Free Thirteen Chances by Cindy Miles Page A

color, had been cut, no,
shorn
short in the back, and she already knew it was a bit longer in the front. As she studied him, she noticed a tattoo on the back of his neck—a symbol of some kind. And through the straps of his leather forearm protector thing, she noticed another symbol—larger and more prominent, a band, maybe—she really couldn’t tell what it was beneath all that leather.
    The warrior then exhaled and slowly turned.
    Emma stood frozen still as their eyes locked. Never had she been weighed and measured so … thoroughly. He had to be all of six feet and three, maybe four inches, and it was a little bit perplexing to have something that large irate at her. His brows slashed down angrily, and those blue eyes blazed furiously through that tangled mahogany hair. The mouth that had such lush lips pulled into a tight, angry frown. The muscle at the hinge of his jaw flinched, and the thick tendons on either side of his neck tightened. Yet his eyes never lifted from hers. She fought not to squirm.
    She sincerely hoped he wouldn’t explode.
    God, he looked so real …
    “Do you have another name besides Arrick?” she asked. Her voice didn’t sound quite as confident as it had when she was dangling.
    A flash of … something crossed his face. Sorrow? Pain, maybe? It had happened so fast, Emma couldn’t tell. The mean face was back now, though.
    “Christian,” he ground out.
    She nodded, noticing how his r’s rolled. She liked it. Funny name, though, for someone with such violence pent up inside. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you so mad at me?”
    “Because,” he said, nearly in a growl, “you’ve no fear.”
    Emma’s eyes left his long enough to glance at the sword hilts poking up over each of his shoulders. She drew her gaze back. “Sort of hard to be scared of something that can’t actually hurt you.”
    Christian’s brows drew even closer together, and he took a step toward Emma. He lowered his head and stared profoundly into her eyes. She fought the urge not to retreat.
    “You believe I cannot hurt you, aye?” he said, his voice dangerously low and smooth. He pulled closer still, his lips curved into a cynical smile. He glared a bit longer, eyes flashing. “Don’t be so sure.”
    And with that, he disappeared. Just … evaporated, like smoke clearing.
    It was only then that Emma drew in a decent breath. She blinked, staring into the space Christian had occupied seconds before. No trace of him remained now.
    Wow.
    It took a moment, really, to gain her composure. That, and the ability to walk on legs not made of rubber. It was as though he’d sapped the strength right out of her body, just by giving her the Stink Eye.
    Emma turned, and walked across the courtyard to the bench where she’d left her camera equipment. Slowly, she shrugged the bag over her shoulder. Then she looked—really looked—at the ruins in which she stood. She turned in a circle, staring at the walls, the buildings, the tall, imposing keep, the dark, yawning mouth of the menacing gatehouse. A fierce sea breeze washed over the wall and blew against Emma, tousling her braid and making her draw in a deep breath. Brine. Clover. Clean.
    Familiar …
    No, not familiar. That would be impossible. It probably felt familiar because she, too, lived close to the ocean. The pungent bite of the sea was a scent one rarely forgot. Some thought it to be stinky. She loved it.
    As she continued to inspect Arrick, a thousand thoughts ripped through her mind. Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea had once lived within the castle walls. He’d eaten, drunk, slept—and she could imagine, as she stared at the open apartments, wondering which one might have been his, that he’d had a fight or two, probably something
else,
as well. She glanced around, trying to envision what it may have looked like in his day, complete, no holes, no decay.
    Whenever that was …
    A heavy drop of rain splatted against her cheek, and Emma just then