Thirteen Chances (26 page)

Then the roar of motorcycles in the bailey met her ears.

Christian glanced down at her, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Come on. And stay close.”

They hurried to the first floor, and just as they took the last step, the double doors of the great hall flew open, and what looked like no less than a football team piled in, grumbling, laughing, and hollering.

“Oh for God’s sake, will you boys stop all that pushing and yelling?” said a small, auburn-haired woman with a ponytail, much like Emma’s. She squirmed in between them and turned to scold. “Your big mouths are going to wake up the whole household. Now be quieter.”

Emma could have sworn she saw the men’s heads droop in quiet submission.

A few more men came through the door. One carried a toddler of about one year on his shoulder. The little tyke had two fistfuls of the man’s sandy-colored hair and was yanking it hard, and drooling in it, too. The man winced, but didn’t say a word, nor did he relieve the kid of his hair.

“Be nice to Uncle Richard, Calen,” the woman said. Then she looked around. “Tristan? Do you have the diaper bags?”

Then another man walked in. “Aye, love, right here,” he answered—grumbled, actually.

A chuckle ran through the men.

Emma felt her eyes widen.

She thought she heard a growl from Christian.

The man was absolutely the biggest she’d ever seen. No, scratch that. Another had just walked in behind him, even bigger. But the one with the bags? A bit larger than Christian, even. Gorgeous, he had long, dark hair pulled back at the nape, and muscles like an iron man competitor. He had two bulging diaper bags gripped in one hand, and a kid on his shoulders. This one looked to be a bit older, maybe three, and he had a death grip on the man’s ears. With a thatch of dark hair, there was no mistaking whom the toddler belonged to.

It was then that Emma noticed something odd.

Every man in the hall wore jeans.

And a sword.

Just then, Gawan and Ellie, accompanied by Jason and all the Conwyk children and ghosts, joined in the great hall. The two women met and embraced. Nicklesby scurried about, shouting orders to keep the floors clean and blades out of the woodwork. The Conwyk twins were right on his heels.

Christian leaned toward Emma, his whisper brushing her ear. “That’s Tristan de Barre and his wife, Andi, and their two little ones. The other lads are his knights.”

“Jason!” hollered Tristan de Barre. “Stop standing about gawking and come relieve me of these diaper bags, man, before my son rips my ears from my bloody head.”

Jason trotted up to Tristan. “Aye, hand me those bags, sir. I’ll take them to the nursery.” He took them, then winked at Emma as he trotted past.

And then Tristan de Barre moved toward her. He stopped just a few feet from her and looked down. “Arrick, who is this lovely maid you have beside you? Introduce us, man.”

Emma jumped at Tristan’s big, booming voice. With another strange, medieval accent, he had his gaze directed
directly
at her. She peeked around him. All other medieval eyes were on her, as well. She felt the heat beneath her skin rise from her neck to her cheeks in a millisecond as fifteen pairs of knightly eyes, plus everyone else congregated in the Grimm great hall, stared at Emma.

“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.

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 from 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.