One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

She was alive. Didn’t she realize how amazing that was? Though perhaps she’d had time to get used to the idea.

He laughed at the thought, half hoping she might wake up and keep him company. But Cynthia slept on, clearly exhausted. When she woke, perhaps the dark circles under her eyes would have faded.

He pushed off the wall and turned back to his cold, dark chamber. Though he’d found a moth-eaten blanket in a chest, he didn’t bother lying down. All his attempts at sleep so far had failed, and dawn was less than an hour off.

Each time he’d closed his eyes the fear that Cynthia would disappear again would rise like a starving beast in his mind. Either she would sneak off while he slept, or her presence would reveal itself to be a bittersweet dream when he woke in the morning. He’d found himself rising every ten minutes to ease open the door and stare at her shadowed form. He’d long since given up and left the door propped open as he paced the hours away.

She wasn’t dead, he hadn’t caused her death, and he would not have to kill Richmond to avenge her.

“Then again,” he muttered to the floor. There was no reason to be rash. Richmond still deserved death.

But thoughts of murder could not keep hold of his mind. He was too filled with joy. Somehow everything, even the thought of returning to London for his marriage, seemed easier to bear knowing that Cynthia Merrithorpe hadn’t thrown herself from a cliff and broken her body on the rocks below. His life might be a tattered mess, but he hadn’t contributed to the destruction of this young woman.

Nearly shaking with energy, Lancaster stalked to the ancient shutters that covered the window. He had a vague idea that he might throw them open with a dramatic flair, but the damned things were swollen shut. It took him a good minute of prying and tugging to get them open, but when he did he was rewarded with the sight of a long line of deep pink rising above the horizon. Dawn, or near enough. Mrs. Pell was likely up by now.

He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt long before, so he only had to tiptoe into his bedroom to retrieve his boots before slipping out the door. Cynthia slept on.

Before reaching the kitchen he heard female voices, one of them raised in anger.

“If you leave now, you’ll never have a job in his lordship’s home again.” Mrs. Pell’s voice quivered with outrage.

“But I don’t plan to work here again,” a girl replied, nervousness clear in the shaky words. Lancaster snuck his head around the corner.

The two new maids cowered near the door. “It’s haunted! We heard ghosts running through the walls!” Mary cried, and Lancaster jerked back with

a smile. Perfect.

“Come now,” Mrs. Pell scoffed. “’Twas only a mouse.”

He dragged a reckless hand through his hair to muss it, then took a deep breath and lurched around the corner. “Damn big mouse if you ask me.” All three women gasped and stepped back before dropping hasty curtsies. “I heard it too,” he continued. “Banging and rustling. Even a scream, I daresay.”

“Yes!” Lizzie cried. “Screams and horrible moaning.”

Moaning? Oh, my. Well, perhaps he’d moaned a bit after she’d bashed him in the head. He raised a hand to touch a careful finger to the lump at the edge of his eyebrow.

“Now, milord, I’m sure you’re just not used to the sounds of this old place settling at night—”

“I was attacked.” He touched the aching spot with a bit more flair. “Pounced upon in my bed while I slept.”

The two maids let out little screams and scrambled for the door, but Mrs. Pell’s face paled to a sickly white that even the frightened maids couldn’t match.

“Attacked?” she croaked.

The door banged against the wall and the maids were gone, vanished into the dim morning.

“You won’t be paid!” she called after them, though the words fell weakly from her mouth.

Lancaster pushed a chair toward her and Mrs. Pell sat down hard.

“I do believe those girls have a fear of restless spirits,” he said, his mood inching up to even greater heights. If there were no maids about, Cynthia would be free to live openly in his home. “I say, Mrs. Pell, is there tea this morning? I’m parched.”

“Yes, sir.” She stared at the open door for a long moment before she blinked back to her wits. “Oh, pardon me, milord!” She jumped to her feet so quickly that her skirts flared around her. Her eyes darted to the wound on his head. “I’m so sorry. The water’s ready. I’ll have breakfast for you in a moment, if you’d like to relax in the library. You’re an early riser today, sir.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Aye…Well.”

“And I’ll take breakfast in my chambers, if you please—”