Thirteen Chances (14 page)

Good Lord, give me strength …

At the table in the Ballasters’ glass dining room, amidst the sea cliffs, crags, and forests of northern Wales, stood Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea. A twelfth-century warrior who’d lost his life at the age of thirty-five—although he didn’t exactly appear to be quite that—he’d been roaming the living plane of existence for more than eight hundred and fifty years. He wore a pair of lethal blades over each shoulder. He’d once hacked heads off with those blades, so she’d been told.

Pretty crazy, right?

Emma continued to study that ghost, Christian.

The same one who’d assured her he could be inconspicuous while they were walking around the village together.

The
very
same one who’d used one of his special
tricks
to change out of the lethal-wear of a twelfth-century warrior and into …

Spectacularly modern …

“Step from behind that table and let me see you,” Emma commanded.

Without a word, Christian did as she asked.

Emma thought she’d start from the floor and go up.

A pair of worn, brown leather boots replaced the midcalf ones he normally wore. Comfy-looking, faded jeans clung loosely to his long legs, a white tee beneath a dark blue long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, covered his torso. His unruly long bangs were pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck with …

“Turn around,” Emma instructed.

With a grin, Christian turned.

… a small silver clasp.

Wuh.

“Inconspicuous enough?” he asked, turning back around. Blue eyes were back on hers, flashing.

“That all depends,” Emma said, moving to her seat.

“On what?”

She shrugged. “On how many girls with a pulse there are in the village.”

Christian chuckled. “I take it you approve?”

Emma smiled and sat down. “Definitely.” She eyed him again, stunned by just how incredibly gorgeous he was. “So, are you saying
anyone
can see you? And are you going to explain to me how this ghostly trickery of yours works?”

He gave a nod and pointed at her bowl. “Nay, only those who are sensitive, and that I wish to see me, can see me. And aye, I shall explain whilst you eat.”

“No problem there.” Emma dumped three spoons of brown sugar into her porridge, followed by a big, plopping spoonful of butter. She eyed the cream and poured some of that in as well. As she stirred, she felt Christian’s gaze on her. She looked up, his features tight. “What’s wrong?”

He inclined his head toward her bowl. “How does that taste after you’ve added so many more ingredients?”

Lifting a spoonful, Emma took a bite. Steaming hot, creamy porridge with all the good stuff added in. She chewed and licked her lips. “Like heaven.”

It was then she noticed how Christian’s eyes had followed the path of her spoon.

She cleared her throat. “Trickery?” she prompted, and continued to eat.

A fraction of a second later, he looked up. “ ’Tis nothing more than my mind conjuring an image around my form. Does that make sense?”

Emma looked at him, spoon in mouth, and studied him. Finally, she removed the spoon and shook her head. “Not at all.”

Christian tried hiding his smile behind his hand.

“So,” Emma started, “am I … sensitive? Or am I one of those folks you wish to see you?”

He leaned forward, moved his hands to the table, and looked at her. “Aye on both accounts.”

“Interesting.” Emma noticed that his hands were very close to her teacup, just resting there, casually. How real they looked, with fine, line variations in the skin, the roughened cuticles, the thick veins. One hand even had a tattoo, atop the hand, in the space between his thumb and forefinger. She leaned closer. “What’s that?” It looked like initials, but in another language.

Christian glanced down, then met her questioning gaze with a slight smile. “A reminder.”

Emma set her bowl aside, drained her teacup, and wiped her mouth. “Of what?”

“Oh, good! You’ve finished,” said Willoughby, bustling into the dining room. Agatha and Millicent trailed her. They quickly, before Emma could protest, gathered her dishes.

“Follow us into the kitchen, love,” said Willoughby. “I’d like to look at that hand before you two leave.” She winked at Emma as Christian stood up, and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Quite a dish, eh?”

Emma grinned as she snuck another peek. “Quite.”

In the kitchen, Willoughby swiftly unwrapped Emma’s injured hand and inspected the stitches. At the sink, she poured something over the cut—peroxide, Emma thought, since it bubbled—patted it dry with a disc of cotton, and dabbed ointment onto it. Then, she wrapped it with a fresh length of gauze and secured it with tape.

“There,” exclaimed Willoughby. “Good as new. Now, you two run along and have a lovely day.”

Emma flexed her hand and smiled. “Thanks, Willoughby. You’ve really gone way beyond the duty of a B and B host, you know.”

Willoughby, sweet thing that she was, blushed as red as her hair. “Go on with you now, lass. Shoo.” She glanced at Christian. “As for you—try not to walk through anyone, aye?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, with that odd, sexy accent. He gave Emma a smile.

She nearly tripped from the impact of both.

Instead, she took a breath. “I’ll be right back.”

And before Christian could answer, she dashed up the stairs to brush her teeth and retrieve her camera bag and a light jacket.

This day,
she thought as she made it to the second floor,
will be one I’ll want to remember for the rest of my life …

Willoughby pulled the curtain back, watched the unlikely pair amble down the lane, and turned to her sisters.

“Well, at least he’s being more cordial. I thought for a minute there he’d remain a brute,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. She knew Christian could hear the lightest of noises and he certainly didn’t need to hear any of their goings-on.

Maven, Millicent, and Agatha all nodded in agreement.

“Everything seems to be going accordingly,” whispered Maven. “Don’t you think?”

“Aye,” whispered Willoughby in return. “I see no recognition on her part yet, which is just what we want.” She glanced back out the window. They were out of sight. “And whilst the lad seems to be having difficulties remaining … platonic, he’s holding his own. I’m most proud of him.”

“Aye, especially since he’s clueless of our plan,” said Agatha.

“As it should be,” added Millicent. “We mustn’t slip up this time.”

“We’ve six hundred and seventy-two hours to make sure everything happens as it should,” said Willoughby. “Step two should begin kicking in rather soon.”

Millicent wrung her hands together. “But what if the poor lamb falls, or truly hurts herself—”

“It won’t happen, Millie!” said Willoughby with determination. “It just … can’t.” She glanced at her sisters. “We’ve already drastically altered their normal seventy-two-year path by initiating the
you know what.
If we succeed, things will indeed not be as either would have ever hoped. But loads better than if they’d just continued … existing.” She glanced at them. “Aye?”

The Ballasters all nodded in agreement.

“They must continue on the path they’re on now—as friends. And then build from there. The longer they both fight their urges, the better. They mustn’t admit their … feelings too soon. And she mustn’t discover who she ever was in the past. Not now, anyway. Very tricky business, but ’tis the rules. Agreed?”

Maven tilted her head, rubbing her chin with a forefinger. “What if, by chance, they
do
admit their … feelings too soon?”

The sisters all waited.

“Well,” started Willoughby, “we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen. The balance here is precarious, indeed. We want them together, but not … like that. Not yet.” She eyed her sisters. “We shall take shifts to keep an eye out, if needs be. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” they all said at once.

“Splendid. Now let’s get started on dessert. That lass has a monstrous sweet tooth. I daresay ’tis most convenient for our … ingredients …” Willoughby grinned.

Christian walked beside Emma, keeping a safe distance from her side. Not that he didn’t want to be close. That part of him would never subside. But he didn’t want to
merge
into her.

He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and glanced down at her. She had a knitted hat of a myriad of colors pulled down over her head, and two braids poked out, one on each side, resting on her shoulders. She carried a perpetual smile on her lips, and every several handfuls of steps, he noticed her drawing in a deep breath.

She liked it at Arrick.

She always had …

“I don’t ever want to leave here,” Emma said on a sigh. “The way it smells, the scenery … I love everything about it.” She smiled at him. “Especially you.”

Christian’s heart pounded. Yet at the same time, that same heart sank. “You deserve more than a spirit, Emm. I can never give you what a live man could.”

She looked at him then, those large, blue eyes round and soft. She lifted a hand, close to his jaw, and smiled. “You give me more, Christian. So much more …”

“Hello? Earth to Christian?” Emma said, snapping her fingers.

Christian blinked and looked at her. When she smiled up at him, like she was doing now, it all but wrenched his heart out, knowing she remembered nothing of their past.

At least she seemed to like him.

The path from the manor wound nearly two miles down the craggy hill, and every so often Emma would stop, point her camera at some bit of flowering weed, or a clump of rock, or an old tree. She always asked what the names of things were, and he’d tell her. She’d nod thoughtfully as if banking it to memory. Very curious, his Emma.

His Emma.
He’d always thought of her as that, but this time had to be different. If he was going to allow her to stay on at Arrick, so that she’d go back to the home she’d made in America, they’d have to just remain … Christ, saying the word in such context nearly made him ill. But he said it anyway. At least, to himself.

Simply friends.

Surviving it would be his second death.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Emma said beside him. “Are you sure you want to come along?”

His eyes moved to hers. “Aye. Just enjoying the day. It’s been a while since I took such a leisurely walk about with a, er, company.”

“Hmm.” She looked down at her feet while they walked. “Can I ask you a question?”

Christian eyed her. No good could ever come from a woman speaking that handful of words. “Just one?” he said with a slight grin.

Emma laughed and kicked a stone with her funny little shoe. “Probably not. I’m curious about too many things to stop at just one question.”

“No doubt.” He laughed, too. “Ask away.” Hopefully her questioning would be safe enough. Too much jostling of her memory may cause her to remember. And as much as he selfishly wanted that, he knew ’twas not what was best for Emma.

As they carried on down the lane, toward the one-track road that would lead to the village, Emma began her onslaught of questions.

The first, he should have known, was one left over from breakfast.

“That mark on your hand,” she said, pointing at it. “You said it was a reminder.” She looked up at him. “What did you mean by that?”

Christian glanced at first his mark, then to her.

He hastily reminded himself they should simply remain friends.

He drew a breath. “The man who slew me gave it to me as I lay dying,” he began. “As a reminder throughout my eternal existence that he bested me, that he was the victor, the better warrior.”

Emma stared at his hand for several moments. “I know it’s been a long time, but …” she said, giving him a look that he’d remember for the rest of his roaming. “I’m sorry.”

Christian cleared his throat. “Aye, ’tis been a long enough time, lass. Don’t worry so.”

They walked the lane in silence, but only for a handful of moments.

“I’ve another one,” she said.

He waited.

“Were you ever married?”

He looked at her then, and her face was turned up, waiting an answer.

He gave it.

“Nay,” he said quietly. “I’ve always been alone.”

Emma looked both ways before crossing the road.

But not before Christian had stepped ahead of her and done it first.

It amazed her that even after nearly nine centuries, the chivalry instilled in him as a knight was still so strong.

Emma found she liked that.

Thinking herself sneaky, she chanced another peek at Christian as they walked. He still completely fascinated her. He lumbered beside her in a totally guy fashion, with long, casual strides, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets, bent over just the slightest to make up for his height compared to hers, she figured. He’d duck his head to look at her when she spoke. Those ancient blue eyes, always studying her.

Had he not been dead, she’d have been slightly intimidated. She didn’t have a complex about her looks or anything; she accepted herself for what she was. Ordinary. She was fine with that, really. Flashy just wasn’t her style. But her looks were ordinary, her features ordinary, and Christian? She snuck another glance. Had he been alive in the present, looking like he did now? No way would he ever give her the time of day. Guys like that preferred girls with tans and big boobs, manicured nails, salon-styled hair, and high-fashion clothes. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that look, of course. She was just happiest in jeans, T-shirts—she was simply … Emma.

“No more questions?” he asked, ducking his head to catch her gaze.

Emma smiled. “Oh, loads of them. I’m just pacing myself.”

Christian chuckled.

Emma absently glanced up at him. Her gaze was drawn to his hair. He wore it parted roughly in the middle, and the tousled bangs hung loose and longer. Now those bangs were pulled around to the back and secured with a silver clasp. Pretty sexy, but a thought struck her. She cocked her head, suddenly intrigued. “I thought the guys in your century wore their hair long.” She reached her arm around her back and touched the middle. “About here. Why is yours short?”