Thirteen Chances (29 page)

They simply stared at each other.

“Cara ‘ch hwchwaneg awron na ‘r ‘n flaen amsera Adfeiliasis i mewn cara chennych,”
he said, barely above a whisper.

Emma felt her knees weaken. “What does that mean?”

He stared at her for quite some time. Then he smiled.

“Wait for me,” he said quietly. “I shall return soon.”

At once, a thousand shards of broken light pierced Emma’s eyes, and everything, like an out-of-control kaleidoscope, flickered behind her lids.

For the briefest of moments, she saw Christian in another time, another place, saying those same exact words.

She saw
herself.

Just as fast, the vision disappeared.

“Emma?” said Christian, frowning. “Are you ill?”

Emma smiled. “Nah, I’m fine. Probably didn’t eat enough.” She waved a hand. “Shoo, so I can cheer you on.” She put on a fake scowl. “Win, okay?”

Christian stared hard at her for several seconds; then he gave a single nod. “For you.”

Then he turned his horse and galloped off.

Emma stared after him, her heart in her throat.

She could have sworn she’d seen him do that very thing before.

That’d be impossible,
she thought, and started for the bleachers.

She had to hand it to Tristan de Barre. That guy seriously
owned
the joust. By far the most fast-paced, cutthroat of all the tournament events, the joust was like no spectator sport she’d ever seen. She’d watched him take nine opponents out after the first pass. The thundering of hooves and the splintering wood of the lance gave her shudders.

It made for some kick-patootey pictures, too.

Then, the hand-to-hand sword fighting. She’d watched Jason, presently of Dreadmoor, take on at least three of the guys from Team Grimm—most of whom were warriors Gawan had personally trained for battle. When on earth had sweet, charming Jason become so …
ferocious?
She’d gotten some good shots of him, as well as all the other mortals.

The ghostly competitors she’d have to bank to memory.

All except Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea.

While the spirited competitors couldn’t really hurt one another, it still looked and sounded fierce. Big, muscular, and determined, Christian took on and won every event he entered. Hand-to-hand sword fighting was his best event—even against the crazy Team Donovan. She’d watched, her breath held, as Christian advanced on a big, brawling Irish warrior named Aderigg.

The brute topped Christian’s height by at least three inches, and had biceps the size of bowling balls. Christian didn’t seem to care much. With a look that made a shudder run through Emma’s body, he took graceful, powerful, calculated steps, taunting the big Irishman with the swiftly moving double blades. Christian waved them as if they were as light as a Victorian lady’s fan, yet his muscles pulled and strained with each movement, so much so that Emma could see the tattoos flinch. But when he attacked full force? Emma had never seen such fearsome strength and determination. It simply astounded her.

But there wasn’t a single ghostly soul who could oust him from his saddle at the joust. He sat so majestically on his mount, those big, muscular thighs clamped down against the horse’s sides. Staring down his opponent, Christian would flip his helmet visor closed with a snap, and holler a yell that gave Emma chills down her spine. Then he’d charge the warrior crazy enough to face him. The sound of impact as wood smashed into either more wood or steel, and the shattering of the lance, rattled her insides. And it sounded so dang
real.

She briefly wondered who would win, should Christian and Tristan ever face off.

If only …

Just then, a holler rang out, and she looked up, out of her thoughts. Christian was once again saddled and ready. He glanced her way, and she could see his mouth lift into an arrogant grin.

Another flash shot through her, one so powerful it nearly knocked her off the steel bleachers she was sitting on. Slides of pictures flew past her mind, of another place, another time.

Of Christian.

The trumpeter’s horn pulled her back to the present.

She put a hand to her forehead, feeling dizzy. As she watched Christian flip his visor and charge his opponent, another wash of … something, crept over her.

She knew she’d seen him do the exact same thing before.

Again, she shook it off.

“Dear, are you all right?”

Emma turned to Lady Follywolle. The bird on her head looked as if it were ready to peck out her eyes. She smiled. “I’m fine. Just … feeling a little strange, is all.”

Lady Beauchamp leaned forward to peer around her ghostly companion. Seawater dripped from her sopping-wet gown. It seemed to drip from her eyes, as well. “Oh. Millicent,” she said, sounding as though she were about to weep, “I can barely take it much longer. My heart is breaking!”

“Shh!” Lady Follywolle said quietly, patting her friend’s knee. Then she turned to Emma. “She hates the tournament so. Too much blood and guts. Come, Lady Beauchamp. Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

With that they disappeared.

On the other side sat Gabe and Allie. Gabe leaned forward. “You do look a bit pale, lass. Are you feeling ill?”

“No,” said Emma, smiling. “I’m fine.”

Just then, Christian made one more pass. Muscles in his shoulders bunched as they held the lance, and he tore off down the lane. He defeated his opponent, and everyone for Team Arrick cheered. She stood and waved as he looked in her direction.

Then he pulled his mount to a halt, squeezed his knees, and made the horse rear.

Everyone cheered louder.

And
then
he flipped up his visor, threw down his lance, and slung his right leg over the horse’s neck and leaped down. As he walked toward her, he removed his helmet and clamped it under one arm. His hair poked out in several directions, and with his free hand he raked it out of his face. He tossed her a big, wide grin.

Helm still under his arm, he cupped his hands and hollered, “For you, Emma, love!”

Everyone for Team Arrick cheered, and Emma waved at him.

He turned and walked away.

Emma stared at his retreating back, taking in the chain mail, the swords, the hair in disarray, the arrogant swagger. He glanced over his shoulder and threw her another grin.

“I’ve seen him do that before, too,” she muttered. “But that’s impossible.”

“What’s that?” said Gabe. He leaned forward, ducked his head, and looked at her. “Emma? You’re lookin’ funny again, lass.”

Emma turned to him then, meeting his worried gaze. “I’m fine, I … just have a headache,” she said. “I’ll go lie down and it’ll be fine in no time.”

“Do you want me to walk back with you?” asked Gabe.

Emma smiled and stood. “No, you guys enjoy the tournament. I’ll be back in a bit.”

She felt Gabe and Allie’s eyes on her as she climbed down the bleachers, and she tossed them a wave before she turned and headed across the bailey. As she grew closer to the main keep, she hurried more, although she really didn’t know what she was hurrying for. Everything seemed hazy, unclear, strange.

As soon as she stepped into the great hall’s main entrance, it hit her.

It hit her
hard.

Thank God, no one was around.

Just as she made it to the staircase, a surge of nausea hit as déjà vu washed over her again and again. Emma took several deep breaths, then bent over at the waist and drew several more, to keep from losing what little she had in her stomach. She grabbed the banister and held on tight as memories, fast and furious as though she were watching a movie in fast motion, washed over her.
So many, so very fast.

The last one made her lose her breath, and she sank to the bottom step and sat.

Remembering.

Emma grabbed her head, willing it to stop spinning. She couldn’t keep the barrage of memories at bay. There were too many to make much sense out of them. But one constant figure popped up repeatedly, every so often.

It barely surprised her.

Christian.

“Oh, God,” she half whispered, half sobbed.

“Young lady, may I help you?”

Emma jumped at the voice, and focused on the man before her. Distinguished and elderly he was, with a pristine suit and a clipped British accent. She paused. She hadn’t met him before. “I’m … fine. Just a headache.”

One gray brow lifted. “Of course. A headache.” He gave her a slight nod. “I’m Jameson, from the Dreadmoor lot. I only just arrived. Can I get you an aspirin, perhaps, or a pot of tea?”

She rose and gave him a smile. It felt weak, and it probably looked weak, too. “No, that’s okay, really. I’m going to lie down for a bit. But thank you, anyway.”

He looked at her, then gave one more nod. “Nicklesby is babysitting those dreadful Conwyk twins, so if you should need anything, I shall be around.”

“Thank you,” she said, and started up the steps.

She felt Jameson’s eyes on her as she jogged up the stairs.

Finally, she reached the third floor, and relief washed over her to find it completely empty. Tears were streaming down her face now, and she felt a scream building in her throat. Temptation to let it rip ran through her, and she felt positive Christian would hear. Instead, she swallowed the scream.

At her door, she let herself in, threw it shut, and flung herself onto the bed. The tears came harder now, faster, turning into uncontrolled sobs that made her feel ashamed. Grabbing the pillow from behind her head, she covered her face to drown out the moans.

She’d been responsible for Christian’s eternal life as a ghost.

She clearly recalled the day, so many hundreds of years before, when she had discovered an old Welsh conjuring book and decided to take fate into her own hands.

It had been a frightful mistake.

She’d screwed it up. Whether not reading the verse correctly, or mispronouncing the ancient Welsh words—either way, she’d screwed up. Not only had she cursed Christian, she’d cursed herself.

It was all too overwhelming.

She’d been born in another century. She’d lived multiple lives ever since. No wonder she’d had flashbacks while visiting the UK, though she hadn’t understood them at the time. She’d been here before. Loads of times.
“Fi forever arhosa ‘ch ,‘m cara Cristion,”
she whispered.

She knew Welsh. Of course she knew Welsh.

“I forever await you, my love Christian,” she said out loud.

And no wonder she’d never been able to find true love. She already had it.

And those specific flashbacks of Christian? It all made complete sense now. Of course she’d seen him do those things before. She’d lived in another time with him, long, long ago. Many times over. She recalled every single time she fell in love with him all over again—every seventy-two years, thanks to her botched-up spell.

Pain and joy washed over her in cycles, and finally, when there were no more tears, she heaved a heavy sigh. The very last time she saw him alive swept through her mind like a tidal wave, and tears ran down her face as she remembered …

“Please, Chris! I beg you, dunna leave me!” Emma cried. She dragged her hand across her teary eyes. “I fear I shall never see you again.” Pain stabbed her in the gut, and her heart ached as though someone squeezed it in their fist.

Christian swung a leg over his horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. In two strides he was at Emma’s side. He cradled her face with his hands and met her gaze. With his thumbs, he wiped away the wetness from her cheeks. “I have to go, love. But I will return to you.” He pressed his lips to hers, kissed each of her eyes, then pulled away. “I vow it, Emm. Wait for me.”

Emma nodded. More tears leaked out. “I will wait forever,” she whispered.

Then as she watched through tears that would not cease, her love leaped upon the back of his mount, and without another glance in her direction, heeled the horse’s sides and sped off. She watched as Christian’s form grew smaller and smaller, until he was no more than a mere spot in the distance.

“I will wait forever, my love,” she whispered aloud again. “Come back to me …”

As she considered her past lives, the past twelve chances she’d had with Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea, she realized one thing in particular, and it struck her like a lightning bolt.

This time was different. This thirteenth chance was not like the other chances. Her parents were alive, and she was thriving. And … she only just now recalled her past. It
had
to mean something. And by God, she couldn’t let Christian know she knew. She’d have to keep it a complete secret. Something had to change this time. Something had to give.

For now, anyway …

Emma threw a small prayer heavenward. She hoped she had the strength to pull it off.

Keeping a secret of such magnitude proved to be Emma’s greatest challenge to date. Every time she looked at Christian, thought of Christian, or worse—
he
looked at
her
—she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs,
I remember! I love you!

Zoë would be proud that she’d kept a secret such as this one.

Emma had been born in the twelfth century …

It was still so overwhelming, she could barely think about the memories that continuously assaulted her without her head spinning out of control. She recalled exactly what she was wearing the first time she met Christian de Gaultiers. A long, woolen gown the color of cream and stitched around the collar in emerald green, with a wide leather belt and garnet cloak. Leather boots. Not to mention the long woolen hose. She shook her head and fought a smile. Lord, how those things had itched!

She remembered her nurse’s uniform and cap from her last life. Starched and pressed and pristine white, with heavy hose that had a solid seam on the back of her legs, and the prettiest pumps with the highest of heels. Funny. A nurse with heels. Nowadays, it was scrubs and sneakers. She recalled sitting with him in the Ballasters’ parlor, listening to Cole Porter in front of a roaring fire.