Thirteen Chances (3 page)

The figure on the wall was gone.

“Come, love,” said Willoughby, giving her yet another tug. “Let me show you round the house.”

After a few seconds more of blinking and squinting at the space that now stood empty, Emma shrugged and stepped into her home for the next month.

Briefly she wondered whether there might be a castle curator taking care of Arrick’s grounds …

The moment Emma stepped into the foyer of the manor, two things assaulted her. The first was the rich, decadent aromas of cinnamon, vanilla, and caramel. It literally made her stomach growl, and she’d soon start chewing on her own arm if she didn’t get to those darn cakes soon. Good Lord, they smelled heavenly.

And then, the second thing: she felt as though
eyes
were on her, or as if someone watched her from the shadows. It wasn’t the sort of feeling one would experience when in a creepy haunted house. Not threatening at all. Just that feeling you get when you have to keep looking over your shoulder, or the hairs rise on your neck and arms. Quickly, her gaze raked every nook and cranny in the foyer and main room. The ceilings were fourteen feet high; beautifully painted tiles lined the baseboards; thick burgundy drapes hung from ceiling to floor at each window; and the lush, deep mahogany of the wooden staircase rail shone in the lamplight. She saw nothing, yet the feeling someone watched her remained.

Weird.

Or, not so weird. The manor was more than two hundred and fifty years old. She was used to old, and haunted, for that matter. Savannah was renowned for its spooks and specters.

Not that she believed in any of it.

“Emma, dear,” said Willoughby.

Emma jumped. Willoughby giggled.

“Och, love, there’s no need to be edgy in this place. No evil spirits, I personally guarantee it.” She smiled and winked. “Cast them out years ago.” She inclined her red head toward the staircase. “Now follow me to your chamber. You’ve the entire third floor to yourself. My sisters and I occupy the second floor, so we’re just below if you need us.” She winked. “You’re our only guest, you see.”

Emma returned the smile. She probably looked and sounded like an idiot. If four old ladies could live in this place, then it had to be completely safe. She followed Willoughby up three flights of steps, then down a long corridor lit with low-light Victorian wall sconces. Here and there along the corridor, straight-backed wooden chairs, each with a plush burgundy cushion, sat against the wall. Finally, Willoughby stopped at a door that was partially open.

“Here we are, then,” Willoughby said, and pushed the door all the way until it bumped the wall behind it. She walked in, and Emma followed. Willoughby waved a hand about the room. “Make yourself at home, dear. Your bureau is there, en-suite toilet there, and a tea service by your bedside. Oh, and the fireplace is at your disposal. No telly, I fear.” She folded her hands and rested them against her belly. “Right. When you’ve finished unpacking, you can find us in the kitchen.” She winked. “You’d best hurry, love. Agatha can eat her weight in cinnamon cakes.”

With that, she swooshed out of the chamber and closed the door.

Emma stood in the center of the room. Suitcase in hand. Camera bag on shoulder.

Wow. I’m finally here.

Now what?

Her eyes clapped on to the floor-to-ceiling drapes at the far end of the immense room. She set her stuff down and crossed over. Grasping the thick material, she pulled the cloth aside. Emma’s heart fluttered and she grinned as she looked out.

She had a perfectly unobstructed view of Arrick-by-the-Sea.

As fast as she could, Emma put her belongings away, washed her face, brushed her teeth, changed into a big, thick, cream-colored fisherman’s sweater, combed her hair and twisted it into a knot, fastening it with a clip. She’d toss down a few cakes, slosh down some tea, and then head straight over to the ruins for a closer look. Good Lord, she had hours before it grew dark. Lots of photo-taking and exploring time.

She had no idea what she’d find amidst the ancient stone and ivy, but for some reason, she absolutely couldn’t wait to find out. Quickly, she dug in her camera bag, pulled out her smaller digital, and headed out the door.

Christian leaned against the north wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and kept his eyes trained on the manor. He continued to scowl.

It made him feel somewhat better.

“Och, boy, don’t be so bloody stodgy. You could have just as easily sneaked into the sisters’ manor and had yourself a wee peek at the lass.” Godfrey chuckled. “She never even knew we were there.”

“Aye,” said Justin Catesby, who’d joined them. “She knew all right. Kept lookin’ o’er her shoulder, this way and that,” he said, showing just how she’d done it. “A wily one, that wee maid.” He punched Christian’s arm. “Wise choice, to remain here whilst we crept about lookin’ at her.” He shook his head and whistled. “Damn me, but she’s fetchin’.”

The grand thing about being a spirit, to Christian’s notion, was that although he couldn’t put his hands on the living, he could indeed put them on another ghost.

He grabbed Justin’s throat and squeezed. “Careful, boy. I’m in no mood for your jesting.”

Justin Catesby, a good seven or eight years his junior and almost nose to nose with Christian, met his scowl, then burst out laughing. The idiot laughed so hard, tears trickled from his ghostly eyes. Christian looked away and let his friend go.

“Damn, Chris,” said Justin. “Lighten your mood, man. You’ve cause to rejoice, not be angered.” He walked up and draped an arm over Christian’s shoulder. “Your woman is here again, laddie. You’ve no’ seen her in how long? Seventy-two years?”

“Aye, seventy-two years,” echoed Godfrey. “A bloody long time, indeed.”

Christian continued to glare. “So … is she well?”

Justin Catesby grinned. “You mean, what does she look like this time?”

Christian growled.

Catesby rubbed his chin. “Verra well, since you’ve no spine to sneak over and see her yourself, nor the patience to await her arrival at your gatehouse.” When he didn’t get a reaction, he continued. “I’ve not seen her like this before,” he said. “I mean, she’s always lovely, but this?” He shook his head and looked directly at Christian. “My God, Chris, she’s breathtaking.”

“Aye, verra much the looker,” added Godfrey. “Hair the color of allspice, cut to about just here,” he made a sawing motion at his shoulder.

“Nay, more like cinnamon,” Justin corrected. “Dunna you think so?”

Godfrey glanced at him. “Hmm. You may be right.”

Christian rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

Justin stood close. “Skin like porcelain, creamy smooth without the first blemish. And the verra bluest of eyes.”

Christian removed his knuckles from his eye sockets and glanced at his friend. He studied Justin’s weathered, ghostly features. “Methinks you took too long of a look.”

Justin Catesby and Godfrey of Battersby both burst into laughter.

“Well, laddie,” said Godfrey, after catching his breath, “you now have your opportunity to view the lass yourself.” He inclined his head. “Here she comes.”

Christian’s stomach plummeted. He suddenly thought how much wiser it would have been to pay Gawan Conwyk of Castle Grimm a visit, instead of staying here and torturing himself. As though it had a mind of its own, his head turned in the direction of the manor; he swallowed hard and watched the small figure pick her way up the graveled path toward Arrick. He ran a hand through his hair. He scrubbed his jaw. He shuffled his feet. He sighed several times. Raggedly.

He cursed.

“I can honestly say that I never grow weary of watching you squirm when you see your Emma for the first time.” Justin shook his head. “ ’Tis vastly amusing. More so this time, for some reason.”

“Apparently, since you make a special trip from Sealladh na Mara to Arrick just to watch,” muttered Christian. “Go home.”

Justin chuckled. “I’d rather die. Again.”

Christian then decided to ignore both of his daft friends and instead concentrate on making sure his stupid half-witted self remained invisible while Emma made her way up the path. Mayhap just the smallest of looks would suffice. Then he’d leave Arrick.

It took what seemed like forever, the arrival of Emma off that narrow castle path. He paced, he swore a bit more, and as his patience had all but leaked out, he began to walk toward her. His stomach twisted into knots as she grew closer. His Emma. Here, again. Closer still …

“Steady, boy,” said Godfrey, somewhere behind him.

Just inside the gatehouse, where Emma was out of view, Christian stopped, and waited. Even if he’d not made himself invisible, the shadows amidst the dark stone would have swallowed his form and completely hidden him.

Strangely, with the coming of death, he’d gained a few …
tricks.
He’d lost his life and earthly body, but had picked up a few choice talents in return. Compensation, he reckoned. Like the uncanny ability to hear the slightest of sounds at great distances. ’Twas most irritating at times, that. But he didn’t have to use the ability now. The
crunch-crunch
of gravel beneath Emma’s feet sounded all too close, and before Christian could form his next coherent thought, she rounded the corner and stepped into view, directly in front of him.

Emma froze and inhaled sharply.

So did Christian.

At first, he thought she’d seen him. But he vaguely registered the fact that she was staring at the structure of the gatehouse, not him.

He, on the other hand, had all but lost his own ghostly breath—as well as what little bit of bog for a brain he had. His knees turned soggy as she stopped directly beside where he stood, and he could do little else save drink in every inch of her with his eyes. She was no more than a foot or two away. Christian shamelessly ogled, not caring that it might be considered voyeurism by some, or that he was in fact causing himself more pain. He couldn’t bloody help himself. With intensity he studied her, from her boot-covered feet, up the length of her jean-covered legs, farther up the too-big jumper, to the cinnamon color of her straight hair, streaked with lighter shades and presently fastened up in the back. The top of her head just reached his shoulder, and Christian’s throat tightened as memories flooded his brain …

“I love how you rest your chin atop my head,” Emma said. She slipped her arms around Christian’s waist and laid her head against his chest. When he didn’t immediately place his chin where she’d requested, Emma wiggled against him. With a smile, Christian did as she asked.

“There, that’s better,” she said, and snuggled closer.

Christian chuckled and wrapped his arms about his love. He drew in a deep breath, tasting the flowery scent of her skin on his tongue, and he kissed her hair. “Christ, woman, you make me daft …”

The image faded as Emma turned her face directly toward him, head cocked to the side, listening intently. Her chest rose and fell with weighty breaths, and Christian could hear the heavy beating of her heart.

Just then, Emma moved, the slightest of shifts, and the light from the gatehouse entrance illuminated her features clearly. Christian’s mouth went dry as a bone as he studied the inquisitive blue eyes, rimmed with long, dark lashes and the perfectly shaped brows the color of spice. The full lips, which he’d tasted before, could spread into the most brilliant of smiles, but they were now worried between straight white teeth, and he knew without looking that at the ridge of her chin lay a small silver scar. His insides turned ice-cold. All familiar things—things he held so tightly to memory.
Things he thought he’d never see again …

Because for the very first time since they’d both died, Emma looked
exactly
like
herself.
Like the very same Emma who’d watched him ride off to the Crusades, wiping tears from her eyes and staring after him …

“Please, Chris! I beg you, dunna leave me!” Emma cried. She dragged her hand across her teary eyes. “I fear I shall never see you again.”

Christian squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then swung a leg over his horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. In two strides he was at Emma’s side. He cradled her face with his hands and met her watery gaze. With his thumbs, he wiped away the wetness from her cheeks. “I have to go, love. But I will return to you.” He pressed his lips to hers, kissed each of her eyes, then pulled away. “I vow it, Emm. Wait for me.”

Emma nodded. More tears leaked out. “I will wait forever,” she whispered.

And then, before Emma saw his own tears, he left.

Christ.

With a gusty sigh, Emma walked past him, bringing him out of the past once again. She walked out of the gatehouse and into the bailey. Christian’s heart twisted as he watched her. Aye, ’twas the very same—the way she moved, the way she walked. He fought not to inhale deeply in her wake, knowing he couldn’t actually catch her scent. He knew it was there, though, and very sweet …

Again, his insides knotted. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to push the memories aside. It did no good at all. ’Twould be much harder this time, the losing of her. He could bloody feel it. Mayhap, though, ’twas a sign, her looking the very same, and that it just might be different this time around. The thirteenth time Emma had found Christian. So many years he’d hoped …

Without thinking, Christian let his gaze turn hard. Surely, he was setting himself and Emma up for a great deal of pain by pursuing her as he had in the past. ’Twas a mistake. He could feel it.

Twice, Emma stopped and slowly glanced over her shoulder, seeming to stare directly at him.

With one last, hard look, Christian swore under his breath and completely disappeared.

Emma stopped once more, and this time she swung around.

She could have sworn she’d just heard a man’s deep voice
curse.
Of course, there was no one else around. She looked skyward. Maybe it’d just been a seabird, or just the wind slipping through the cracks in the stone. Shrugging, she turned back and swept her gaze over the view before her. Her eyes absorbed every detail. Arrick was an astounding place, and the Web site hadn’t done it one bit of true justice. After walking through the dark, yawning mouth of the gatehouse, where, sure enough, she could see just where the jaws of the portcullis used to retract, she stepped out into an open courtyard surrounded by an imposing, aged, gray stone wall. Much of the main building was intact—she’d have to get a flashlight to investigate that. A set of steps was at the far side, climbing to the top of the wall facing the sea. The ominous main building rose at least a hundred feet high. There were even some places where Emma saw the holes where wooden beams held floor planks, probably stretching across the entire structure. While there was some decay, it was surprising just how intact the castle was. It gave her a strange, funny feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.