. Something far more interesting. She held it in her palm—a small disc of tarnished gold the size of a fifty-cent piece with a hole in the top. A pendant? Flipping it over, she held it up to the light.

“Oh, my.”

Stamped into the gold was the d’Louncrais family crest.