Thirteen Chances (7 page)

“Slide your hand toward me. You’ll find a lip on the edge of the step.” He frowned when she didn’t move. “Move your left foot up about an inch. You’ll find a toehold. Do it now.”

“My fingers are numb,” she answered.

“Do it anyway.” His voice sounded steady. Even. Not so angry.

That encouraged her. Although falling wouldn’t kill her, Emma didn’t exactly feel like breaking any bones in a foreign country.

Slowly, Emma moved her left foot up an inch. Sure enough, she found a small toehold. That inspired her to slide her hand closer to … him. She found the lip.

“Now push with your foot, and pull,” the man said.

She did. Her body shifted, just enough to gain leverage.

“Now pull yourself up.”

Emma met the man’s steady gaze. Never before had a pair of eyes been able to talk her into something the way this pair did. Without further hesitation, she did exactly what he instructed her to do. Within seconds, she was safe on the step. On her stomach, but safe all the same. After several seconds of regaining her composure—not to mention pulling her shirt and sweater down over her exposed midriff from all that squirming in her hipsters—she turned over, relief making her body feel faint. “Thanks …”

Emma’s spine went cold. She glanced around, but found nothing save the empty, centuries-old courtyard. A gust of wind blew from the sea and washed over her. A gull screeched overhead.

The man was gone.

Oddly enough, Emma continued her sunrise photo shoot. Even odder was that she did it with disappointment.

After several days without the first sign of a face, body, voice, or combination of any of the above, Emma felt compelled to make an attempt at sounding not half as ridiculous to the Ballaster sisters as she did to her own silly self by asking about the neighbors of Arrick-by-the-Sea. It was embarrassing.

She was fully convinced the Ballasters had nothing to do with trying to scare her. No wacky little parlor tricks to lure and keep guests, no promotional B and B gimmicks. Perhaps, though, they
did
have a crazy neighbor or something? Had she not been so frightened—then freaked out—by the appearance and swift disappearance of the man on the ivy-covered steps the day she slipped, she would have leaped up to the seawall and glanced over it. There, she probably would have found that guy shimmying down the same rope he’d shimmied up.

Or, and she liked this alternative better, that guy had found and used one of the pirate Garrick’s secret tunnels.
That
definitely could be a possibility. The guy who’d helped her certainly was from the area. He had the strangest of accents.

Mesmerizing, truth be told. Smooth and deep, she couldn’t believe she’d taken the time to notice it at all.

Hurriedly finishing her hair, which she’d quickly worked into a loose French braid, she pulled on a black turtleneck, another pair of her favorite, worn-out jeans, and her boots, she jogged downstairs and entered the guests’ breakfast room. There, the sisters all waited for her, and just like the past two days, they had a mouthwatering breakfast waiting.

Emma could get used to this. She patted her tummy in anticipation.

“Good morn to you, love!” cried the ever-excited Millicent. “Have a seat, just there,” she said, pointing to the place she wished Emma to sit. “The cream scones are nearly done!”

The breakfast room was an add-on, one of those glass-enclosed scenery rooms used by many B and B owners to serve spectacular breakfasts in. It had a beautiful view of the castle, with several daintily set tables hugging the windows, with lovely lace tablecloths and white place settings. Emma’s table had a vase with a handful of fresh flowers poking out of it. It made everything look colorful and inviting.

A tea service had been set for her to use, so she poured a cup and stirred in a heaping spoonful of brown sugar, and fresh cream. The sweet liquid warmed her throat.

No sooner had she finished her tea than all four sisters came out of the kitchen, each with a plate of scrumptious foods for her to select from. After choosing a fresh hot scone, scrambled eggs, thick slices of lean bacon, and a small portion of porridge, she gave the sisters a wide smile. “Thank you so much, although you really don’t have to go to so much trouble for just me.”
They probably think I’m a bottomless pit!

“Och, no trouble at all, lass,” said Willoughby. The other sisters hurried back into the kitchen with their platters. Willoughby, who’d been carrying the scones, remained.

Emma cocked her head. “I have a question, and I hope it doesn’t sound too odd,” she said.

Willoughby’s eyes lit up. “Anything, love. What’s troubling you this fine morn?”

Emma smiled. She loved the Ballasters’ lilting Welsh accents. “Well,” she began, rubbing her chin, “I was wondering, do you have any neighbors?”

Now Willoughby cocked her head. “Neighbors?”

Emma nodded.

“Why, yes, we do, although they’re several kilometers away,” Willoughby said. “Lovely old couple. Just celebrated their sixtieth anniversary a month back.”

Emma sighed. “No, that couldn’t be it.” She thought about it some more. “Maybe someone from the village?”

A ghost of a smile touched Willoughby’s weathered cheeks. “Just what are you after, girl?” she said.

Biting the tip of her index fingernail, she gave a slight smile. “Well,” she said with a half laugh, “it’s sort of silly.” Especially when she hadn’t told the sisters that she’d dangled from their seawall steps. “But I’ve … seen a man. Sort of.”

Just then, the other three Ballasters joined them.

“A man?” asked Agatha. “What man?”

“Maybe if you can describe him?” asked Maven.

Millicent and Willoughby both nodded enthusiastically.

Emma met the expectant gazes of the older ladies. “Well, okay.” She cleared her throat. “He’s actually pretty cute, with big blue eyes, dark brown hair with sort of long bangs that hang to here.” She did a sawing motion at the level between her jaw and cheekbone. “A square jaw and really, err”—she coughed—“he’s very big. And handsome.” She wasn’t about to tell the Ballasters that the man she’d run into had really juicy lips. She found herself intrigued that she hadn’t even noticed what the guy was wearing. She’d been too scared—and too busy staring into those eyes.

All four sisters had slight smirks on their faces.

“What?” asked Emma, smiling. “What’s so funny?”

Willoughby, who, Emma now understood, spoke for the foursome as a group, smiled broadly. “Well, you see, we’ve had guests in the past claim to see that very same young man.” Her eyes sparkled. “Quite the dish.”

Emma grinned at the flirt in Willoughby’s eyes. “Does he live around here?”

Millicent giggled.

“I would say yes, he’s a resident of the area,” said Willoughby, nodding.

Emma considered. The sisters were being strangely vague about him. “What’s his name?”

A hesitant look flashed across Willoughby’s face. “Err, well … right. We can’t exactly say.” She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Why can’t you say?” asked Emma.

Willoughby leaned forward, and whispered in a quiet voice, “You see, he walks amongst the living, but isn’t one himself, I fear. And we’re not allowed to tell you his name.”

Emma blinked. “Excuse me?” Certainly she wasn’t hearing Willoughby correctly. “Did you say—”

“I’m afraid I did, dear,” said Willoughby, without even hearing all of Emma’s question. “And no, I cannot tell you his name.” She smiled. “But I will tell you that in the days of old, folks referred to the castle owners by the name of the castle itself.”

Emma gawked, dumbfounded. Speechless, even. Then, she grinned. “Oh, come on. You’re making all that up.”

Agatha shook her head. “Nay, ’tis absolutely true. Often, in the old days, one referred to another by which castle they owned.”

“Try it, lass,” said Willoughby, with a wink. “Try calling out the name and see what happens.”

With that, all four Ballasters bustled out of the dining room.

Emma just stared after them. Sweet, but very, very odd.

Stirring her food around on her plate, she dug in, mumbling to herself. “Basically, they’re telling me that cute guy I’ve seen more than once is … is a …
ghost?”

She snorted, nearly inhaling a large chunk of scone.

Working in downtown Savannah and surrounded by so many ghost tours she couldn’t count them, Emma, while loving a good ghost tale just as much as the next person, hardly actually
believed
in them. The Gray Lady. The White Lady. The Lady in Black. That was …

She took several bites of egg.

Crazy.
That’s what it was. Cuckoo. Just fun stuff made up and passed along from generation to generation, merely to entertain. She confessed she loved them herself—even if for nostalgic purposes. But to actually
believe
in them?

After she’d eaten everything the sisters had prepared, Emma ran back to her room, brushed her teeth, gathered her camera bag and rain poncho, and headed out. The Ballasters waved good-bye at the door.

Shaking her head, Emma stepped out into the crisp morning. No sun, but a little less mist, she noticed as she made her way to the ruins. If the rain held off, she planned to head into the village of Arrick after taking a few more pictures there.

After Emma had set up in the courtyard, a thought crossed her mind. She felt like an idiot. She glanced around to make sure no one saw or heard her.

“Um, Mr. Arrick?” she said, hesitantly at first. “Hello?”

She waited. Nothing happened.

With a laugh, Emma shook her head and continued her shoot. Whoever the cute guy was, he apparently had decided to leave her alone. Maybe her dangling off the twenty-foot steps scared him a little? Just maybe he wasn’t such an ogre as to see her get hurt.

The lighting gave a haunting, surreal look to the stark gray of the castle stone, and she took several photos of the wall, the steps, and the gatehouse. Next, she walked into the main building. The
keep,
she’d been told. Very medieval. And
perfect.
Funny, she’d never been drawn to the medieval period before. The era fascinated her now.

The keep actually was in great condition. An enormous hearth large enough to put a car in stood against one wall. Instead of one large set of steps, there were four sets of narrow spiral stone steps leading to the upper floors—one in each corner of the keep. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Emma headed toward the steps closest to the hearth. She wasn’t sure she should test the dark and shadowy steps. The sisters had told her they were safe enough, and would take her to the very top. They’d claimed a gorgeous view from that particular area of the keep, so with a gusty sigh, Emma started the climb.

“I thought I told you to leave.”

Foot in air, hovering over the first step, Emma froze. It was the same voice—she’d never forget a buttery voice like that. Instinctively, and less frightened this time, she turned her head.

She wasn’t the least surprised to find nothing there.

An absurd thought crossed her mind.

Could there actually be truth to the sisters’ tale?

Emma cleared her throat. “Are, uh, you Mr. Arrick?”

Silence at first, then the deep voice deepened even more. “This place is dangerous. You should leave at once.”

Hairs rose on Emma’s neck and arms.
A voice was speaking, but no one was around!

Could it be anything
but
a ghost? The ghost of whom? The word itself sounded ridiculous. But … what else could it be?

Again, she cleared her throat and half turned, facing the keep’s main floor. “I should leave Arrick-by-the-Sea?”

Silence stretched out again. “Nay. Wales.”

He wanted her to leave the country? Surprised by her lack of actual fear, despite the absurdity of her talking to the empty air, Emma shifted her camera bag and quirked her head. “Why won’t you show yourself again?”

She stood there for several minutes before realizing her ghost had said all he’d planned on saying. For the time being, anyway.

Placing her foot on the first step, Emma immediately stopped her ascent. An eerie sound came from the entrance of the keep. She turned, and her mouth dropped open. Her eyes stretched wide and her knees turned rubbery.

In what used to be the doorway stood an enormous helmeted figure. She blinked, unbelieving. A massive man—she guessed it was a man, anyway—dressed in … some sort of medieval wear, with dark pants that had laces crisscrossing all the way up a pair of thick, muscular thighs, dark boots that came to roughly just between the shin and knee, some sort of shoulder and breast plate with a silver cross in the center, and armbands that looked like fingerless gloves, secured with leather, that went up to his elbows. Bare biceps—
huge
biceps—looked marked, or tattooed.

Just then, the figure began to move toward her, long, powerful strides that seemed to eat the space up between them in seconds. Those two enormous arms reached over his shoulders and grasped the biggest pair of swords Emma had ever seen. A hissing sound accompanied the movement. He stopped, no more than a few feet from where Emma stood, swords completely free of their sheaths. She could do little more than hold her breath. She couldn’t even blink.

A pair of slits in the silver helmet, at the level of the eyes, seemed to glare furiously at her.

Then what happened next, happened all at once.

“I … said … leave!”
the warrior’s deep voice thundered. Then he lifted both swords above his head, and with a vicious yell, thrust them into Emma’s body.

With a scream that would curdle anyone’s blood and make a B movie queen hang her head in shame, Emma hollered until she ran out of breath. She grabbed her stomach and stared, her mouth dry, fear squeezing her throat closed.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the figure vanished.

Right before Emma’s wide-stretched eyes.

The next thing she remembered was her breath leaving her in a long
whoosh,
and then the cold, hard dirt and gravel floor beneath her not-so-pliable body as she slumped down …