Page 50 of Calling All Angels
Emma was childless. Unmarried. Alone. Were her chances for a future to be ripped away by feckless destiny just as Violet’s had been? Was that to happen to her time after time? What part had he played in her unhappiness? Could releasing her from his own bitterness be the key to freeing her? And himself?
He watched her tip her face up to the sun and close her eyes. This was her world, not his anymore. She wasn’t ready to leave it. At thirty-three, she had a long life ahead of her. He’d begun this journey with her, anxious to be done with it, for her to accept her fate and move on. But the longer he was with her, the more he wanted to slow things down. To drag his feet. Stop the inevitable.
The sun poured down on his shoulders. He stared out at the boat Sam Wynter was sailing, wind filling its canvases, pushing it across the lake. He’d watched the love grow for him and Elspeth, watched it change them, redirect their destinies. Forgiveness could heal, of that he had no doubt. But love was a balm to the soul.
He was worthy of neither and felt hardly fit to be a guardian. Yet when he looked at Emma, sitting in the sun beside Elspeth, smiling at something she said, stroking Anika’s small head, the urge to wrap his arms around her and pull her against him came swift and strong. As if some band that had been strung tightly around him for so long had come undone. He filled his lungs with the sweet lakeside air, bracing himself. Admitting he’d been wrong was never easy for him. But admitting this…this thing that had held him for so long…
He ran a hand through his hair, lying back against the sun-warmed dock, contemplating how he would navigate those waters.
“Was it bad?” Emma asked, a few minutes later, from somewhere behind him. He jerked upright and shielded his eyes from the sun. She stood over him with a halo of light surrounding her silhouette.
“Aye, it was,” he admitted. Elspeth had taken the babe back in the house, and they were alone.
She sat down beside him, dangling her legs over the side of the dock. “I’m…sorry. So, I was wrong, then. About Violet.”
“No. Ye were right. I was the one who was wrong.”
She said nothing, waiting for his explanation.
“’Twas my fault she ended up with that bastard, Sykes. I could’a saved her that life, but I chose my own anger instead. Chose to duel wi’ him. Played right into his hand. If I’d had a square go at him, everything would’ve been different. But her diary was written to me, ye see. As if she knew someday I’d find it and understand how I’d wronged her.”
“Did she say that? That you’d wronged her?”
“No,” he admitted. “Didna mean it wasna true.”
She smiled at him, brushing his fingers with her own. “I’d point out here that to err is human. But apparently that old platitude is not limited to mortals, since you’re still imagining you’re actually in control of everything. On the other hand—and I can’t believe I’m saying this to an angel—it’s possible you’ve misconceived her intentions.”
He scowled at the water, lapping against the wooden dock. “Meaning?”
“Meaning maybe it was her love for you, her abiding love, she wanted you to understand with that diary. Not her blame.”
“You’re only guessin’.” He hated the hopeful note that word struck.
“Maybe, but I feel it here.” She fisted a hand against her heart. “I am her, remember? Or so you keep saying. Elspeth reminded me that soul memory is a thing. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s how I know that she loved you and has already forgiven you. Long ago. Far be it for me to advise you, Connor, but I think it’s yourself that you need to forgive. Maybe that’s the whole point of this. But what do I know? I’m only human.”
He threaded his fingers through hers, that touch affecting him as it always did, sending a current of hunger through him. A jolt of need. She clasped his hand in hers.
“’Tis my stubborn pride kept me from seeing the truth about her,” he said, his thumb rubbing across the back of her hand. “Me that’s held ye back, put this weight on yer soul, though ye didn’t know ’twas me.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not true.”
“It is. Marguerite told me. ’Tis a wound that needed binding, or we—you and I—would keep circlin’ one another like this, dancin’ this dance, until…forever. I never told ye, but we met again once before. During the Great War, it was. You—not Emma, not Violet—were a young nurse named Catherine Belmont, during the Battle of Verdun, in France. I was there for someone else, but I recognized ye then, too. Though ye didn’t look like this. But before anything could happen between us, ye died in a shelling. Ye passed young and alone. Again.” He felt the shiver of recognition move through her as she tightened her fingers around his.
She stared at him for a long moment. “Whatever you and I have, Connor, however our bond links us, you have to know—my life now is my own. I don’t blame anyone else for my choices. Certainly not you or some long ago betrayal. Any road I’ve taken in this life has been of my own choosing.”
“But still,” he said. “Yer alone. No bairns. No husband.”
She sighed, staring down at the minnows schooling beneath her toes. “This is the twenty-first century, Conner. I am, after all, an independent woman.”
“A woman like you isn’a meant to be alone, Emma.”
She forced a smile. “Well, you see? Just my luck that the one man who’s been in a love/hate relationship with me for centuries, my soul mate, isn’t even human. What chance does a girl have?” She dared to look up at him then, and despite her answer, her eyes brimmed with emotion.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lifting the back of her hand to his lips, kissing her there. “I’m verra sorry, lass.”
“No,” she said, cupping his jaw with her palm. “You need to put that behind you now, Connor. There’s no blame here. Just resolution.”
“Then I’m resolved,” he whispered, “to imagine what could’a been. For the rest of my days.”
