Thirteen Chances

by Cindy Miles

  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 t
hundered. 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 …

  Chapter 7

  Emma’s eyes flicked open. The cold, damp floor seeped into her sweater, and she shivered.

  Then everything rushed back. Surprisingly, she was angry.

  So, there really was a ghost.

  And he was a jackass!

  Hurriedly, she pushed herself from the floor and checked her camera bag. She growled as she gently pulled out the contents and checked the lens and moving parts. “You’d better be glad nothing’s broken,” she mumbled. Satisfied that nothing had been damaged, she stood.

  It made her even angrier when she glanced around and found herself alone.

  “Hell-ooo!” she hollered. “Hey! Angry guy with swords! Come back here!” She walked to the center of the keep, looked in every corner, the roof, and turned in a circle. “Ex-cuse me? What’s your problem?” She waited, but, as she expected, nothing happened.

  So this is what her months-long obsession and night-filled dreams sent her packing to Wales for? To be bullied by a dead guy in need of an anger management class?

  Precious.

  She cupped her hands and shouted into the air. “I’m not leaving, Mr. Arrick. Do you hear me? I’m not scared of you or your stupid fake swords!” She glared at the ceiling, since there really wasn’t anything left to glare at, shouldered her camera bag, and stomped out of the keep. Mumbling naughty words. Honestly, she couldn’t help it. She was furious.

  In the courtyard, Emma stopped, her mind flashing ideas of just what to do next. Should she really leave? Sure, she shouted at the sword-ghost that she wouldn’t, but why would she stay? What little scenery she’d witnessed in the last few days was in fact gorgeous—and she’d barely scratched the surface with her photography. Or should she tell the sisters? They obviously knew the brute existed. In their defense, they did try to tell her. Maybe they had pull with the bully-ghost and could at least tell him to back off while she salvaged something of her insane overseas trip.

  Why was she so mad? Was it because she’d had some ridiculous idea about finding something … life-altering at Arrick-by-the-Sea? Well, she had—she discovered that ghosts really did exist. But in all honesty, that was sort of a letdown.

  She’d expected … more.

  Then, those treacherous, ivy-covered steps caught Emma’s eye. Not really so treacherous—only when you slipped and dangled could they pose a slight threat …

  As if a light had switched on in her brain, Emma thought of exactly what she needed to do. Hurrying over to a bench that sat with its back against the wall, she set her camera bag down, pulled her sweater down over her hips, and marched over to the ivy-covered steps.

  Glancing up, Emma noticed just how gray and dark it’d grown outside. Willoughby had warned her of a storm brewing, but she figured when it started raining, she’d just head back to the manor until the rain cleared up.

  She never imagined she’d be busy getting PO’ed at a spirit.

  Reaching the steps, Emma drew a deep breath and recklessly took them two at a time. When she reached the top, she quickly said a prayer of thanks for not having a fear of heights, then turned and hollered over the courtyard. “You can show yourself at any time now, Arrick. Seriously. I’ve got all day. I’ll just be right here.”

  And with that, Emma eased over the edge of the steps, fingers digging into the stone ridge, just as she’d inadvertently done before when the thermos had fallen. Dangling, twenty feet above the hard ground.

  She didn’t have to dangle long.

  “Are you witless? Pull yourself over!” the voice thundered.

  Emma smiled.

  “I’m not moving until you show yourself,” she said. She swung her feet a bit, and she could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “Not doing it,” she said again, wiggling. She closed her eyes.

  She was awarded with a growl.

  “Are you daft? Get your stubborn arse back over here!”

  Emma’s eyes cracked open, the voice closer, clearer. Sure enough, there knelt the helmeted warrior guy, not two feet away. His stare was fixed on her face.

  Arse?

  “I’ll pull myself up once you take off that ridiculous helmet,” she said.

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than the helmet disappeared. A pair of brilliant blue eyes glowered at her through a fall of tousled, long bangs. “Now get up here.”

  Emma pondered. Her arms were starting to ache and her fingers had grown numb. She narrowed her eyes at the ghost. “If you disappear, I’ll go back over and dangle some more.” She really did want to get back up now.

  “Just get up here.”

  With ease—only because she knew where the footholds were this time—Emma grasped on to the damp rock and pulled herself back to the steps. Quickly rolling to her backside, she sat. The ghost had kept his promise. He’d not disappeared.

  He stood a few feet away, staring down at her. He was … massive. Perhaps not bulky-massive, like those World’s Strongest Man guys who have trouble walking with their thighs reasonably close. This guy—ghost—just looked like he could kick the phooey out of anyone he wanted. With his eyes glaring and his face drawn tight, he looked so … furious.

  Why did he seem so angry at her? She couldn’t possibly have done anything to make him so mad. She’d been here a week, not nearly long enough to tick someone off. During high season dozens and dozens of tourists crawled around Arrick’s ruins. What was it about her that bothered him so much?

  Suddenly, he muttered something under his breath, then turned and headed down the steps.

  And just as suddenly, it hit Emma square in the nose: she was interacting with a spirit, the ghost of someone dead. That guy with the chiseled face and gorgeous eyes had lived, and had died. And he was muttering, angry at her.

  Why?

  Quickly, she followed.

  “Hey, wait,” she called, trotting after him. When he didn’t stop, she hollered, “Please!”

  The warrior froze, and waited.

  Emma, her heart pounding a bit faster now, cleared her throat. “Please turn around.”

  Several seconds passed as the warrior-ghost considered her request. Emma stared at his back while she waited. His hair, a deep mahogany color, had been cut, no, shorn short in the back, and she already knew it was a bit longer in the front. As she studied him, she noticed a tattoo on the back of his neck—a symbol of some kind. And through the straps of his leather forearm protector thing, she noticed another symbol—larger and more prominent, a band, maybe—she really couldn’t tell what it was beneath all that leather.

  The warrior then exhaled and slowly turned.

  Emma stood frozen still as their eyes locked. Never had she been weighed and measured so … thoroughly. He had to be all of six feet and three, maybe four inches, and it was a little bit perplexing to have something that large irate at her. His brows slashed down angrily, and those blue eyes blazed furiously through that tangled mahogany hair. The mouth that had such lush lips pulled into a tight, angry frown. The muscle at the hinge of his jaw flinched, and the thick tendons on either side of his neck tightened. Yet his eyes never lifted from hers. She fought not to squirm.

  She sincerely hoped he wouldn’t explode.

  God, he looked so real …

  “Do you have another name besides Arrick?” she asked. Her voice didn’t sound quite as confident as it had when she was dangling.
/>   A flash of … something crossed his face. Sorrow? Pain, maybe? It had happened so fast, Emma couldn’t tell. The mean face was back now, though.

  “Christian,” he ground out.

  She nodded, noticing how his r’s rolled. She liked it. Funny name, though, for someone with such violence pent up inside. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you so mad at me?”

  “Because,” he said, nearly in a growl, “you’ve no fear.”

  Emma’s eyes left his long enough to glance at the sword hilts poking up over each of his shoulders. She drew her gaze back. “Sort of hard to be scared of something that can’t actually hurt you.”

  Christian’s brows drew even closer together, and he took a step toward Emma. He lowered his head and stared profoundly into her eyes. She fought the urge not to retreat.

  “You believe I cannot hurt you, aye?” he said, his voice dangerously low and smooth. He pulled closer still, his lips curved into a cynical smile. He glared a bit longer, eyes flashing. “Don’t be so sure.”

  And with that, he disappeared. Just … evaporated, like smoke clearing.

  It was only then that Emma drew in a decent breath. She blinked, staring into the space Christian had occupied seconds before. No trace of him remained now.

  Wow.

  It took a moment, really, to gain her composure. That, and the ability to walk on legs not made of rubber. It was as though he’d sapped the strength right out of her body, just by giving her the Stink Eye.

  Emma turned, and walked across the courtyard to the bench where she’d left her camera equipment. Slowly, she shrugged the bag over her shoulder. Then she looked—really looked—at the ruins in which she stood. She turned in a circle, staring at the walls, the buildings, the tall, imposing keep, the dark, yawning mouth of the menacing gatehouse. A fierce sea breeze washed over the wall and blew against Emma, tousling her braid and making her draw in a deep breath. Brine. Clover. Clean.

  Familiar …

  No, not familiar. That would be impossible. It probably felt familiar because she, too, lived close to the ocean. The pungent bite of the sea was a scent one rarely forgot. Some thought it to be stinky. She loved it.