The Ballasters stared at him in horror. Willoughby, though, spoke up. Her voice sounded calm. Soothing. “You cannot mean it, lad. ’Tis finding you that saves her, each and every time. ’Tis what makes her life—no matter the length—complete. Dunna you understand that?”
The other sisters nodded with vigor.
Christian studied them. What he did know was that each time he lost Emma, another hole ripped through his chest. She at least died and moved on without the first memory of him, becoming reborn. Living a different life every seventy-two years. She endured very little pain in the few short months she remembered him.
He’d endured one long, torturous lifetime of pain.
If one called roaming the world as a spirit a life.
Christ. It
was
all about him …
Selfish bastard …
“Now, there, boy,” said Willoughby. “I can see your pain, love. But do you really—
can
you really leave, without at least seeing her?”
“I did see her. Earlier.”
Willoughby rubbed her chin. “She’s upstairs now. Sleeping, I think. Perhaps you should at least say good-bye?”
Christian met Willoughby’s questioning gaze. Her eyes widened innocently.
His narrowed.
“That’s not playing fair, madam,” he said.
Willoughby shrugged. “ ’Tis your choice, of course. But if you’re going to leave, you should perhaps take one last look at her. ’Twill be nearly a century before she shows up again.”
Something flickered in Willoughby’s eyes, but it vanished before Christian could figure out what it meant.
With a scowl, he gave a low short bow, turned, and headed for the stairs. At the base, he stopped. And waited.
“Third floor, last room on the right,” offered Willoughby.
Without a word, Christian disappeared, mentally directing himself to the third-floor apartments, and then materialized in the corridor.
He knew he made not a sound as he strode to the last room on the right. Once there, he stopped and listened. Just the sound of her deep, even breaths made his own catch in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, unsure if seeing her in slumber was the best thing to do. ’Twas bad enough, her returning as her original self. After the last time he’d lost Emma, he thought nothing could hurt worse. He was wrong. But he’d made his mind up to leave her in peace. Seeing her so vulnerable might very well compromise his strength to turn and walk back out the door.
Twice, he stomped back up the corridor. His movement was still soundless, but the motion of stomping made him feel somewhat better. But twice he returned to stand in front of the door. The damn bloody door that led straight to
her …
Unable to stop himself, Christian sifted through six inches of solid oak. He knew every design of every chamber in the manor, knew exactly where she slumbered, and walked directly to her. He found it odd that, even after having been no more than a foot from her earlier, it was difficult to gaze at her in this vulnerable state of sleep.
Finally, though, he did.
And the pressure in his chest nearly made him gasp.
The low light of the table lamp fell upon her face, the book she’d been reading discarded against her chest. Her lips were slightly parted as she breathed, and dark lashes brushed her cheeks where they rested. Her face was painfully beautiful, her skin creamy white and flawless. Just as he’d remembered from the very first time he laid eyes upon her.
“Chris!” hollered Gawan.
Christian jumped back, Gawan’s blade missing his stomach by less than a hand’s breadth. His gaze remained on the thing that had wrested his attention from the swordplay. Without a word, he jammed his blade into the ground and wiped his brow with the back of his arm.
“What is wrong with you, man?” asked Gawan.
Christian didn’t answer. Nay, he couldn’t answer. How could he whilst his bloody tongue was wrapped around itself? His stare followed the three horses passing through the gatehouse. More so on the gel whose gaze peeked out of a garnet cloak and stared back.
“Och, ne’er mind,” muttered Gawan. He walked over, shoved his own blade into the ground, and leaned on the hilt. He waved a hand before Christian’s eyes. “ ’Tis a good bloody thing the lass didn’t happen upon you whilst on the battlefield. You’d be a dead lad for sure.”
Christian vaguely heard his friend’s jesting words. “She’s astounding,” he said, mostly to himself. The gel’s pale, flawless face stood stark against the deep color of the cloak, and a pair of blue eyes held his with such intensity, Christian had to struggle to keep his wobbly knees from giving way. Just as they passed through the stone arch, a flash of white as she smiled made Christian’s stomach tighten. He followed her until she disappeared; then he yanked free his sword, pushed it into the hilt over his shoulder, and started in the direction of the gel.
“Where are you going?” asked Gawan with a chuckle.
“To find out who she is …”
Emma sighed in her sleep, and Christian pulled himself from the long-ago memory. He blinked, and for a moment, he allowed himself a small amount of pleasure and drank in the sight of her. His Emma, fast asleep, so close that, had he substance, he could extend his fingers and brush her arm that casually rested against her stomach. Christ, how he wished he could smell her …
Swallowing hard, Christian drew a deep breath, leaned over, and studied her closely. He willed himself to maintain his strength and not go back on his word to leave her alone. But being this close to her …
He brought his lips close to hers, nearly touching, then moved to her ear. “Christ, Emma,” he whispered. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as a myriad of emotions grasped him by the throat. “How I’ve missed you.”
Just then, several things happened at once. First, Emma’s large blue eyes flew open and, God help him, focused on
him.
Second, she pushed to her elbows, bringing her face incredibly closer than it had been, and her luscious mouth began to work fervently, although nothing lucid came out. Third, and this he’d remember forever, she drew in a deep breath, held it, and then screamed a cry worthy of any melee he’d fought.
Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea closed his eyes, swore, and disappeared.
Emma’s scream bounced off every wall in the cavernous room, and she literally crawled up the headboard backward, like a crab, standing on the pillows her head had just been peacefully resting upon. She stared, eyes stretched wide, her gaze raking the room swiftly for signs of the face she’d been mere inches from only moments ago.
She saw …
nothing.
No one. She was all alone.
But there’d just been a face staring at her!
After catching her breath, Emma eased off the bed. The cool wood floor chilled her bare feet as she tiptoed across the room. Eyeing the bathroom door, she started for it, stopped when she realized she had no weapon, and searched the immediate area. The blow-dryer she’d left on the chair beside the bed caught her eye, so she unplugged it, looped the cord, grabbed it by the handle, and crept back to the bathroom.
Someone could be hiding in there,
she thought.
Someone could have sneaked in through a window, or maybe even through one of the secret tunnels.
Her heart beat double time as she placed her free palm against the wood, gave it a hard shove, and dashed into the bathroom, blow-dryer raised.
Again, no one was there.
Suddenly, she spun around. The hair on her neck rose.
She’d just heard a …
chuckle.
A man’s deep, amused chuckle. She was sure of it.
Emma eyed the bed. The bed had a good three feet of clearance from the floor. She’d never go back to sleep if she didn’t look, so, quietly, blow-dryer gripped tightly, she eased down to her knees and hands, bent her head, and looked under the bed.
Nothing.
A long breath of relief escaped Emma’s lungs. She pushed back, resting her backside against her heels, glanced at the blow-dryer, and thought just how silly she must look—fanny in the air, weapon in hand. Shaking her head, she rose, put away her bludgeon, and sat on the side of the bed.
The image of the face flashed before her, and she thought long and hard about it. Her first reaction—especially after scouring the room and finding nothing—was to conclude she’d imagined the whole thing. After all, she’d been reading Jane Austen’s
Northanger Abbey.
While not particular spooky, the novel had gothic-y elements that may have caused her to dream something spooky.
No. That was not it at all.
Emma lay back atop the duvet and looked up at the ceiling.
What bothered her was that the face somehow seemed …
familiar.
Sure, it’d scared the holy ho-ho out of her, but still.
Familiar.
How could that be? She certainly would have remembered a face like that in her past. She didn’t think there was one single male in all of Savannah who could measure up to
that
face.
She could only describe it as painfully beautiful.
A square jaw, wide mouth with full lips, and nice brows—not too bushy, not too thin. A straight nose, hair the color of dark mahogany hung tousled in the front, nearly to his jawline and almost in his eyes.
Blue, amazing eyes that also seemed so very familiar to her. At first wide and surprised, they quickly narrowed and turned angry.
Just before the face disappeared.
Frustrated, Emma decided the excitement was over. She didn’t know what had happened, but she felt certain no one had entered her room. She’d simply imagined it. Final answer.
Crawling across the bed, she pulled the duvet up to her neck, reached over, and flicked the lamp off.
And just as her eyes drifted shut, one more thought assaulted her.
That painfully beautiful face had had a deep voice, strangely accented, and it had known her name …
Just outside Emma’s door, Christian leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, head lowered. He stared at his boots.
What an idiot he’d been. Seeing her, being in such close proximity with her, only made him want her all the more. It made what he had to do all the more difficult.
Why couldn’t he have just followed his instinct and
left?
Because he couldn’t help himself, that’s bloody why. He’d only wanted to be closer, just to get a longer look at the face he’d given his heart to so many centuries before. Christ, she was just as beautiful. Nay, mayhap even more so.
The aura that made up Emma’s soul had surrounded him, trapped him hovering close to her face—even after her eyes had flown open. He’d been powerless to move, until that hair-raising scream had torn from her lips.
He hated that he’d caused such a sound.
Closing his eyes, Christian went through the motion of bashing the back of his head against the stone wall.
He felt nothing, of course, but he thought it made him feel somewhat better.
It didn’t.
Then his eyes flew open. It hit him. He knew exactly what had to be done.
“Look at ye, boy. Cowerin’ out here in the passageway instead of in yon chamber with your mate. What’s wrong with ye?” asked Godfrey in a foul whisper as he materialized from the opposite wall. “I could bloody well hear the lass’ hollering all the way to the bailey. Sounded like ye were murderin’ her.” He narrowed his eyes to slits. “What’d ye do to her, then?”
Christian stared hard at his old friend, that ridiculous plume on his hat bouncing with each bob of his irritated head. He drew a deep breath, placed a finger over his lips, and inclined his head. “Come on, before you wake her.”
Godfrey shrugged and followed Christian away from Emma’s door. They materialized on the fifth floor—actually a large attic. And the chamber the Ballasters had graciously given to Christian. Once inside, Christian noted Justin Catesby reclined in the chair, his big boots crossed at the ankles. He grinned and threw up a hand in greeting.
“She’s got superb lungs,” Justin said cheerfully. He rose from the chair and strode to stand next to Godfrey.
“I thought ye were leavin’, boy,” Godfrey asked Christian with a frown. “Why’d ye go in and scare her?”
Christian rubbed his brow. “I didn’t
mean
to scare her.” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean for her to see me at all. ’Twas a bloody accident.”
Godfrey and Justin exchanged a look.
Then they both broke out into laughter.
Christian glowered at them both. It didn’t shut them up like he’d hoped.
Finally,
blessedly,
they ceased.
“So then, boy,” said Godfrey, wiping his teary eyes, “what is your grand plan now, eh? Are ye still goin’ to run away?”
Christian waited. He knew what was coming. He didn’t care.
’Twas
his
Intended. He could do with her as he damn well wanted.
Striding to the far end of the room. Christian stopped at the window facing the sea. “I’m going to scare her off. Make her leave Arrick.”
Silence filled the chamber, but only for a moment, maybe two. When they could hold their tongues no longer, Godfrey and Justin again burst out laughing.
Christian closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. How easily amused they were of late. He waited.
Justin bent over at the waist, gripping his knees while he caught his breath.
Christian shook his head.
“Okay,” said Godfrey, finally. “So what’s yer reasoning for wanting to scare the lass away? Why, after all this time, do you no’ want to woo her?”
Christian glanced at Justin, who covered his mouth with his hand.
“It’s not that I don’t want to. I cannot go on like this, Godfrey. Every seventy-two years
I know
what’s in store for Emma. I woo her, she finally falls in love with me again, only to …” He didn’t finish the rest. The thought was beyond unbearable. He shook his head and looked at both his friends. “Mayhap if she doesn’t go through all that again, if she merely … exists, carries on with her life without my becoming involved, the cycle will end for her. She won’t have to suffer anymore.”