Thirteen Chances (2 page)

Emma sighed and rubbed her eyes. “If you want to call it that. I really don’t
see
anything in my dreams.” She looked at her friend. “I
feel
it.”

“And then you obsess and stay up all night long for nights on end, surfing the Net until you find the
feeling?”
She pointed at her. “You’ve dark circles under your eyes, Emm. You look like a vamp. How long have you been dreaming this time?”

Emma glanced back at the computer screen, and the imposing walls of Arrick. “Months.” She couldn’t explain it—not at all. But somehow, when she’d finally come across the breathtaking photo of the twelfth-century fortress, she’d
known.

What
she’d known, exactly, she had no clue. But she knew she had to go there.
Needed
to go there.

“When are you leaving, and why haven’t you told me before now?” Zoë said, frowning.

Emma looked at her friend and motioned at her with two fingers. “Put those mean eyebrows away, Zoë.” She sighed. “I didn’t want to burden you. You’re in the throes of planning a wedding, silly. The last thing you need is a whiney pal.”

Zoë placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “You goofball. It’s not a burden and you know it. You’re my best friend. So much of a best friend that you’re the only one I’d trust to photograph my wedding.” The mean eyebrows returned, just briefly; then she smiled, her expression softening. Zoë cocked her head as she studied her. “You are a very weird woman, Emma Calhoun. You capture the most astounding pictures of people in love, and yet here you are, twenty-eight years old and still all alone. Good Lord, look at you.” She pointed at her. “Porcelain skin, beautiful cinnamon hair—you’ve got
abs,
woman.” Zoë lifted her shirt and poked her own softer belly. “I’d give anything for abs. Anyway, you’re a gorgeous girl, and yet you’ll go home tonight, order a pizza, and watch … let me see …
The Mummy,
followed by
The Mummy Returns.”

Emma shrugged. “I like mummies.”

“No, you like the guy who kills the mummies.”

Emma didn’t dispute it. She peered at her friend. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Zoë smiled. “When do you leave for Wales? And while I’m being selfish, more important, will you be back in time to shoot my wedding?”

Emma walked to the window and glanced down at the tourists walking the cobblestones of River Street. A tugboat blasted its horn as it pulled away from the docks, and a tour group hunting Savannah’s spirits ambled by.

Even with the window closed, the scent of freshly made pralines wafted up from the sweetshop below. When she turned back to Zoë, she noticed the tiny dust particles flittering like fairies in the waning light that streamed through the glass. It was all quite surreal, but not nearly as surreal as her dreams.

Something pulled her to Wales, and specifically to Arrick-by-the-Sea. It was weird, and yeah—Zoë was right. She
was
a weird woman, because the dreams plaguing her sleep each night had no real definition, no flashing neon sign that said
HERE LIES YOUR DESTINY
. And yet, after months of accumulated feelings of urgency to get to those crumbling twelfth-century ruins, Emma had booked a round-trip flight to Wales, made reservations at the charming manor house B and B located just up the way from the castle, and had taken the entire month of October off to travel across the Atlantic to satisfy whatever it was
inside her
that was all but driving her into lunacy.

“Well?” Zoë prodded, waving a hand. “Earth to Emma? Promise?”

With a gusty sigh, Emma grinned. “I leave in a week. And yes, of course I promise to be back to shoot your bridal shower, your rehearsal dinner, and your wedding.” She made an X over her chest with her forefinger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Castle of Arrick-by-the-Sea
September, present day
Eveningish …

“Och, look at you, lad. A fierce wad of squirmin’ nerves—that’s what you are, walkin’ back and forth, back and forth. You’re all but makin’ me head spin.”

Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea stopped and glanced at his longtime friend. The older knight was a resident ghost at Castle Grimm, but he frequented Arrick. Christian had known him for centuries. “I can’t help it, Godfrey.” He shrugged, sighed, and glanced out across the shadowy sea. “I just … can’t.”

Sir Godfrey of Battersby scratched a place under his big, floppy hat. “Damn, boy, you should be used to this by now. ’Twill be the ninth time, aye?”

“Thirteenth.”

Godfrey muttered under his breath.

The ebb and flow of the brisk Irish Sea against the base of Arrick did little to comfort Christian this particular eve. ’Twas the night before
she
was to arrive, and it had his stomach twisted in bloody knots. Emma
Calhoun
was her name this time. Strangely enough, ’twas always Emma. But her surname was always different—as was her appearance. What would she be like? Aye, her soul was the same, but characteristics often changed. Not all, but some. Her looks differed with each rebirth. ’Twas, in a way, like meeting someone for the verra first time all over again.

Except that he
knew
who she was.

And that he already loved her fiercely.

Christian ran a hand through his hair. ’Twas enough to make a man bloody daft.

“Pull your head out of your arse, lad, stop sulkin’, and tell me your plan. Do you know much about her this time?” asked Godfrey. “What she looks like, that sort of thing?”

Christian glanced at Godfrey. “I think you enjoy this way too much, old man.”

Godfrey stroked his chin. “I confess, ’tis most entertaining, even if it does occur only every seventy-two years.” He chuckled. “I especially like when you show yourself to her for the very first time.” He shook his head. “Huge sport, it is. Everyone’s talkin’ about it, you know. Even o’er at Grimm. Although I don’t fancy the ending overmuch.” He looked at Christian. “Think you this time will be different?”

Christian shrugged and blew out a hefty sigh. “I truly hope so.” He glanced behind him, down the way toward the sisters’ manor. “I think the old girls are up to something. They said this time will be of utmost import, and that I should take extreme care in my wooing.”

“You always take extreme care in your wooing,” said Godfrey. He glanced in the direction of the manor. “Passing odd, those old lasses.”

Christian rubbed the back of his neck and stared out across the black water. Mayhap this time he wouldn’t take such care in the bloody wooing. “Knowing how it will end nearly makes me want to not try at all,” Christian said. And in truth, he’d given that a lot of thought. Mayhap the best thing would be to avoid her
completely
…

“You’ve lopped off many a heads in your day, lad. You’re as lethal a warrior as they come. I’ve no doubt you can handle the meeting of your beloved again,” said Godfrey. He smoothed the big plume poking out from the side of his hat. “When does the lass arrive?”

“Tomorrow.”

A smile stretched across Godfrey’s face. “We could go to the airport and take a wee look for ourselves?”

Christian shook his head. He’d confessed his situation to the Ballaster sisters years before, after he’d lost Emma the last time. “Willoughby has already asked that I remain here.”

A loud, boisterous bellow erupted from Godfrey. “My God, boy.” He shook his head. “My God, you indeed have it bad, aye? And I thought young Gawan’s case was somethin’ else.” He shook his head. “Well, she didn’t ask me to remain here. I shall leave first thing in the morn. Young Catesby said he’d go with me.” He gave Christian a half-cocked smile. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine here. Pacing. Scrubbing your neck and such. Worrying.”

Christian grunted. Justin Catesby, another spirit—although one much more irritating—would no doubt soon join Godfrey in the sport of poking fun at Christian. Justin was a rogue and an arrogant pup. He’d also been, like Godfrey, a close friend for centuries.

“But until then,” said Godfrey, “what say you to a game or two of Knucklebones?”

Christian thought about his days of warring. Spears, swords, arrows, blood—his hand tightly wrapped around the hilt of his blade. Familiar, sweaty,
manly
things. But when it came to his true love? Would he really have the strength to avoid her?
Christ, she’d be here on the morrow …

Butterflies flapped mercilessly in his stomach, and his mouth went dry. He pushed his fingers through his hair.

Aye. He’d indeed turned into a spineless twit.

“Arrick! Knucklebones, boy!” hollered Battersby.

Christian took a deep breath and joined his old friend for an even older game that he really didn’t feel much like playing at all. He blew out a sigh. Godfrey of Battersby laughed.

It’d be the longest bloody night of Christian’s life.

The very next day …

Emma held her breath and dug her fingers deep into the old car’s seat cushion, and her feet pushed heavily on imaginary brakes as the vehicle squeaked between an ancient stone wall and a big delivery truck. She couldn’t stand it. She closed her eyes.

A giggle erupted from the driver.

Cracking open an eye, Emma peeked at the sweet old thing driving. Millicent Ballaster, one of the owners of the manor house where she was booked. At least they’d offered her a ride. And the sweet old gal had nearly squeezed the life out of her with a fierce hug when she’d first met her at the luggage carriage. With a carefree grin plastered across her wrinkled cheeks, old Millie barely gripped the wheel with one hand.

“Open your eyes, girlie. No need to worry.” She patted the car’s dash with pride. “Quite reliable, this old heap.”

It wasn’t the old heap she was worried about. It was her
life.
Emma tightened her grip on the cushion and gave a slight laugh. “Oh, uh, I’m sure it is.”
Oh my God! I’m not going to make it to Arrick-by-the-Sea in one piece!

It was the longest two hours of her entire life.

Soon they turned off the single track road they’d been traveling on and onto an even narrower road. They made two corners, and then the
old heap
began to climb. Tall trees lined the path on either side, so it wasn’t until the road leveled and the car stopped climbing that Arrick-by-the-Sea came into view.

Emma’s breath hitched in her throat, and her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Quite the sight, eh love?” Millicent said.

The car had barely stopped when Emma opened the door and slowly climbed out. “Quite,” she whispered.

Then she simply took in the view.

They’d parked in front of a lovely stone manor house, situated off to the right of the path leading to Arrick’s castle ruins. Three stories high and the length of a football field, the manor was by no means a small estate. Bold red and pink geraniums overflowed stone containers on either side of the massive wooden double doors, and according to the Web site, it’d been built in the seventeenth century but had fallen into disrepair.

It was now lovingly renovated and absolutely beautiful. Behind the manor, a maze made of rowan bushes, at least as tall as Emma, sat in a big square. Millie had told her a big fountain sat in its center. She’d have to check that out later.

Emma’s gaze then moved back to the narrow path that meandered up the sea cliff.

And to the castle ruins perched right at the edge.

Once again, her breath hitched.

Without really thinking, she began to walk in that direction. She’d made it only a few feet before the doors to the manor swung wide-open and three older women bustled out. They huddled around Millicent and simply stared at Emma. Finally one of the women, pleasantly plump with a sweet face and red hair, clapped her hands together and smiled.

“Welcome to the Ballaster House B and B! I’m Willoughby and, oh my! You are such a lovely thing! We are ever so happy to have you here!” she said. As one big huddle, the four women moved toward Emma, and Willoughby continued. “We are the Ballaster sisters. Millicent, you’ve met.”

“And thankfully survived her atrocious driving,” said the tall, willowy sister in the middle of the huddle. She grinned. “I’m Maven.”

“And I am Agatha,” said the shortest sister, wringing her hands and all but jumping up and down in place like a Jack Russell wanting to play fetch. “Indeed, we are so verra pleased you’re here.” That last sentence came out on a squeak.

Willoughby gave a wide smile. “We’ve been eager for your arrival, dear. Quite eager, indeed!”

Emma gave each sister a smile. “Thank you for such a wonderful welcome,” she said, wondering just briefly why the heck they were so happy to see her. Perhaps business was slow this time of year?

Then Emma’s gaze drifted back to the ruins. The weathered stone of the gatehouse stood stark against the gray-blue sea behind it. The cavernous mouth where a steely-toothed portcullis used to be housed yawned wide.

Emma paused. How did she know that?

“Och, there’s plenty of time to explore yon fortress,” said Willoughby. She moved to Emma and grasped her gently by the elbow, and tugged her to the back of the
old heap.
Emma lifted out her one suitcase and her camera equipment bag, slung it over her shoulder, and shut the trunk. Willoughby patted her arm. “Come, sweetling. Let’s get you unpacked and settled in first. You must be exhausted from that dreadful plane ride. We’ve hot tea and cinnamon cakes ready for you.”

Emma met the gazes of four expectant Ballasters. All four were as different as night and day, yet all four … similar. She decided right then that she liked them a lot. She smiled. “Yes, thank you. That sounds great.” It did, too. She hoped she wouldn’t make a pig of herself. She’d have to try to rein in her appetite. She shifted her load and allowed Willoughby to pull her toward the manor.

Just before she stepped over the threshold, Emma stopped and glanced over her shoulder, back at the ruins of Arrick. The brisk September breeze rolled off the Irish Sea and bit her cheeks, and she shivered.

As she watched, a figure stood rigid on the wall facing her, legs braced wide, arms folded.

At the same moment, the sun peeked from behind an ominous gray cloud and a bath of gold washed over the stone, across the grounds, and finally, right into Emma’s eyes. She blinked, and squinted.