by Cindy Miles
Godfrey muttered under his breath.
The ebb and flow of the brisk Irish Sea against the base of Arrick did little to comfort Christian this particular eve. ’Twas the night before she was to arrive, and it had his stomach twisted in bloody knots. Emma Calhoun was her name this time. Strangely enough, ’twas always Emma. But her surname was always different—as was her appearance. What would she be like? Aye, her soul was the same, but characteristics often changed. Not all, but some. Her looks differed with each rebirth. ’Twas, in a way, like meeting someone for the verra first time all over again.
Except that he knew who she was.
And that he already loved her fiercely.
Christian ran a hand through his hair. ’Twas enough to make a man bloody daft.
“Pull your head out of your arse, lad, stop sulkin’, and tell me your plan. Do you know much about her this time?” asked Godfrey. “What she looks like, that sort of thing?”
Christian glanced at Godfrey. “I think you enjoy this way too much, old man.”
Godfrey stroked his chin. “I confess, ’tis most entertaining, even if it does occur only every seventy-two years.” He chuckled. “I especially like when you show yourself to her for the very first time.” He shook his head. “Huge sport, it is. Everyone’s talkin’ about it, you know. Even o’er at Grimm. Although I don’t fancy the ending overmuch.” He looked at Christian. “Think you this time will be different?”
Christian shrugged and blew out a hefty sigh. “I truly hope so.” He glanced behind him, down the way toward the sisters’ manor. “I think the old girls are up to something. They said this time will be of utmost import, and that I should take extreme care in my wooing.”
“You always take extreme care in your wooing,” said Godfrey. He glanced in the direction of the manor. “Passing odd, those old lasses.”
Christian rubbed the back of his neck and stared out across the black water. Mayhap this time he wouldn’t take such care in the bloody wooing. “Knowing how it will end nearly makes me want to not try at all,” Christian said. And in truth, he’d given that a lot of thought. Mayhap the best thing would be to avoid her completely …
“You’ve lopped off many a heads in your day, lad. You’re as lethal a warrior as they come. I’ve no doubt you can handle the meeting of your beloved again,” said Godfrey. He smoothed the big plume poking out from the side of his hat. “When does the lass arrive?”
“Tomorrow.”
A smile stretched across Godfrey’s face. “We could go to the airport and take a wee look for ourselves?”
Christian shook his head. He’d confessed his situation to the Ballaster sisters years before, after he’d lost Emma the last time. “Willoughby has already asked that I remain here.”
A loud, boisterous bellow erupted from Godfrey. “My God, boy.” He shook his head. “My God, you indeed have it bad, aye? And I thought young Gawan’s case was somethin’ else.” He shook his head. “Well, she didn’t ask me to remain here. I shall leave first thing in the morn. Young Catesby said he’d go with me.” He gave Christian a half-cocked smile. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine here. Pacing. Scrubbing your neck and such. Worrying.”
Christian grunted. Justin Catesby, another spirit—although one much more irritating—would no doubt soon join Godfrey in the sport of poking fun at Christian. Justin was a rogue and an arrogant pup. He’d also been, like Godfrey, a close friend for centuries.
“But until then,” said Godfrey, “what say you to a game or two of Knucklebones?”
Christian thought about his days of warring. Spears, swords, arrows, blood—his hand tightly wrapped around the hilt of his blade. Familiar, sweaty, manly things. But when it came to his true love? Would he really have the strength to avoid her? Christ, she’d be here on the morrow …
Butterflies flapped mercilessly in his stomach, and his mouth went dry. He pushed his fingers through his hair.
Aye. He’d indeed turned into a spineless twit.
“Arrick! Knucklebones, boy!” hollered Battersby.
Christian took a deep breath and joined his old friend for an even older game that he really didn’t feel much like playing at all. He blew out a sigh. Godfrey of Battersby laughed.
It’d be the longest bloody night of Christian’s life.
The very next day …
Emma held her breath and dug her fingers deep into the old car’s seat cushion, and her feet pushed heavily on imaginary brakes as the vehicle squeaked between an ancient stone wall and a big delivery truck. She couldn’t stand it. She closed her eyes.
A giggle erupted from the driver.
Cracking open an eye, Emma peeked at the sweet old thing driving. Millicent Ballaster, one of the owners of the manor house where she was booked. At least they’d offered her a ride. And the sweet old gal had nearly squeezed the life out of her with a fierce hug when she’d first met her at the luggage carriage. With a carefree grin plastered across her wrinkled cheeks, old Millie barely gripped the wheel with one hand.
“Open your eyes, girlie. No need to worry.” She patted the car’s dash with pride. “Quite reliable, this old heap.”
It wasn’t the old heap she was worried about. It was her life. Emma tightened her grip on the cushion and gave a slight laugh. “Oh, uh, I’m sure it is.” Oh my God! I’m not going to make it to Arrick-by-the-Sea in one piece!
It was the longest two hours of her entire life.
Soon they turned off the single track road they’d been traveling on and onto an even narrower road. They made two corners, and then the old heap began to climb. Tall trees lined the path on either side, so it wasn’t until the road leveled and the car stopped climbing that Arrick-by-the-Sea came into view.
Emma’s breath hitched in her throat, and her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Quite the sight, eh love?” Millicent said.
The car had barely stopped when Emma opened the door and slowly climbed out. “Quite,” she whispered.
Then she simply took in the view.
They’d parked in front of a lovely stone manor house, situated off to the right of the path leading to Arrick’s castle ruins. Three stories high and the length of a football field, the manor was by no means a small estate. Bold red and pink geraniums overflowed stone containers on either side of the massive wooden double doors, and according to the Web site, it’d been built in the seventeenth century but had fallen into disrepair.
It was now lovingly renovated and absolutely beautiful. Behind the manor, a maze made of rowan bushes, at least as tall as Emma, sat in a big square. Millie had told her a big fountain sat in its center. She’d have to check that out later.
Emma’s gaze then moved back to the narrow path that meandered up the sea cliff.
And to the castle ruins perched right at the edge.
Once again, her breath hitched.
Without really thinking, she began to walk in that direction. She’d made it only a few feet before the doors to the manor swung wide-open and three older women bustled out. They huddled around Millicent and simply stared at Emma. Finally one of the women, pleasantly plump with a sweet face and red hair, clapped her hands together and smiled.
“Welcome to the Ballaster House B and B! I’m Willoughby and, oh my! You are such a lovely thing! We are ever so happy to have you here!” she said. As one big huddle, the four women moved toward Emma, and Willoughby continued. “We are the Ballaster sisters. Millicent, you’ve met.”
“And thankfully survived her atrocious driving,” said the tall, willowy sister in the middle of the huddle. She grinned. “I’m Maven.”
“And I am Agatha,” said the shortest sister, wringing her hands and all but jumping up and down in place like a Jack Russell wanting to play fetch. “Indeed, we are so verra pleased you’re here.” That last sentence came out on a squeak.
Willoughby gave a wide smile. “We’ve been eager for your arrival, dear. Quite eager, indeed!”
Emma gave each sister a smi
le. “Thank you for such a wonderful welcome,” she said, wondering just briefly why the heck they were so happy to see her. Perhaps business was slow this time of year?
Then Emma’s gaze drifted back to the ruins. The weathered stone of the gatehouse stood stark against the gray-blue sea behind it. The cavernous mouth where a steely-toothed portcullis used to be housed yawned wide.
Emma paused. How did she know that?
“Och, there’s plenty of time to explore yon fortress,” said Willoughby. She moved to Emma and grasped her gently by the elbow, and tugged her to the back of the old heap. Emma lifted out her one suitcase and her camera equipment bag, slung it over her shoulder, and shut the trunk. Willoughby patted her arm. “Come, sweetling. Let’s get you unpacked and settled in first. You must be exhausted from that dreadful plane ride. We’ve hot tea and cinnamon cakes ready for you.”
Emma met the gazes of four expectant Ballasters. All four were as different as night and day, yet all four … similar. She decided right then that she liked them a lot. She smiled. “Yes, thank you. That sounds great.” It did, too. She hoped she wouldn’t make a pig of herself. She’d have to try to rein in her appetite. She shifted her load and allowed Willoughby to pull her toward the manor.
Just before she stepped over the threshold, Emma stopped and glanced over her shoulder, back at the ruins of Arrick. The brisk September breeze rolled off the Irish Sea and bit her cheeks, and she shivered.
As she watched, a figure stood rigid on the wall facing her, legs braced wide, arms folded.
At the same moment, the sun peeked from behind an ominous gray cloud and a bath of gold washed over the stone, across the grounds, and finally, right into Emma’s eyes. She blinked, and squinted.
The figure on the wall was gone.
“Come, love,” said Willoughby, giving her yet another tug. “Let me show you round the house.”
After a few seconds more of blinking and squinting at the space that now stood empty, Emma shrugged and stepped into her home for the next month.
Briefly she wondered whether there might be a castle curator taking care of Arrick’s grounds …
Chapter 2
The moment Emma stepped into the foyer of the manor, two things assaulted her. The first was the rich, decadent aromas of cinnamon, vanilla, and caramel. It literally made her stomach growl, and she’d soon start chewing on her own arm if she didn’t get to those darn cakes soon. Good Lord, they smelled heavenly.
And then, the second thing: she felt as though eyes were on her, or as if someone watched her from the shadows. It wasn’t the sort of feeling one would experience when in a creepy haunted house. Not threatening at all. Just that feeling you get when you have to keep looking over your shoulder, or the hairs rise on your neck and arms. Quickly, her gaze raked every nook and cranny in the foyer and main room. The ceilings were fourteen feet high; beautifully painted tiles lined the baseboards; thick burgundy drapes hung from ceiling to floor at each window; and the lush, deep mahogany of the wooden staircase rail shone in the lamplight. She saw nothing, yet the feeling someone watched her remained.
Weird.
Or, not so weird. The manor was more than two hundred and fifty years old. She was used to old, and haunted, for that matter. Savannah was renowned for its spooks and specters.
Not that she believed in any of it.
“Emma, dear,” said Willoughby.
Emma jumped. Willoughby giggled.
“Och, love, there’s no need to be edgy in this place. No evil spirits, I personally guarantee it.” She smiled and winked. “Cast them out years ago.” She inclined her red head toward the staircase. “Now follow me to your chamber. You’ve the entire third floor to yourself. My sisters and I occupy the second floor, so we’re just below if you need us.” She winked. “You’re our only guest, you see.”
Emma returned the smile. She probably looked and sounded like an idiot. If four old ladies could live in this place, then it had to be completely safe. She followed Willoughby up three flights of steps, then down a long corridor lit with low-light Victorian wall sconces. Here and there along the corridor, straight-backed wooden chairs, each with a plush burgundy cushion, sat against the wall. Finally, Willoughby stopped at a door that was partially open.
“Here we are, then,” Willoughby said, and pushed the door all the way until it bumped the wall behind it. She walked in, and Emma followed. Willoughby waved a hand about the room. “Make yourself at home, dear. Your bureau is there, en-suite toilet there, and a tea service by your bedside. Oh, and the fireplace is at your disposal. No telly, I fear.” She folded her hands and rested them against her belly. “Right. When you’ve finished unpacking, you can find us in the kitchen.” She winked. “You’d best hurry, love. Agatha can eat her weight in cinnamon cakes.”
With that, she swooshed out of the chamber and closed the door.
Emma stood in the center of the room. Suitcase in hand. Camera bag on shoulder.
Wow. I’m finally here.
Now what?
Her eyes clapped on to the floor-to-ceiling drapes at the far end of the immense room. She set her stuff down and crossed over. Grasping the thick material, she pulled the cloth aside. Emma’s heart fluttered and she grinned as she looked out.
She had a perfectly unobstructed view of Arrick-by-the-Sea.
As fast as she could, Emma put her belongings away, washed her face, brushed her teeth, changed into a big, thick, cream-colored fisherman’s sweater, combed her hair and twisted it into a knot, fastening it with a clip. She’d toss down a few cakes, slosh down some tea, and then head straight over to the ruins for a closer look. Good Lord, she had hours before it grew dark. Lots of photo-taking and exploring time.
She had no idea what she’d find amidst the ancient stone and ivy, but for some reason, she absolutely couldn’t wait to find out. Quickly, she dug in her camera bag, pulled out her smaller digital, and headed out the door.
Christian leaned against the north wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and kept his eyes trained on the manor. He continued to scowl.
It made him feel somewhat better.
“Och, boy, don’t be so bloody stodgy. You could have just as easily sneaked into the sisters’ manor and had yourself a wee peek at the lass.” Godfrey chuckled. “She never even knew we were there.”
“Aye,” said Justin Catesby, who’d joined them. “She knew all right. Kept lookin’ o’er her shoulder, this way and that,” he said, showing just how she’d done it. “A wily one, that wee maid.” He punched Christian’s arm. “Wise choice, to remain here whilst we crept about lookin’ at her.” He shook his head and whistled. “Damn me, but she’s fetchin’.”
The grand thing about being a spirit, to Christian’s notion, was that although he couldn’t put his hands on the living, he could indeed put them on another ghost.
He grabbed Justin’s throat and squeezed. “Careful, boy. I’m in no mood for your jesting.”
Justin Catesby, a good seven or eight years his junior and almost nose to nose with Christian, met his scowl, then burst out laughing. The idiot laughed so hard, tears trickled from his ghostly eyes. Christian looked away and let his friend go.
“Damn, Chris,” said Justin. “Lighten your mood, man. You’ve cause to rejoice, not be angered.” He walked up and draped an arm over Christian’s shoulder. “Your woman is here again, laddie. You’ve no’ seen her in how long? Seventy-two years?”
“Aye, seventy-two years,” echoed Godfrey. “A bloody long time, indeed.”
Christian continued to glare. “So … is she well?”
Justin Catesby grinned. “You mean, what does she look like this time?”
Christian growled.
Catesby rubbed his chin. “Verra well, since you’ve no spine to sneak over and see her yourself, nor the patience to await her arrival at your gatehouse.” When he didn’t get a reaction, he continued. “I’ve not seen her like this before,” he said. “I mean, she’s always lovely, but this?” H
e shook his head and looked directly at Christian. “My God, Chris, she’s breathtaking.”
“Aye, verra much the looker,” added Godfrey. “Hair the color of allspice, cut to about just here,” he made a sawing motion at his shoulder.
“Nay, more like cinnamon,” Justin corrected. “Dunna you think so?”
Godfrey glanced at him. “Hmm. You may be right.”
Christian rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.
Justin stood close. “Skin like porcelain, creamy smooth without the first blemish. And the verra bluest of eyes.”
Christian removed his knuckles from his eye sockets and glanced at his friend. He studied Justin’s weathered, ghostly features. “Methinks you took too long of a look.”
Justin Catesby and Godfrey of Battersby both burst into laughter.
“Well, laddie,” said Godfrey, after catching his breath, “you now have your opportunity to view the lass yourself.” He inclined his head. “Here she comes.”
Christian’s stomach plummeted. He suddenly thought how much wiser it would have been to pay Gawan Conwyk of Castle Grimm a visit, instead of staying here and torturing himself. As though it had a mind of its own, his head turned in the direction of the manor; he swallowed hard and watched the small figure pick her way up the graveled path toward Arrick. He ran a hand through his hair. He scrubbed his jaw. He shuffled his feet. He sighed several times. Raggedly.
He cursed.
“I can honestly say that I never grow weary of watching you squirm when you see your Emma for the first time.” Justin shook his head. “ ’Tis vastly amusing. More so this time, for some reason.”
“Apparently, since you make a special trip from Sealladh na Mara to Arrick just to watch,” muttered Christian. “Go home.”
Justin chuckled. “I’d rather die. Again.”
Christian then decided to ignore both of his daft friends and instead concentrate on making sure his stupid half-witted self remained invisible while Emma made her way up the path. Mayhap just the smallest of looks would suffice. Then he’d leave Arrick.
It took what seemed like forever, the arrival of Emma off that narrow castle path. He paced, he swore a bit more, and as his patience had all but leaked out, he began to walk toward her. His stomach twisted into knots as she grew closer. His Emma. Here, again. Closer still …