by Cindy Miles
“My God, man, she’s fetching, Chris,” he said in a low voice.
She wanted to melt into the stairs.
Then she noted the slow grins spreading on all the knightly faces. Friendly grins. Assessing grins.
Christian took a slight step forward.
“Oh honestly, Tristan!” said his little wife. “Leave her alone, and the rest of you, shoo!” She swatted her husband’s backside as she ran over to stand in front of Emma. “Hi, I’m Andi,” she said. Ellie had followed, and Andi glanced at her. “We’re so relieved to have another girl join our Hall of Testosterone,” she said, grinning.
Ladies Follywolle and Beauchamp had sifted through the wall and joined them. All nodded with enthusiasm.
“Thanks,” Emma said.
“Well, come on,” Andi said, pulling on her arm. “Give her up for a while, Chris,” she said. “Tristan’s been dying to start training right away, and we girls need to get to know one another.” She winked at Christian. “Nice modern duds, fella. Lookin’ good.”
Christian chuckled.
The other men roared.
Then Andi and Ellie gathered their children, then pulled Emma, along with the ladies Follywolle and Beauchamp, along to the nursery.
Emma glanced over her shoulder at Christian.
He merely stood, staring, before being swallowed by a sea of big, strapping medieval bodies as the Dreadmoor knights gathered around him.
And so it was that Emma, along with new friends Andi de Barre and Ellie Conwyk, as well as their children, and the ghostly ladies of Grimm, headed off to the nursery.
Funny, Emma thought as she made her way down the corridor. Before, she’d had one good best friend in Zoë. Now she had several more good friends.
And the funnier thing was, it felt right.
Just like Christian de Gaultiers of Arrick-by-the-Sea felt right.
Amidst the kids hollering and Andi and Ellie chatting away, and the Grimm ladies giggling, Emma thought how much her life had changed in such a short time.
She could barely wait to see what the rest of her visit held.
And as they entered the expanse of the nursery, a thought crossed Emma’s mind that hadn’t really crossed it in quite a few days.
Eventually, she’d have to go home.
Chapter 28
Over the course of the rest of the afternoon, Castle Grimm had been transformed into a big, giant, tournament ground. After all the Dreadmoor folks had arrived, another group of ridiculously large and handsome guys had shown up: the Munros, from the Highlands of Scotland. Loud, boisterous, and mouthwateringly gorgeous, they had delicious accents. In a relatively short time, Ellie and Andi had updated her on how the Munros had been enchanted, and had lived for centuries as spirits—save the gloaming hour, or twilight, when they’d gain substance for just an hour or so. Lucky for them, fate had smiled upon them, as well. Ethan, the laird, had married an American named Amelia Landry, a best-selling mystery novelist from Charleston. Emma had read several of her books and adored them. It was beyond cool to meet her—especially knowing she’d saved them from an eternity of enchantment after solving a centuries-old crime and breaking a spell. It was … almost beyond Emma’s comprehension. Almost. Not quite, though.
She’d discovered too many oddities since arriving in the UK. She wasn’t so easily stunned anymore.
She soon found Amelia was just as lively as Andi and Ellie.
One more couple had arrived later in the day, and surprisingly, they were normal. Well, sort of, anyway. They were both from the present century. That counted for something, although they lived amongst spirits as if doing so were simply part of everyday life.
She supposed it was.
Gabe and Allie MacGowan had driven from a small Scottish seaside village called Sealladh na Mara, where they owned and operated a pub and inn. It happened to be the haunted residence of not only one naughty spirit in the form of Captain Justin Catesby, but a few others. They’d all come for the big tournament, including Jake, Gabe’s and Allie’s young son. Jake and Davy ran around with Cotswold, the dog, and had a huge, fun time. Emma hung out with the girls, played with the kids, took loads of photos, and, well, gossiped.
They caught her up to speed on just about everything.
By nightfall, Castle Grimm was wall-to-wall with tournament-seeking spirits. They had come from all over: Wales, Scotland, England, Ireland—plus a few from Germany, as well as France. Ellie had called it a Grimm Fiasco.
Emma fully believed it.
In the great hall, warriors from nearly every century lined the walls, inside and out. Some camped on the tournament field. Ellie assured her that, unless invited, the ghosts wouldn’t just pop into her room.
Jason had graciously offered once more to guard her door.
Given the looks of some of the fierce warriors, Emma nearly agreed to let him.
Christian reminded her that whereas Jason might be better equipped at handling a mortal, he certainly could more aptly take care of a few arrogant spirits. And boy, he wasn’t kidding. Embarrassingly, more than a few warriors had approached her. One look from Christian had sent them scampering.
Currently, the ghost in question sat on the arm of the sofa, right beside her. Jason sat to her other side. Tristan was busy retelling the tale of how Andi had saved him and his knights—he’d told it twice already. Emma could see the love shining in his eyes for his wife, and the same light shone in Andi’s. The other warriors, alive and not so alive, sat and listened, entranced.
It was more than fascinating, she had to admit.
“Let’s go.”
Emma turned at Christian’s whisper. His eyes, unreadable, locked on to hers. No way could she refuse his request.
She leaned toward Jason. “I’ll see you later, okay?” she whispered.
Jason gave Christian a look that Emma could easily read. Mind your manners. With a grin, Jason gave a short nod.
Emma rose and, with Christian by her side, picked her way through the hordes of souls gathered in the Grimm great hall. She’d never seen more swords in her life. When they were close to the stairs, Christian stopped her.
“Let’s get your coat. I don’t want you freezing to death,” he said. His mouth tipped up. “We might be a while.”
Emma gulped.
Minutes later, they were back downstairs and headed out into the crisp autumn night. A briny wind stung Emma’s cheeks, and she felt tiny crystals of ice in the air. There were more warriors loitering outside, huddled against the keep, lounging against the bailey wall, probably looking a whole lot like they did in their own times. A few let out whistles and catcalls. At first, Christian handled it good-naturedly. After several, he was clearly irritated.
“No bloody manners,” he mumbled, leading her away from the keep.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked. She pulled her multicolored hat down over her ears and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her black peacoat.
“To the seawall,” Christian said. “Hopefully a place we can be alone.” He stared down at her. “I’ve grown bloody weary of sharing you.”
Emma’s heart did a flip, and Christian walked closer. His height and mass, although ghostly and nonsubstantial, still had the capability of making Emma feel protected.
Around the bailey they walked, and Emma glanced over at the drawbridge, and down to the double-towered gatehouse.
“What are you thinking?”
Emma gave Christian a smile as she picked her footing along the spongy ground. “I don’t know. I guess I just can’t get over how amazing all of this is.” She shook her head. “I’ve never really given medieval times, castles, and people from times past a second thought.” She met his intense gaze with one of her own. They reached the cliff overlooking the North Sea, and stopped at the wall. She shrugged. “Almost familiar, in a way. Almost as though I was meant to be here, now.”
Christian grew very still. Emma could feel his tension in the air. Quite a strange thing to feel fr
om a spirit, but she had. And internally, she cringed.
She looked up at him. “Ugh,” she groaned. “I’m sorry.”
Christian fought for control. Every ounce of his soul wanted to reach out and pull Emma tightly against him, press his mouth to hers, and kiss her until she lost her breath. He wanted to feel her body against his, and it hurt to think of it and not be able to do a bloody thing about it. So instead, he clenched his fists and tensed his muscles.
He drew a silent, deep, calming breath. “Why are you sorry?”
He almost didn’t want to hear her answer.
Emma turned directly toward him, tilted her head back, and stared. Her warm breath turned into white puffs of frosty air. Finally, she shrugged again and gave him a crooked smile.
“Because,” she said, “guys are guys, no matter what century they’re from. They get uncomfortable hearing a woman’s innermost thoughts. Her feelings.” She looked away, out over the sea. The palest light from the moon shone onto the dark water, and the sound of waves crashing filled the air.
Yet Christian was more acutely aware of every single sigh Emma made.
She made one now.
He studied her profile, so very beautiful, so very dear to him.
“Christ, woman, I am so in love with you,” he murmured against her temple. “I cannot believe you’re all mine.”
Emma slipped her hands about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. “I’ve waited for you all my life.” She kissed him, her lips warm, soft. “My warrior …”
The memory nearly pained him. Aye. He indeed needed to tell Emma just how much she meant to him.
And how long he’d felt that way. But first, he needed to be sure of her feelings.
“Emma,” he said, “look at me.”
Slowly, she turned, eyes wide, the moonlight turning the blue color black and glassy. She waited.
“You’ve no idea how it pains me to keep my hands off you—to not be able to physically touch you,” Christian said, as quiet and in control as his will could possibly muster. “Ever since you set foot on Arrick’s land, you’ve invaded my thoughts, enough that I thought I was daft.” He gave a short laugh. “Mayhap I am anyhow.”
“Why?” she asked, the frost making her dark lashes spiky.
He shook his head in amazement. “You don’t see the effect you have on me, do you?”
She blinked. “I … don’t know.”
Emotions Christian had kept in check boiled to the surface. He swallowed, drew a breath or two, then closed his eyes tightly shut. After a moment, he opened them and looked at her. “Back up.”
Emma glanced behind her, toward the sea. “What?”
“Move back,” he said, as gently as he could, “toward the seawall.”
A puzzled look crossed her face, but she took a step back. “Like this?”
“No.” He moved closer. “Put your back against the stone.”
“Oh.” Then, she did.
Christian took one more step, and it was literally as close as he could get to her without blending his essence into hers. He looked down at her, where she stared straight ahead at his chest. “Look at me, Emma.”
Very slowly, she did.
Her breathing came faster, little white streams of chilled air rising between them with each ragged breath. She said nothing, simply breathed.
Placing a hand on the seawall behind her, Christian ducked his head, so that he looked her square in the eye. “When you first came to Arrick, I was determined to drive you away. Once I lost that battle, I was determined to hold you at arm’s length. To keep myself from needing you so badly.” He drew a deep breath, lifted his hand, and traced her lips with his knuckles. The barest of tingles coursed through him, and he could hear how it affected Emma. He could hear her heartbeat quicken.
“I lost that battle, too,” he said. He stared at every single inch of her face, every line he’d grown to love centuries before, yet found himself astounded that he loved them even more now, even without Emma’s soul remembering him. “I haven’t the strength not to be in your life, Emma Calhoun.” He grazed her jaw. “I need you too much.”
They stared at each other, and tears welled up in Emma’s eyes. The wind caught a strand of her hair and blew it across her cheek, where it caught on her lip. With a forefinger, Christian absently moved to brush it back.
His finger went right through it, and Emma let out a small gasp.
Christian’s insides winced. Bloody hell, what was he thinking? He couldn’t touch her. Not now. Not ever.
And it simply wasn’t fair to ever ask her to accept it.
“What … do you mean?” asked Emma, her voice barely above a whisper. She shivered now, her heartbeat quickened even more, and her breathing came faster. She looked at him. “I see in your face you’ve changed your mind already. Don’t.” She pushed closer to him, then pulled a hand from her coat pocket and traced his cheek. “Please, tell me.”
Christian couldn’t help but study her face beneath the autumn moon. So beautiful, so honest and caring a soul she was, it hurt to watch her and not touch. It bloody hurt. “Did you mean what you said a moment ago? That you feel as though this is your life now?” He swept a hand toward the sea, half turned, and did another sweep toward Castle Grimm. “All of this? Things you can touch, feel, taste, and things”—he dipped his head and moved his mouth to hers—“you cannot?” He slowly dragged his lips as close to Emma’s skin as he could, to the corner of her mouth, across her cheek, then to her jaw, just below the ear covered by that crazy hat she wore. He hovered one hand close to her hand clutching the stone behind her. He traced each knuckle until she gasped. “Truly, can you stand to not fully taste? Could you be satisfied with just closeness, and not true intimacy?” He ducked his head and kissed her throat.
“Could you stand to never feel my hands, my mouth, my tongue on you?”
Christian pulled back and stared at Emma. Her chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, and her eyes had drifted shut. She’d caught her bottom lip between her teeth and now bit down, and a tear trickled from her pinched lids.
Then, without opening her eyes, she whispered the most common of words in the most sensual of ways.
He’d never hear it the same, ever again.
“Truly,” she said, her voice breathy and slight. She opened her eyes. “As long as it’s you, yes. Truly.”
They stared at each other for several seconds, and Christian’s heart cracked.
Then they both smiled.
And lost themselves in the only intimacy they could conjure …
Chapter 29
After two days of training, including a gargantuan amount of grunting, sweating, swearing, hollering, ugly hand gestures, fistfights, and ringing of steel against steel, not to mention the pounding of horses’ hooves in the jousting arena, Emma’s whole sense of the medieval era had changed completely. So many males. So much testosterone. So much blood.
Even the horses were boys. Studs, at that. And they fought.
The Dark Ages had been vicious.
Everyone had now separated into teams. On the mortal side, Team Grimm, Team Dreadmoor, Team Munro. On the ghostly side, there were so many that the teams had to be broken down into three groups and the warriors then had to choose teams. Team Arrick, Team Donovan, and Team Le Maurant. The Irish were so plentiful that they made up Team Donovan alone. Many of the Welsh spirits had joined Team Arrick, as well as several Scots and English. A few drifted in from Romania, and they’d joined the Germans and the French for Team Le Maurant.
She couldn’t deny how incredibly fascinating those medieval warriors were to watch. The ghosts and the mortals took turns training—all except Christian, who could actually, somehow train with Gawan. Emma had stopped asking how a long time ago. The Dreadmoors and the Munros were … fascinating. All brawn and muscle and fierceness, and Tristan? God Almighty. When he and Ethan Munro had faced off with the swords, it was Ultimate Fighting at its very best. Well, almost.
T
here were two others who, in her opinion, rose just a fraction above the rest.
Christian and Gawan. Wow. They were a true sight to see. All tattooed and wild-eyed, with their hair loose and their bodies bare, they seriously looked like they would kill each other, if given the chance.
She watched them now, as did no fewer than a hundred mortals and ghosts combined.
Bared to the waist and crouched like lethal cats ready to spring, they moved in graceful, calculated, predatory circles around one another, Gawan with his one large sword, Christian with his deadly double blades. Emma’s eyes fastened on Christian’s markings, black, ancient, and menacing, the one on his back flinched with each muscle movement, as did the ones on his arms.
Had she been a warrior, she’d have never had the guts to pick up a sword and face either one of them. Their look alone would have made her surrender.
“Fascinating, dunna you think?”
Emma turned to the man standing beside her. Just as gorgeous as the rest of the warriors, he was not one of the participants. Gabe MacGowan along with his wife, Allie, stood close. They were friends of Justin Catesby, so she’d been told, and proprietors of the most haunted pub and inn in Scotland, she recalled. She smiled up at MacGowan. “Absolutely. I still can’t get over it.”
His wife peered around her big husband and grinned at her. “I bet you’ve never attended a sporting event like this one, have you?”
Emma sighed and turned back to the fighters. “Hardly.”
“I see you’re rootin’ for the wrong team, lass,” a deep, heavily accented voice said on the other side of her.
Emma turned and looked up. The man, dark haired and sexy as all get-out, he wore a flirty grin and reeked of arrogance.
Much like Christian, she thought.
He lifted her hand and raised it to his lips, and brushed the lightest of kisses across her knuckles. “Aiden Munro, lady.” He inclined his head to her shirt. “Team Arrick, aye? I’ve a Team Munro shirt I could give you, should you choose to change teams.”
Gabe MacGowan snorted.
