Thirteen Chances

by Cindy Miles

  Emma smiled. Last month she’d have melted on the spot at such a gorgeous man’s charm.

  But after being wooed by Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea, she found that everyone else paled in comparison.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, retrieving her hand from his.

  Aiden Munro simply smiled.

  “Canna leave a lass alone for a second, aye?” said another deep, brogued voice. Ethan Munro, accompanied by Tristan and several of his knights, pushed in beside him to lean against the fence. They all chuckled.

  Emma slid her gaze over all of them. Big and powerfully built, they were dangerous with one another, yet gentle as kittens when it came to women.

  “And what lad in his right mind would leave a lass such as Emma at the fence alone?” asked Aiden. He winked at her.

  “Lad, I’d give a month’s wages to hear you say that, were Arrick in the flesh and blood,” said Tristan. He, too, leaned forward and gave Emma a wink. “Now leave the girl alone. I’ve a powerful mind to defend her in Arrick’s honor.”

  A round of ayes sounded through the men, and Aiden Munro beamed. “Och, you’re on, Dreadmoor.” He glanced down at her, bent his head, and kissed her cheek. “Be right back,” he said. The arrogance followed him like a heavy mist.

  Just then, swearing from the arena pulled Emma’s attention back to Christian and Gawan. Both of Christian’s blades were on the ground. Gawan stood, the tip of that big, sharp sword pointed directly at Christian’s throat.

  Christian stared hard at Aiden Munro.

  Aiden merely threw his head back and laughed … then promptly took off running, his sword slapping his thigh.

  Tristan de Barre, followed by a growing crowd of warriors, fell in behind him.

  “I suddenly feel rowing and making little marble chess pieces isn’t quite so … manly anymore,” mumbled Gabe MacGowan, beside her.

  She looked at him, and his expression made Emma laugh. She looked at his wife, Allie, who stared up at Gabe with so much love and adoration, it all but sent an electric wave through the air. “Oh, I think you’re doing just fine,” Emma said.

  Gabe pulled Allie close and kissed her on the top of her head. “Thank God.”

  Christian strode to the fence, placed a booted foot on the bottom rung, and propped his arms on the top. He stared down at Emma. “I see you’ve picked up a few admirers,” he said.

  “That big lad Tristan took off to defend her in your honor,” offered Gabe. “My money’s on Dreadmoor.”

  Christian laughed and gave a nod. “I’m counting on it. Arrogant pup, that Munro.”

  “I think he’s cute,” offered Allie.

  Emma bit back a laugh.

  “Well,” Gawan said, walking up to join them, “ ’tis nearly dark, and the tournament begins in the morn, promptly at nine.” His eyes gleamed. “I for one cannot wait.”

  Emma noticed Christian had the same gleam.

  Allie leaned over her husband. “Let’s go find Ellie, Amelia, and Andi. I’m starved.” She paused. “Have you noticed all of our names start with A or E? I’ll be stumbling all over the alphabet now.”

  “Me, too,” said Emma, and gave Christian a long stare. “See ya.”

  Christian’s eyes met hers in a way that made her want to squirm. “Aye. See ya.”

  And with that, Emma and Allie left Christian, Gabe, and Gawan at the fence, and headed off to the great hall to find a bit more estrogen, and to get a bite to eat.

  The rest of the evening was spent in the great hall, where Emma heard stories of days gone by, of yesteryear, of once-warriors and the battles they fought, the women they’d loved, their homes and their families. Many of the spirits were lost, had no memory of how they’d become ghosts at all. Gabe’s wife, Allie, had pulled several aside, listening intently to what they did remember, taking notes, and promising to help them.

  Emma also saw, with her own eyes, a total of twenty-two men, all from another place in time, another century, living their lives in the present.

  Some of their old selves still existed. How could they not? They were medieval men, born hundreds of years in the past. While they’d certainly adapted to modern times—heck, half of the Dreadmoor guys drove Harleys—they’d maintained a greater portion of their old lives. Sometimes, the two centuries—the one they’d lived in the first time, and the one they lived in now—converged.

  How they wore their swords and 501s at the same time was a perfect example of this convergence.

  Emma leaned back against the stone wall of the hearth, and pulled her knees up. Christian sat on one side, Jason on the other.

  That darn flirty Aiden Munro sat directly across from her.

  She thought for sure Christian would beat him to a pulp.

  Amelia, Ethan Munro’s wife and Aiden’s newest cousin, who was sitting on the other side of him, reached over and bopped him on the head. Then she winked at Emma.

  Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea simply smiled at Aiden Munro, and Aiden smiled back. They understood each other, so it seemed.

  Jason leaned toward her. “I vow ’tis wondrous to see you reject yon Munro. Quite the conceited lad, aye?”

  “Cocksure,” mumbled Tristan, who sat not far away, his wife, Andi, leaning back against him. She nodded enthusiastically with her husband’s comment. “Cute, but cocksure,” she added.

  Aiden’s smile grew wider.

  Then, the tall tales and legends began. One by one, the warriors recalled myths of their lands, their time. One warrior—a Welsh Pict from the ninth century—spoke in an ancient language. The room became quiet, and Gawan translated.

  Gawan nodded. “Oy, aye,” he murmured. “He speaks of the eternal well of magic water, farther up the northern coast of Wales,” he said. “Farther north than Arrick, even.” He nodded, listening to the warrior’s words. “St. Beuno’s Well, it’s called. ’Tis only a myth, aye Chris? How many times did we look for it?”

  “Scores,” Christian said. “We looked our entire teenage years, did we not?”

  Gawan laughed. “Methinks you’re right.”

  “So,” Emma said softly, “what sort of magic powers does it have?”

  Gawan shrugged. “ ’Tis said that one soul, pure of heart, must risk death to obtain water from the well.” He winked. “ ’Tis said to have mystical healing powers.”

  “That would have come in bloody handy,” said a ghostly soul.

  Everyone roared.

  Emma’s heart leaped.

  Gawan shook his head. “If only ’twas so simple.”

  “Let’s quit this hall, aye? I’ve a mind to get you alone once more this day,” whispered Christian.

  Emma shivered at the suggestion.

  She stood and smiled at the crowd. “Good night.”

  Many responses sounded through the hall. Some were in English; some in Old English; some in a language completely unknown to Emma.

  “Bright and early, right Emma?” said Ellie, grinning from her cozy spot next to Gawan. “We’ll have to get a head start on feeding this crowd in the morning.”

  “Absolutely,” Emma agreed. “See ya then.”

  As she let Christian lead her from the hall, they passed a giant of a man, standing against one of the largest tapestries in the room.

  “His name is Sir Brian,” said Christian, as they approached. “A big enough German knight, aye?”

  “Aye, indeed,” whispered Emma. They stopped at the tapestry, and while he and the German knight spoke, she studied the artwork.

  She’d glimpsed the tapestry a few times before, but hadn’t really looked.

  She looked now. At the bottom of the piece, Eleanor of Aquitaine was stitched in old script. So Queen Eleanor was the woman in the center, sitting on a horse and wearing battle gear. The warriors surrounding her were all different—some with pitchforks, some with swords, some with axes. Then there was that one in particular without gear—bare-chested and with no helmet. Hefted above his head was an enormous sword.

&nb
sp; His body was covered in strange, black tattoos.

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Holy ho-ho,” she muttered.

  “What is it?” said Christian quietly.

  She looked up, then pointed to the bare warrior. “That’s Gawan.”

  Christian and the German knight looked, and Christian nodded. “So it is. Ready?”

  She was, and they left.

  And like each night before, Christian walked Emma to her room.

  At the door, they stopped, and Emma looked up.

  Christian’s gaze had the ability to knock the breath from her, and she’d bet he knew it. He stared at her a lot.

  “ ’Tis a ritual during the tournament that the warriors remain secluded from their women,” he said. With a thumb, he grazed her cheek. “To keep our minds void of anything, save winning. I vow it bothers me more now than ever.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling, “it can’t be all that bad, can it? I mean, we can still see each other in the evening, when it’s time to break for the day. Right?”

  He gave her a grim smile. “Whilst appealing to those who have maids awaiting, aye, ’tis tempting to break the rules.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “But there are those who do not have maids, myself included until recently, who find it … distracting. So aye. Our knightly oaths kick in and we stick to the rules.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed. “So all I get to do is wave a white hanky at you and cheer from the sidelines?”

  Christian moved closer, and ducked his head. “For three solid days, aye.”

  Emma met his gaze. “Gosh, I’ll miss you. Who will walk me to my room?”

  “Nicklesby?”

  They both laughed.

  She gave him another long look. “About St. Beuno’s Well—”

  “ ’Tis a legend only, girl,” Christian said quietly, then chuckled. “Don’t you think we would have all dragged ourselves down there, were there truths to the legend?”

  Emma sighed. “I suppose so.”

  “That’s my girl. Now, I’ll see you in the morn, maid, when you see me off,” he said quietly.

  And then he kissed her.

  Chapter 30

  Willoughby flipped through the Ballasters’ copy of The White Witches’ Guidebook. She’d done so several hundred times before over the last seventy-two years, but the closer it grew to All Hallows’ Eve, the more anxious she became.

  Morticia’s wand, she hoped they’d done everything right.

  “Ah-hah!” she said, and pointed to the page. “I knew it! Page four thousand and twenty-three, paragraph six.”

  The other Ballasters gathered round, peered over her shoulder, and listened as Willoughby read aloud the passage.

  “ ‘Once a spell has been conjured and set into motion, it cannot be undone. Once the coordinates of such spell have been chosen, they, too, cannot be undone. Not a minute too soon. Not a minute too late.’ ” She looked at her sisters. “So no matter what the circumstances, Emma Calhoun must be at the designated place before the last stroke of the bewitching hour for her soul to survive, and to counteract that atrocious spell she concocted all those centuries ago. The rest,” she sighed, and met her sisters’ anxious gazes, “is in fate’s hands.”

  “She’s not recovered her memory yet, so our potions obviously are working. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?” asked Maven. “Think you we’ll hear news soon?”

  “Indeed, I do,” said Willoughby. “Now shush. You know we mustn’t speak of it aloud.”

  They all nodded, and continued their perusal of the guidebook. They’d nearly two weeks left. Willoughby knew the spell was the chanciest—had known it ever since she’d suggested using it. Spells truly did only work into fate’s design if fate so destined it. But she’d not depress her sisters by telling them so. She had to have faith. Hope.

  So far, so good …

  Emma stared out of the window. She pressed her cheek against the glass, and her warm breath fogged the cold pane. Outside, the darkness had slipped away as morning approached, but left in its wake a heavy blanket of mist, wisps and tendrils of white fog reaching out and wafting over the tournament field below. Colorful flags waved from poles, indicating teams, and she easily found Team Arrick.

  A lone man emerged from the mist, and he stopped, glanced her way, and held up a hand. There was no mistaking the muscular build, the arrogant stance, and that wild hair, even from the height of her window.

  Emma smiled. “Christian,” she whispered, and gave a wave back. He stood for a moment, then turned and joined several others who’d walked up. “God, why can’t you be real,” she whispered.

  Christian’s head turned toward her then, almost as if he’d heard. He stared in her direction for a moment, then joined the others as they left for the stables.

  She’d dreamed of St. Beuno’s Well the entire night. If only it were true …

  Emma pushed off the windowsill and dug through her clothes. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, black T-shirt, she yanked on her Team Arrick tee over that, made a trip to the bathroom to freshen up, double-knotted her Converses, and left the room.

  She, Ellie, Andi, Amelia, and Allie had an enormous breakfast to prepare.

  And then they had to do an official fare-thee-well to their champions.

  Gabe and Nicklesby had child-care duty while the cooking went on, while Davy and Jake were preparing for their first tasks as squires. Nicklesby ran in and out of the kitchen, chasing one, if not both, of the Conwyk twins. Meanwhile, Gabe had all the babies.

  Emma had her camera.

  Luckily, he’d been very good-natured about having his picture taken.

  An hour later, the great hall had been transformed into a feasting hall. While there were some spirits who preferred to train, since they couldn’t eat, some piled in with the living for breakfast. The hall was packed. Team Donovan, the Irish, stood off to one side, taunting those still eating, saying they’d stuffed their bellies so full they’d not be able to heft their own blades.

  Emma had to agree with that one. She’d glimpsed the Dreadmoor and Munro table. Good Lord, they could pack away the food. She couldn’t imagine their grocery bills. They’d just eaten enough scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast to feed a small army.

  Well, she supposed, that was exactly what they were.

  Christian, who sat with Gawan, Godfrey, and Justin Catesby, hadn’t taken his eyes off Emma since walking into the great hall. The thought of it made her cheeks heat up.

  Soon, though, breakfast was over. The men all cleared out, leaving Emma, Amelia, Ellie, Andi, and Allie to the mess.

  “I think I want to compete next year so I can simply walk away from all this,” mumbled Ellie. She grinned. “Good thing we used paper plates!”

  It didn’t take them long to get everything cleaned up. And while they cleaned, Emma glanced at all four women. Ellie, who never missed a thing, caught her.

  “What are you thinking about?” Ellie asked. “You all but have smoke pouring out of your ears.”

  Emma twisted the dish towel in her hand. “It’s funny, I guess. All of you have experienced nearly the same sort of thing.” She smiled. “The same thing I’m experiencing now.” She shook her head. “How did you stand it?”

  “You mean,” Andi said, grinning, “being crazy in love with someone who was not only dead and untouchable, but who lived centuries before you were born?”

  Emma shook her head. “No, not that. That’s actually been the easy part for me.” She looked at all of them. “I’m talking about that space of time when all you could think about was what if? What if I could change things? What if I did change things, and he disappeared?”

  All four women nodded their heads.

  “We all experienced it, Emma,” said Amelia. “Ethan and his men weren’t dead, but there was always a fear that they’d disappear forever.”

  “And even though Allie wasn’t in love with a ghost, she still feared some of the same things,” said Ellie. “One wrong s
tep and he’d be gone forever.”

  Emma sighed. “Not a great feeling,” she said.

  “What would you do if you knew you could change Christian’s fate, despite the outcome?” asked Allie. “Would you sacrifice your time together for his salvation?”

  Emma didn’t hesitate. “In the blink of an eye.” Her response didn’t even surprise herself. She’d known Christian for such a short time, yet she felt she’d known him all her life. She’d do anything for him.

  Not that she wouldn’t hurt for the rest of her days; she’d miss him so very much. But would she give up their time together if it meant saving him from an eternity of roaming? Not that he’d really complained much about it. But still …

  Amelia walked up and put her arm around Emma’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. It will all work out in the end.” She smiled. “It always does.”

  Emma wanted badly to believe it.

  “That’s right,” Ellie said. “You’re an official member of the Girls and Ghouls Club.” She grinned. “I just made that up.”

  They all laughed.

  Just then, Gabe walked into the kitchen. His face was pasty white, his blue-green eyes wide. He carried an infant in each arm.

  He had baby barf down the front of his shirt.

  “Help,” he said.

  They all laughed again.

  After Amelia and Ellie had retrieved their little ones, Allie took Gabe to the kitchen sink to help him clean up.

  “I think I shall squire next tournament,” he mumbled.

  Just then, a trumpet sounded from outside.

  “Oh,” said Ellie. “First warning. We’d better hurry if we want to see our guys off.”

  By the time all the babies were cleaned and changed, and the girls had reached the great hall, another blast from the trumpet sounded through the bailey. Ladies Follywolle and Beauchamp joined them.

  “We look great,” said Allie, smoothing down her Team Arrick shirt. “What a cute idea, these shirts.”

  “I agree. Oh, let’s go,” said Ellie, adjusting her little Ensley into her baby sling. “I love this part.”

  They all filed outside, and for once, the sun barely peeked from behind the clouds. The temperature still registered colder than it ever did in Savannah in October, but for England, it was tolerably pleasant. The barest of chilly winds came from the North Sea, and the frost from the night before that had gathered on the ground had already melted. It smelled of brine and clover, leather and … horses.