by Cindy Miles
“I mean,” she said, inspecting each corner, “who would have ever thought this was possible? Who really believes in ghosts?” She shook her head and bent to retrieve something off the floor. She looked at it, tossed it a few times, then closed her fingers over it, and continued her pacing. “People get feelings that others exist on another plane. They don’t really sit down and have a chat—oh!” In the next instant, she stumbled and fell hard to the floor. Quickly, she pushed to her backside and sat. Something dropped from her hand and clattered against the stone.
Christian was up and by her side. He squatted down, peering closely. She held one hand with the other, eyes wide. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
Emma glanced down, at her clasped hands, and Christian did the same.
She looked up, her face pale. “Oops.”
Bending over to get a better look, Christian noticed the steady stream of red oozing from her hand. Blood. He looked at the object that she’d dropped. It appeared to be a shard of glass. Probably dropped by a tourist. He frowned. “Dammit, Emma. Why would you pick that up? ’Tis sharp as a blade.”
“I … wasn’t thinking. It’s not that bad, really.”
He shook his head. “Let’s get you back to the manor.” He looked at her white face. “Can you make it without falling?”
“Yes.” Slowly, she stood up.
Blood drops splattered against the stone floor, and Christian’s mind scrambled. “Take your jumper off and wrap it about your hand first. To staunch the blood.”
Emma nodded, lifted her arms above her head, and pulled off her jumper, leaving a thinner white shirt beneath it. He saw a flash of her stomach and looked hastily away.
He thought it exceedingly rude to gawk whilst one was bleeding.
“Good. Now wrap it about your hand,” he ordered. When she did, he nodded. “Let’s go, and be careful going down the steps. God knows I can’t catch you if you fall.”
“I know,” she said, her voice not exactly weak, but not strong, either.
“Willoughby can help,” he assured her.
She didn’t answer. She was busy making her way down the steps.
Blessedly, they made it down without her falling. “Does seeing blood make you weak?” he asked.
“Not really,” Emma said a bit faintly. “But I’m a bit opposed to losing too much of it.”
It was then Christian glanced down at the jumper. It was black, so difficult to see the color change. It was not difficult, however, to see they were leaving a trail of blood splatters all the way from the keep.
“Oh God, that looks like a lot.”
Christ. “ ’Twill be fine, Emma. Just hurry, aye? And don’t look down.” He didn’t want to leave her side, else he’d hurry ahead and tell the sisters.
“Okay, aye,” she answered.
They did hurry, with Christian gaining ground, stopping and waiting for Emma, then starting back again at a fast pace. He couldn’t help it. He wanted the damn thing sewed up so she’d stop bleeding everywhere. Why on earth would she pick up a bloody piece of glass in the first place? He’d shout at her later for that. Right now, he wanted her in the manor where Willoughby could stitch her hand.
No sooner had they gained the front entrance than Emma swayed a bit. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said. She leaned her head against the wall.
“Steady, lass,” Christian said, then disappeared through the wall. He went straight to the kitchen, where he knew he’d find at least one Ballaster. He did, and thank the saints, ’twas Willoughby. “She’s bleeding,” he said. “The front door.”
Christian didn’t wait for Willoughby. He knew she’d be right along. He materialized back through the front door to stand beside Emma. She still held her hand tightly, a small puddle of blood building beneath her on the stone walk.
She looked at him, her eyes bleak. “I’m mortified.”
Ducking his head so his face was close to hers, he locked on to her gaze. “Be mortified later, Emma. For now, just concentrate on staying upright.”
“Okay. I’m all right. Really.”
Just then, the door flew open and Willoughby, flanked by Maven, Agatha, and Millicent, bustled out and grasped Emma by the elbows. They led her into the kitchen. Christian followed.
First, they took Emma to the sink. Willoughby unwrapped the hand and gave Maven the blood-soaked jumper. She hustled out of the room with it.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said weakly. “Honestly, I don’t expect you to help me—”
“Nonsense, child,” said Willoughby. “Just you be still there. Millicent, hold on to her.”
“Is Christian still here?” Emma asked.
“Aye,” he answered, and moved to stand behind her. “I’m here.”
“Good.”
The word came out with such relief, Christian had to step back. He wanted nothing more than to push his way next to Emma and take care of her wound himself.
Something that would never happen …
“Okay, girls, let’s move her to the table for the stitching. Move, Christian, love.”
“Stitching?” asked Emma as the sisters sat her down.
Christian sat across the table from her.
“Pah, not to worry, dear,” said Maven. “Willoughby here was a fine nurse in her day. She’ll have you stitched in a jiff.”
Christian thought Emma turned an alarming shade of green at the prospect.
Agatha mopped Emma’s forehead with a wet cloth while Willoughby rested her hand atop a clean towel. Slowly, she opened Emma’s hand, exposing the wound. ’Twas an inch or so long, straight between the thumb and forefinger. It still oozed blood.
“Oh,” said Emma, and she swayed in the chair. “Shouldn’t I go to the emergency room for that?”
“Look at me,” said Christian. When she didn’t right away, he said it again. “Emma. Look at me.”
She did. “Yes?”
“Willoughby here can stitch just as fine as any doctor at the infirmary, if not better. Let her do her work. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? Mayhap I won’t be so inclined to boot you out if I find you interesting enough.”
Willoughby nodded her approval at his distraction tactics, and started the task of stitching Emma’s hand.
“Just a sting, love,” Willoughby said.
Emma flinched, but didn’t pass out, either. ’Twas a good thing, indeed.
“Look at me,” he repeated. When she did, he nodded. “Good. Keep your eyes on mine, aye?”
A slight smile touched her lips. “Aye.”
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
“The south. On the coast, like here.”
Christian gave her a nod. “Very good. And what do you do to make your coin?”
She took a quick peek at her hand.
“Ah-ah,” he warned.
She looked back at him with a sheepish grin. “I take pictures. I … have a studio.”
He nodded. “What sort of pictures?”
She cocked her head. “How do you know what pictures are?”
With a grin, Christian shrugged. “I’ve been around, lass. Now, what sort of pictures?”
With a slight laugh, she, too, shrugged. “I’m a wedding photographer.”
“Oh, that’s lovely, dear,” said Millicent, listening. “How romantic!”
“Millie, scissors!” said Willoughby.
Emma’s eyes grew wide. “Scissors?”
Christian pointed his finger at first her eyes, then his own. “Gaze right here, Emma.”
She did.
Christian fought to stay upright.
Then, suddenly, her eyes widened again, except this time, they were fixed behind Christian. He turned to see Justin and Godfrey, looking on with interest.
“There are more of you?” she asked incredulously.
Godfrey had the good grace to blush, just before he gave a low bow. “Good eve’n, lass. Godfrey of Battersby. This young rogue is Justin Catesby.”
Jus
tin simply grinned. “Lass,” he said with a slight nod.
“Oh boy,” she said. She fixed her gaze back on Christian. “If you think I’m leaving anytime soon, you’re crazy.”
Justin Catesby burst out laughing.
“There! Good as new!” exclaimed Willoughby. “You’re a wonderful patient, dear. You didn’t squirm even once!”
Maven plopped a glass full of liquid in front of Emma. “Here, love, drink up. ’Twill make you feel much better.”
“Let me see,” said Christian. Emma held her hand out to him, and he leaned over it, inspecting the bandages Willoughby had placed. He nodded. “Well done, lass. Now drink your potion.”
Willoughby looked at him over Emma’s head and lifted an amused brow.
Emma sipped at the drink, then drained the glass. She looked at Willoughby and smiled. “Thank you so much.” She flexed her hand gently. “I’ve never had stitches before. This wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”
Willoughby smiled. “You will be feeling good as new verra soon, I promise. Now, why don’t you lie down for a bit? Supper won’t be ready for a few hours.”
Emma nodded. “That’ll be great. Thanks.” She glanced at Justin and Godfrey, then back to Christian. “Will you stay with me?”
Christian blinked. “Stay with you?” Christ, he had a hard enough time sitting across the table from her and trying not to look pained.
She again nodded. “I never got to finish my interrogation.” She smiled.
Little did she know, he’d do just about anything to coax that smile from her lips.
He cleared his throat. “If you wish.”
She beamed. “I wish.”
He looked at her wistfully. As do I …
Chapter 10
“You rest now, sweetling. If you need anything, young Christian can let us know.” Willoughby smiled and closed the door.
Leaving her alone with Christian.
Emma wondered briefly what he thought about that. She peered at him, sitting against the far wall in a straight-backed chair. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a hazy glow over the room, making Christian look even more surreal than usual. Like earlier in the keep, his legs were sprawled, forearms resting against his thighs, hands dangling between his legs.
Swords poked up above his shoulders.
She sighed, coming out of the duvet Willoughby had so neatly tucked her into. “I feel ridiculous, being put to bed.” She looked at her bandaged hand. “It’s just a little cut.”
Christian looked at her and frowned. “That little cut bled all over my solar, and then my courtyard. You left a trail from the castle to the manor. You can stay put for now.”
Emma considered that. “I am sorry for bleeding all over your castle.” She glanced down at her hand.
“Does it hurt much?”
Emma shook her head. “Just when I flex it.”
“Don’t flex it.”
She grinned at him. “Very funny.” Then, she studied him. “I feel as though when I leave here, I’ll look back on this like a big, weird dream.” She shook her head. “It hardly seems real. You hardly seem real.”
Christian raised his head, his hair falling boyishly over his eyes. “I can assure you, I’m real.”
She nodded. “Can I ask you some questions now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
“Okay.” She sat up, adjusted the pillow behind her, and sat, watching him.The harsh beauty of his face nearly made her nervous. But something about him made her feel at ease instead. “When were you born?”
“In 1110.”
Emma gaped. “You’re kidding me?”
Christian simply stared at her.
“How old were you when you died?” she asked.
He seemed to think about it. “Thirty-five.”
Emma nodded. “Do you remember? Dying, I mean?”
Silence stretched for seconds. “Aye.”
As much as Emma wanted to know how, she didn’t push. For some reason, she felt as though it still pained him. She wondered what it’d been like. Maybe she’d find out later. She cleared her throat. “Wow. And you’ve been at Arrick ever since?”
His eyes never left hers. Even across the expanse of the room, she could see that. Bright blue and brilliant, they nearly glowed behind that fall of hair. “Nay. I can move about.”
“Oh. I hadn’t considered that.” She picked at a piece of lint on the duvet with her good hand. “I suppose, since you’ve two ghostly friends out there,” she inclined toward the door with her head, referring to Justin and Godfrey, “that there are more out there. Like you.”
“More than you might imagine.”
Wow. If he would just keep talking, she’d be the most content, happiest person alive. His voice, tinged with a Medieval Welsh accent, and something else unidentifiable, came out buttery smooth and deep. Unfortunately, every answer he had was short and sweet. Man of few words, she supposed.
Suddenly, her eyelids grew heavy. Emma fought to keep them open. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, too. “So Cwistian. Do you have a … girlfriend?” Boy, that’d been hard to get out. She knew she’d said it wrong, but couldn’t correct it. Maybe she should rest after all.
She thought she heard a chuckle, but couldn’t be sure.
In the next instant, he was standing over her. Blue eyes studied her, and she froze. She struggled to keep her eyes focused on his chiseled jaw, but they kept slipping over to check out the full lips. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man with such sensual lips. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss them …
Now the room turned hazy, and she couldn’t see Christian’s outline clearly. She thought she saw him smile.
“Are you leaving?” she heard herself ask, even as her eyes were closing.
“Do you want me to?”
Emma scooted down into the duvet and gave in to sleep. She vaguely felt the sting in her cut hand. “Stay,” she managed in a whisper. “Stay.”
Christian swallowed hard. He knew his heart had beaten its last beat centuries before, but it slammed into his ribs now, so much so he could clearly feel the pounding. Christ, he could barely take it.
He was in love with Emma already, whilst she didn’t even know him. He’d been in love with her all this time, and could still feel her lips tentatively pressing against his.
It pained him now not to lean down and try it himself.
All she saw was an anomaly, some strange new thing she never thought existed. Ghost. He’d never hated the word more than right now.
“Stop glaring at me,” she mumbled in her sleep.
That almost brought a smile to his face. There was indeed something different about Emma this time. He couldn’t put a finger on the change, but ’twas there all the same. Mayhap she was bolder, or more outspoken. Still sweet, he could tell that much, but in all the other times he’d encountered Emma’s soul before, not one of them would have considered dangling off the parapet steps the way this Emma had done.
Something about that characteristic intrigued him.
Moving closer, he bent over at the waist and watched her face in slumber. Before he’d left for the Crusades, he’d memorized every single line, every single mark, the curve of her lips, the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the line of her jaw. Everything.
Even now, in between the years when he didn’t encounter Emma’s soul, he banked those mental images to memory and thought about them often.
“Christian?” she mumbled.
He blinked. Was she truly asleep? “Aye,” he whispered back.
“I think you have the most luscious lips I’ve ever seen,” she said.
Something lodged in his throat. Something large. Something he couldn’t swallow past. His heart pounded.
“Did you hear me?” she said.
“Err, aye,” he answered. Christ, he felt like an idiot. He knew she talked nonsense in her sleep, but … he hoped she didn’t stop anytime soon.
“If you weren’t dead,
would you like me?”
Christ. Mayhap he should leave …
“Would you?”
“Aye, Emma,” he said quietly. “Indeed I would.”
She seemed to have settled down. Christian moved to return to his chair.
“I mean, like me, like me.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Good,” she said, then promptly began to snore.
Christian blinked. He wondered if she’d recall any of it when she awoke.
He wasn’t positive he wanted her to.
Settling back into the chair—or at least going through the motions of it, since he wasn’t actually sitting in a chair, he waited, and watched Emma sleep.
Subconsciously he’d already started counting the days he had left with her.
“Whist!” hissed Willoughby. “Honestly, the older you two get, the louder you get. Keep it down! If either one figures out what we’re up to, all will be lost! You are fully aware that part of the success of this spell is keeping both parties from knowing what’s being orchestrated. Now shush!” She leaned over the Ballaster transcript of The White Witches’ Guidebook and Regulations. Running her finger down the page, she found what she was looking for. “See? There it is. I knew it!” she said in a very low voice.
The other three Ballasters gathered round. Agatha leaned over, peering at the spot Willoughby’s finger pointed to. “What is it, Sister?”
Willoughby smiled smugly. “By obtaining a drop of Emma’s blood, we’re able to bypass steps three and four of the spell-that-must-not-be-spoken-aloud.” She propped her hands upon her hips. “See? We’re further along now!”
Millicent shook her head. “I’m uncomfortable with this whole thing, anyway,” she said. “What we have to do to her in order to make the bloody spell work—”
“Zerp! Shh!” cried Willoughby, Maven, and Agatha in unison.
Willoughby patted her sister’s shoulder. “Steady, Sister. You know the actual tasks of the spell must not be spoken, either. Refer to them as steps. Now, we can only hope for the verra best, and we all knew that going into this. ’Tis what’s best for them both in the end.”