Thirteen Chances

by Cindy Miles

  Walking to it, she hefted the box, approximately eleven by fourteen in diameter. She fished in her pocket for her knife to open it, then realized she’d left the knife upstairs. She couldn’t imagine what was in the box. The last things she’d ordered were tiny little parts.

  Quickly, she hastened upstairs. The waning afternoon light streamed through the window, and she couldn’t help but think about the twinkling gloaming hour at Arrick. The light made her upstairs studio look surreal.

  From the worktable, she lifted the knife and cut along the edge of the package.

  Just as the bell on the door downstairs jingled. Again.

  “Just a minute,” she called out.

  She pulled back the brown packing paper, revealing a load of Bubble Wrap.

  Slowly, she slipped her knife along the tape and removed that, too.

  A frame. A framed photograph.

  A note …

  Nothing registered at once, yet everything washed over her at the same time. The photograph was of Christian, on the wall at Arrick, in full battle regalia, smiling from ear to ear. In the picture he held a single white rose, almost as if offering it to the viewer of the photo. How on earth had Christian’s image been captured in a photograph?

  Across the bottom of the frame, a note. All in big letters. A man’s bold scrawl.

  At the same time she read it, she heard it.

  “Fyddi ‘m gwraig achos byth?”

  Will you be my wife for eternity?

  Emma nearly dropped the frame as her head snapped up at the unmistakable, deep, strangely accented voice suddenly in her upstairs studio. They’d said the same ancient Welsh words she’d just read out loud.

  Slowly, her mind registered the body as it climbed the last stair and stepped into view.

  Her hands began to shake, and her breath lodged in her throat. Her heart slammed so hard against her chest, she gasped. It almost ached. Tears filled her eyes.

  She looked. She blinked. She made her mouth work. “You can’t be real …”

  But striding across her two-hundred-year-old wood-planked floors was eight-hundred-plus-year-old Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea. Same crazy hair, but pulled back at the nape, she imagined, with that sexy silver clasp. A white, long-sleeved cotton buttoned-up shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and boots. His face held one emotion.

  Determination.

  So stunned that his ghostly spirit had somehow made it back to her, she couldn’t form a single solitary word. She just stood there, her hand gripping the frame, staring at his fast-approaching form.

  “Christian?” she finally said softly.

  When he reached her, just short of passing through her, he stopped. The scent of soap and freshly washed clothes wafted from him, and that ever-present, weighty stare bore into her, nearly causing her skin to catch on fire.

  A scent wafted from him. That was a new one …

  Then slowly, he reached out with one hand, and relieved her of the knife she still grasped so tightly.

  Her jaw slacked open.

  Then, he reached out with his other hand and relieved her of the frame she held on to for dear life.

  She lost her breath.

  And without the first word spoken, Christian, none too gently, wrapped his arms around Emma and pulled her so tightly against him, she all but lost her breath.

  She’d gladly lose it a thousand more times.

  She could feel him!

  At first, he held her still. So still, she could barely move an inch. He buried his face in her hair, then her shoulder, inhaling, breathing.

  Then his hands were everywhere, grasping her jaw, touching her ears, dragging a thumb across her lips. His eyes bore into hers with absolute wonder, and the most starved desire she’d ever in her life seen.

  Oh, God—he was alive!

  Still, without the first word being spoken, he grasped her head with his hands, used his thumbs to wipe the tears she’d cried, angled her just so, then slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

  Just before his lips caressed hers, he whispered against them. “Christ, I love you, Emma Calhoun.”

  As soon as their mouths touched, heat collected in every ounce of Emma’s body. Christian kissed her, not softly at all, but hungrily, uncontrolled, and he left nothing untasted. Fire pooled in her stomach as his tongue grazed hers, and his teeth pulled at her lower lip. Finally, when they were both out of breath, he pulled back, not too far, and stared into her eyes.

  “You waited for me,” he said, his voice near to cracking.

  Emma tested her own voice. “I told you I would.” Her head swam. She couldn’t believe she was in his arms …

  “So what’s your answer? Aye or nay?”

  Joy roared through every blood vessel in Emma’s body. So happy, she felt light-headed, as though she’d spiral to the floor if Christian weren’t holding her upright.

  Christian was holding her upright!

  “If you don’t answer me now, I shall shake the answer from you, woman.”

  With a laugh, Emma grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to her mouth. She kissed him, softly—softer than his feral-hunger kiss—murmuring against his soft lips with each kiss. “I love you, I love you, I love you …”

  She’d get back to that later.

  For now, she needed this kiss.

  “Aye,” she said, laughing out loud. “Definitely, aye!”

  And it was there, in the waning afternoon light of Forevermore Studio, that an eight-hundred-plus-year-old warrior betrothed his equally eight-hundred-plus-year-old beloved Intended.

  Emma had been in love with him forever.

  They’d been given thirteen chances.

  And finally, after thirteen tries, they’d made it.

  She’d find out later the how of it all. Right now, she couldn’t care less. All she wanted to do was remain in the tight, warm embrace of the other half of her heart.

  And as the light faded from the studio, Christian held Emma in his arms and continued to kiss her breathless.

  Epilogue

  Arrick-by-the-Sea

  Eveningish

  Early spring …

  “Holy ho-ho, I’m nervous!” cried Emma. She turned to her bridal party and smoothed the front of her gown. “How do I look?”

  She sorely wished she could wear her Converses.

  “Spectacular,” breathed Zoë. “It’s hard to believe. You—getting married!”

  Emma exchanged a glance with her matrons.

  They knew just how hard to believe it truly was.

  “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” whispered Emma’s mom. She sniffed. “I’m so happy for you, dear.”

  Emma gave her mom a tight hug and kissed her on her cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Emma stared at herself in the floor-length mirror in the Ballasters’ manor. She’d chosen a simple, cream satin shift, sleeveless, with the smallest of pearls beaded at the scooping neckline.

  The back scooped way lower.

  They’d told her Christian would approve.

  Form-fitting clear to her knees, the dress did feel … nice. More than nice. It felt … right.

  Her party had given her the greatest traditional bridal gifts.

  Her mom, something old: her grandmother’s cameo. She’d pinned it to her left shoulder.

  Andi, something new: a beautiful set of teardrop pearl earrings.

  Amelia, something borrowed: a lovely pearl bracelet that matched Andi’s gift perfectly.

  Zoë, something blue: a small sapphire pin to wear in her hair.

  Allie gave her a silver sixpence to wear in her shoe. She’d told Emma Gabe’s mother had passed down one just like it for generations. Now Emma had one of her own.

  She thought it was a lovely tradition.

  Finally, her mom adjusted Emma’s veil, which hung to her jaw in the front, and to her waist at the back.

  A knock sounded at the door. It was Emma’s dad. “Ready in there?”

  Emma let out a long sigh
. “Absolutely.”

  They all filed out.

  As the bridal party walked ahead, Emma held tightly to her father’s arm. He glanced down at her.

  “Are you happy?”

  Emma beamed. “You can’t imagine how happy, Dad.”

  As they stepped outside, the crispest of late-evening April breezes lifted her veil.

  “And you absolutely want to live here?” he asked.

  Emma nodded. “Definitely.”

  He leaned down and kissed her through her veil. “You’ve always known what you’ve wanted in life, haven’t you?”

  She supposed she certainly had.

  He waited for her by the Dangling Steps in Arrick’s bailey.

  As they walked along the lantern-lit lane, they chatted, Emma and her dad, and a peace fell over her as they passed through the gatehouse. Everything that had happened still seemed so surreal.

  Sneaky Ballasters, they’d apparently worked for seventy-two years—twice—to get an aged spell reversed. It had worked, but it was only meant to work for one soul.

  Hers.

  Emma still couldn’t believe the crazy things they’d done to produce their magic on her. Including feeding her a bunch of cinnamon-laced potions, crazy Welsh concoctions brewed with her hair, and eek!—some of her blood—as well as some ingredients she’d rather not think of, to keep her from gaining her memory too soon. Little devils.

  Rather, little witches.

  She’d love them for it always.

  Little had the Ballasters realized that the spell-that-could-not-be-spoken-aloud would not work by itself. True, they’d performed superb White Witch magic in order to keep Emma’s memory from returning too early. And the final spell in which they chanted at the aged stone on All Hallows’ Eve had played a significant part, as well. Had they not performed each step precisely, nothing would have turned out the way it had.

  When Emma’s memory had returned, she had indeed changed her mind-set. She’d been determined to set her love free of roaming.

  She’d followed her heart’s belief to St. Beuno’s, where she’d rescued Christian’s soul, as well. Then, he’d rescued hers. Both of their sacrifices had reversed Christian’s own vow to await his love for eternity, as well as set into motion the ending of Emma’s own discombobulated spell. It had set them both free.

  Now their souls would be together. Forever.

  Funny, though. When Christian had disappeared, he’d regained his earthly body in the last place he’d lost it, during the Second Crusade. Just inside the boundaries of Jerusalem, a family had taken a lost and wandering Christian to a local infirmary. Once he’d been released, that same family had taken him in. Finally, his memory returned, and he’d managed a call to Gawan. The Lord of Grimm had immediately gone after Christian.

  And then he’d returned to Emma.

  Emma would be eternally grateful to the Abdeil family.

  Just as they entered the bailey, Emma gasped. She’d not been allowed to see it since the decorating. The decision made on a twilight wedding, tiny candles had been lit all over the walls, in every crevice that would hold a candle. Lovely satin-covered chairs to match her dress were set in rows, from the Dangling Steps all the way back to the gatehouse. A narrow aisle lay between the sides, dusted with rose petals.

  In those chairs sat the largest group of medieval men she’d ever seen.

  The Munros, the Dreadmoors, the Conwyks, and the MacGowans, not to mention the ghostly folk she’d come to love so much, filled each seat. As a harp in the corner played the absolute loveliest of melodies, her father walked her … straight to Christian.

  Emma could barely take her eyes from his.

  Dressed in new battle regalia, with a polished suit of chain mail and covered with a long black cloak and double swords, minus the helmet, he stole her breath.

  Christian’s eyes locked on to hers, and followed her every step until she and her father reached the end of the aisle.

  Then, Mr. Calhoun gave Emma to Christian.

  Emma gladly accepted the exchange.

  Jason gave her a wicked grin and a wink.

  Gawan, Christian’s best man, smiled at her from the other side of Christian.

  “Do you, Christian de Gaultiers of Arrick-by-the-Sea, take this woman, Emma Calhoun, as your eternal beloved forever? Until death claims you both?”

  Christian smiled as he slipped the most breathtaking platinum and diamond ring over her finger. “Aye, indeed I do.”

  “Do you, Emma Calhoun, take this man, Christian de Gaultiers of Arrick-by-the-Sea, as your eternal beloved forever? Until death claims you both?”

  Emma’s eyes burned with tears as she slipped a plain platinum band over his finger. “Aye.”

  A light chuckle ran through the crowd.

  The priest said a short prayer in Welsh, then in English, and gave his blessing. “Please, kiss this bride. Christian.”

  He grinned. “Don’t you worry,” he whispered.

  And he kissed her.

  It was the craziest reception Emma had ever been to.

  She loved every moment of it.

  Presently, she was dancing with the handsomest medieval guy in the bailey.

  Christian looked down at her with the absolute most starved look she’d ever seen. His eyes wandered from her chin, to her cheeks, to her ears, to her lips.

  It made her skin turn hot.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  The expression on Christian’s face turned from ravenous to furious in a matter of seconds. It nearly made Emma burst out laughing.

  Christian pulled his mouth close to Emma’s ear. “I vow if one more idiot takes you from me, I shall strangle him.”

  Emma giggled.

  Christian stood aside, and Justin stepped into his place.

  “Wow,” Emma said, smiling up at the rogue pirate. “This will be a trick to pull off, huh?”

  Justin grinned. “Not at all, lass. You just follow my lead.”

  And then Emma danced with the rest of the gorgeous medieval men, one by one, in the bailey. She’d known most of them for centuries.

  After Tristan whirled her around the bailey so fast she thought she’d get dizzy, and Gawan elegantly danced a medieval step or two, and Ethan and Gabe took turns dancing versions of, strangely enough, the robot, followed by the waltz, Jason then took the lead.

  “You know,” he began, smiling down at her, “I must say you’re the loveliest bride I’ve ever encountered.” He twirled her about. “And I must confess, were it not for Sir Arrick, I would have tried my very best to woo you myself.”

  Emma smiled at the young knight. “Why, thank you. I do believe you would have been pretty hard to resist.”

  Ghosts from past centuries blended with men who’d lived in their time, as well as folks from the present. Somehow, to see a wild, blue-painted Pict warrior dancing with Zoë just seemed … right. Weird, but right. Her parents and best friend had had no choice but to accept the fact that there were unexplained things in the world—especially when said unexplained things had approached them, passed through them, and then had bowed and charmed the pants off them.

  She’d thank that crazy Justin Catesby later for making her folks’ transition a smooth one. Well, as smooth as could be expected. Especially when the Pict warrior had greeted her parents.

  Emma and that same wild, blue-painted Pict warrior had shared a dance, too.

  And Emma had indeed thanked him for his help with Beuno’s Well.

  Right through the blue war paint, he’d blushed.

  Emma had decided to keep the fact that she’d been born several centuries before to herself. She didn’t want to overload her parents.

  The Ballasters beamed as they’d gathered around Emma, sharing hugs and squeals, and clapping hands. Willoughby pulled her close, squeezed her in a tight hug, and kissed her cheek. “We are so happy for you, young Emma. You and Christian are going to be so verra happy together.” She smiled. “At last!”

  “Aye,�
� said Maven. “And the plans to rebuild Arrick are simply breathtaking.”

  Emma smiled and grabbed each of their hands. “Thank you all, so very much. None of this would be happening if you sisters hadn’t taken on the case of Emma and Christian.”

  “We’re so very glad we did,” said Willoughby.

  “And your plans to open your photography studio will continue, aye?” asked Millicent.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Agatha. “To have that view of the sea whilst you work? Spectacular!”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “It was all Christian’s idea.” She’d never have asked for it, and as much as she loved Arrick, she never would have asked to renovate the ruins. Her income as a photographer wasn’t too bad, but it wasn’t enough to support a castle renovation.

  Christian’s, though, was.

  Gawan had retained every single penny the Crusader had ever made. All along, that devil Gawan had had an in with the higher-ups. He’d known, way back when Christian had first died, that things would eventually be turned around. Yet he’d had to keep it to himself—even from Christian. Although a modest amount of coin back in the twelfth century, the money Christian had made as a knight was an astoundingly enormous amount now.

  He, for lack of a better term, was loaded. And he wanted to rebuild Arrick-by-the-Sea. Gawan had been remorseful that Christian had felt no desire to keep Arrick Castle up, and the ghost had refused to allow Gawan to do it himself. Luckily, though, Arrick had been strongly built. It wasn’t in total disrepair. And Emma absolutely loved it.

  “And Jason’s going to build your photography chamber, isn’t he?” asked Willoughby. “He did a marvelous job with Sir Tristan’s and Sir Gawan’s brooding chambers.”

  Emma glanced at Jason, who gave her a wicked grin. “Yes, he did. I can hardly wait to see what he does with my studio.”

  Emma took a second to glance around the bailey. In the light still cast by thousands of tiny candles and lanterns, she took in all the people she’d come to love—alive and not so alive. How very fortunate she was.

  She’d been given a second chance.

  Well, actually thirteen, she supposed.