Thirteen Chances (28 page)

“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.

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.

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 step 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.

The trumpet blasted for a third time.

Emma looked; then she gasped.

Each team had separated, forming two long, giant lines of horse and riders. On one side were Team Dreadmoor, Team Grimm, and Team Munro. On the other were Team Arrick, Team Donovan, and Team Le Maurant. One side mortal; one side ghostly.

Both impressive as hell.

The trumpeter sounded his horn, and Emma was surprised to find he, too, was a spirit, and wearing a large, floppy hat with a big feather in it.

Similar to Sir Godfrey’s.

Once he finished, he became the tournament crier, as well.

“Here ye! Here ye!” he shouted. “Welcome to the second annual Grimm Tournament! Warriors, ghostly and not so ghostly, begin the official procession!”

Allie grabbed Emma’s hand and leaned close. “This is so exciting! I wish my pal Dauber were here to see it. He’s off visiting friends in Ireland.”

“It really is exciting,” Emma whispered back. And it honestly was. Warriors from as far back as the ninth century had arrived in their best battle gear. Some in complete armor, some in chain mail, like what the Dreadmoors, Christian, and Gawan wore. Some wore barely anything at all, like the twin Pict brothers who wore little more than blue war paint. Some were on foot; some were mounted on …
ghost horses?

She supposed that could be so.

No matter the century, or the gear, they all marched their procession with their heads held high, and confidence so thick, Emma thought she could slice it with a knife.

Finally, four warriors remained. All on horseback. All looking lethal.

First, Gawan—probably because he was host of the tournament. With his hair pulled back, his leather gear, chain mail, and a helmet on—for a change—he walked his horse toward Emma’s little group. Ellie stepped forward as he neared, reached her hand out, and handed him something. Gawan flipped his visor, opened his hand, grinned, and bent down to place a kiss on his wife’s lips. Then he retreated.

Tristan de Barre was next. That was one big joker. Wearing head-to-toe chain mail, and a black tunic with a mystical creature sewn into the center, he followed the same pattern as Gawan—except when Andi and her little one reached his horse, he swept one big arm down, pulled her off her feet, and kissed her hard. The crowd roared, and Andi handed him something, as well.

Next came Ethan. Those Scots were something else. Wearing a mixture of plaid kilts and armor, Ethan, with his long dark hair and wide smile, was something to place in her memory book—and in Amelia’s too, if the grin on her face meant anything. He kissed her, and she handed him something.

What in the world?

In her fascination with the ritual, Emma hadn’t noticed the one remaining knight until Amelia had passed her with a wink. Christian, mounted on a majestic black horse, wore full battle regalia. He nudged his horse with his knees, moving closer. Ellie gave her a push, and Emma started to walk. They met, no more than a foot away, and Christian pushed his visor up. Double swords jutted over each shoulder—even his mail creaked, as did the leather of his saddle.
So very real.
Wide, sexy blue eyes watched her; muscles flinched at his jaws. All signs of joking had vanished.