Thirteen Chances (6 page)

Justin, his grin vanished, crossed his arms over his chest and met Christian’s gaze. “Do you sincerely believe you have the upper hand with fate, Chris?” he asked. He rubbed his chin. “I dunna think so, lad. I think you’re tempting fate in ways you cannot undo.”

“Aye,” agreed Godfrey. “I’m with young Catesby here. You should allow things to happen as they may. You cannot change her path, boy, just as you cannot change yours.” He grimaced. “Unfortunate as it is.”

Christian considered that. He thought, paced, scrubbed the back of his neck, and thought some more. Mayhap his old mates were right. Then again, mayhap they were not. Finally, he stopped and met his friends’ gazes. “I’ve still got to try.”

Both Godfrey and Justin groaned.

With a glowering gaze, Christian pinned them where they stood. “I don’t expect either of you to understand or agree, but I
do
expect you not to interfere. ’Tis my own decision to try to change Emma’s fate, and if I fail, I’ll fail on my own.” He gave them a hard look. “If you cannot tolerate that, you can leave.”

Justin gaped long at Christian. Godfrey did the same. In the end, Justin spoke. “We willna interfere. But I am curious to see just how you’re goin’ to attempt to scare the wee lass.” He cocked his head. “Certainly not with insignificant little ghostly tricks, aye?”

Knowing better than to engage in that sort of conversation with Justin Catesby, Christian shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I decipher it myself.” He rubbed his chin. “Why don’t you two head over to Castle Grimm. You know they’re gearing up for their annual tournament, aye?”

A long, slow grin came over Justin’s face. “Maybe so, but ’tis much more interesting round here, just yet.” He nodded. “I’ll stay awhile. How about you, Godfrey?”

Godfrey’s grin irritated Christian. “Aye. I’ve a mind to stay, as well.” His eyes looked innocent. “We willna get into anything. We promise, right Catesby?”

Justin’s smile didn’t fade. “Absolutely.”

Christian considered his two friends, then dismissed their unspoken intimidation. ’Twouldn’t work on him and they damn well knew it. Furthermore, he’d not engage in the topic because they’d only drag it out, just to irritate him. He needed to be alone, walk, plan his strategy.

He rubbed both eyes with the heels of his hands. He didn’t like frightening Emma. Not at all. What he sincerely wanted to do was spend hours just gazing at her face.

No, what he’d give anything for was the chance to touch her skin, hold her close, and taste her lips …

A frown fixed itself upon his mouth. He knew better than anyone that would never happen. But if he could find a way to let Emma find eternal happiness—even if it meant giving up his chance to see her every seventy-two years—then he would.

With a slight nod, Christian disappeared from the chamber. He had to plan.

And the sooner Emma left, the sooner he could start trying to forget …

“Well, what do we do now?” cried Maven, wringing her hands together and pacing before the small hearth in their spell-making chamber. The Ballasters had gathered after hours. “Young Christian’s going to leave!”

The other sisters moaned.

Willoughby drew in a deep breath. “No, he’s not leaving.”

Three pairs of eyes flashed to her, expectantly.

“Truly?” asked Millicent. “He’s changed his mind?”

Willoughby nodded slowly. “Aye, he has, indeed.” She looked at her sisters. “He’s decided to scare Emma away instead.”

The others gasped.

“No!” cried Agatha. “Why, by Morticia’s wand, would he do
that?”

“It makes no sense at all,” muttered Maven. “What is that boy thinking?”

With a shrug, Willoughby walked to the hearth, picked up the poker, and stirred the ashes. She added another log. “The lad seems much more distressed at Emma’s arrival this time, ’tis true enough. I can’t imagine why.”

“But we cannot just let him scare her away,” wailed Millicent. “All will be lost if he succeeds!”

Willoughby turned to Millicent with a smile. “You’ve very little faith in our Emma, so it seems, Sister.”

Millicent furiously blushed.

“Think you she’ll hold up against his trickery?” asked Agatha.

Willoughby smiled. “I think so, yes. Indeed I do. She’s much stronger than she looks, I think.”

The other Ballasters sighed with apparent relief.

With a clap of her hands, Willoughby moved to a large, oval table in the middle of the chamber. Beside a large tome sat several small items, nestled together in one small pile. A candle log burned, giving off its cinnamon scent. Gingerly, she lifted a strand of hair from the pile, pulled it close for inspection, then set it back down. “There’s much to be done before All Hallows’ Eve, girls. Conditions of the spell-that-must-not-be-spoken-aloud need to be orchestrated just so, and in a small amount of time. Let’s keep an eye on our sweet Emma, just to make sure she doesn’t founder. She doesn’t know it, but her battle has just begun, and her quick acceptance of Christian’s existence is an absolute must. Not her memory, mind you. Just her acceptance of his spirited existence. We shall help coax her, if need be.” She smiled. “Now! Let’s get busy. The lass will be down for breakfast in just a bit. With that ravenous appetite she has, I’m sure she’ll be starved.”

With a round of ayes, they all gathered at the great table, huddled close, and planned their next step …

Emma cracked open an eye. The
tick-tick-tick
of a nearby clock sounded in the darkness surrounding her, and the air outside the covers felt cool and crisp against her cheeks. The distinct aroma of cinnamon filled her nostrils. Confusion muddled her brain, but only for a moment. It took her only a few seconds longer to register where she was.
Oh yeah. Wales. Arrick-by-the-Sea.

She threw the covers back and sat straight up. The memory of an agonizingly sexy face staring at her flooded her brain. Reflexively, she scanned the room. She didn’t merely find herself to be utterly alone, but was surprised to be slightly disappointed.

More than slightly, truth be told.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she pulled a pillow up, settled it behind her back, and leaned into it. In the darkness, the vision of that handsome face came immediately. The intensity of those eyes, and the way he’d said her name—

No. That voice hadn’t merely said her name.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, and the sound immediately came inside her head.

Christ, Emma. How I’ve missed you …

Her eyes flew open.

Holy ho-ho …

“I must be losing it,” she said out loud. Giving her head a good, hard shake, Emma climbed from the covers and switched on the lamp. She’d better hurry if she planned on taking sunrise pictures at the ruins. She flung open her suitcase, her teeth chattering as she dug out a pair of worn, faded jeans, her white long-sleeved SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design—T-shirt, a brown sweater, and a pair of thick socks. Hurriedly dressing, she freshened up in the bathroom, brushed her hair, snugged a multicolored knit hat down to her ears, pulled on her waterproof boots, and grabbed her camera case and tripod. Flicking off the lamp, she eased out of the room.

In the corridor, just beside her door, stood a small, folding table containing a thermos and a covered dish. Emma smiled. The Ballasters really were sweet ladies. Lifting the dish, she grabbed the two slices of cinnamon cake wrapped in clear plastic, and the thermos, and then headed quietly downstairs.

The only sound throughout the manor was the heavy
ticktock
of the tall grandfather clock in the foyer. As Emma passed it, she guessed it had to be all of six feet tall. Ornately carved and beyond gorgeous, the clock must have weighed a ton. She considered how the late-afternoon light would fall on it, and thought it’d be a great shot.

As Emma stepped out into the early morning, the brisk September air, tinged with smells of the sea and a sweetness—clover, maybe?—whipped against her face. She drew in a lungful, her insides feeling as though she’d just swallowed ice, juggled her camera bag and thermos, and started up the gravel path toward Arrick’s ruins. In the predawn light she could barely see the path in front of her. Ahead, the castle rose out of a blanket of heavy white mist, and it drifted like a live thing in wispy sheets toward her. Emma thought it eerily beautiful. Stopping, she set her bag down, along with the thermos and cake, on a nearby rock. Quickly, before she lost the shot, she set up the tripod.

Once she had the digital locked in place, she chose her lens, her settings, and then stared into the camera at the scene before her. Lifting her head, she angled the tripod a bit more, then bent again to check the shot.

In the next second, she felt something tug on her hair.

Emma turned. No one was there.

A chill ran up her spine. The wind?

She shook her head and looked through the lens.

The shot was beautiful. To her, it screamed mystical, legendary, and ghostly. She snapped off a few shots. No doubt the tales Willoughby had told her had something to do with it.

“Leave this place.”

Emma snapped her head up. She looked around. Of course, she found no one.

But she sure had heard someone whisper in her ear.

The wind excuse could seriously only last so long.

Deciding to ignore it,
whatever
it was, Emma lowered her head to the lens. She snapped off another shot.

“I … said … leave!”

Emma froze. The blood drained from her face—she could feel it. And as white as she already was, she probably could now pass for a vampire.

That voice was not friendly at all. And it was loud.
Very
loud. Fear made her body so stiff, she couldn’t even turn her head. Whoever had whispered to her before was apparently now standing right beside her. Who on earth would be out so early, on the Ballasters’ land, and even care if she was at Arrick or not?

“Don’t just stand and ignore me, wench!”

Emma’s eyes grew wide. Suddenly, she blinked.

Wench?

Turning her head, ever so slightly toward the voice, she braced herself for the brute that must be standing beside her.

Again, she found herself completely alone.

Turning in a circle, slowly at first, Emma studied her surroundings. The manor was at least fifty yards behind her, Arrick’s gatehouse at least a few hundred. The only things close to her on the gravel path were a few trees, a few scattered rocks, and some clumps of sea grass. Farther up the lane, grass lay on either side. Wide open.

Nowhere to hide.

Was she hallucinating? Maybe she was being drugged? Perhaps the Ballasters were spiking the tea. Poisoning the cakes.
Was that really cinnamon?

Another glance around proved to Emma she was indeed all alone. She bumped her forehead with the heel of her hand. Of
course
she was all alone.

Drawing a deep breath, she continued with her pictures. She knew nothing better to do. Running and screaming was out of the question. What would she say when the Ballasters finally asked her,
What’s wrong, dear?
They’d think she was a complete dodo. Unless the wily old gals were orchestrating the voice themselves, as an added ambience to their haunted castle tales? That had to be it.

It was her only explanation.

After several minutes, with no threatening voices to interrupt, Emma decided to gather her courage and head into the ruins. She wanted to get a certain shot as the sun rose and by God, she’d get it. Quickly, she gathered her stuff and headed up the lane. She couldn’t help the constant looking-over-the-shoulder thing she kept doing.

As Emma passed through the gaping black hole of the gatehouse, she shivered. Strangely enough, nothing happened. Somewhat relieved, she crossed the courtyard to the ivy-covered stairs, climbed them cautiously, then set her stuff down on the wall, waiting for the light to be just right. Unwrapping one of the cakes, she twisted the lid off the thermos and sipped the cocoa the sisters had made her. Still pretty warm, the smooth chocolate heated her insides.

Just as Emma’s mouth closed over the cinnamon cake, the voice returned.

“Remove yourself from my wall!”

Emma inhaled sharply, drawing cake crumbs into her lungs, and nearly choked. While she worked on swallowing the cake, her eyes darted all over but could, as usual, find nothing. Eyes watering, she managed to clear her throat. Now she was mad.

“I don’t know who you are, but I’ve had enough!” she said loudly. “Either leave me alone or … go away!” After a few moments with no response, Emma glared, lifted the thermos, and drank.

“Do not think to make demands on my land, wench. I said leave!”

“Oh!” Emma cried as she jumped at the voice, the thermos slipping from her hand. As she made a grab for it, she overreached. Her boot slipped on the wet stone of the step, and suddenly, Emma felt herself tumbling over the edge. With a frightened yelp, she grabbed on to the outer ridge of the step. She dangled, twenty feet off the ground. Fear crept into her throat, squeezing her vocal cords so tight she couldn’t scream. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Help,” she mouthed, trying to make herself heard, but the word barely coming out like a whispered croak. “Help. Please?”

“Open your eyes, gel,”
the voice said gruffly.

“No,” she whispered, and wouldn’t do it. Why should she listen to
that
voice? “Leave me alone.”

“Open them now,” it said, much more clearly, and much more angry.

She didn’t care. “No.” She tightened her grip on the step. Her fingers were getting numb.

“Emma, open your eyes before you bloody fall!” the voice shouted.

The voice
knew
her
name?

That got her attention. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

And stared straight into
the face
—the same face that had scared her the night before. And the face was now attached to a body.

A big body.

It crouched on the step, barely a foot away.

Too frightened to speak, Emma simply stared into the blue eyes looking down at her.