One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“I most certainly can.” He rushed up the steps and tugged open the door to wave her through. Once they were safely inside, he slammed the big wooden door and kept moving, brushing past her to head toward the kitchen. “We’ll discuss this after a dram of whisky. My b—, er, my guts are still frozen.”

She wanted to push him and scream and argue, but instead she bit her tongue. She could wait till he’d had a glass of whisky. Hell, she could use one herself.

So Cynthia pushed back the hood of her cloak and rushed after Nick. And almost immediately came to a rocking halt beside him in the door of the kitchen.

“Oh, no,” she whispered at the sight of Mrs. Pell. Standing next to Adam.

He was backing out the narrow door, the housekeeper’s hand on his chest providing the momentum. Mrs. Pell’s knuckles turned white with the pressure, but Adam had ceased to move.

His eyes locked on Cynthia. His mouth opened in an “O” of shock, transforming him from a young man of twelve to the five-year-old he’d once been. “Miss Merrithorpe?” he squeaked.

They all stood there, silent. A frozen quartet of pale, stunned faces. The fire crackled. The wind blew the door open another inch. And still they didn’t move.

Cynthia decided there was only one thing to do. “Ooo,” she moaned, undulating her voice in a spooky vibration. She tugged the hood up and moaned again. “Oooooo!”

Though she elbowed Nick, he only gawked at her and edged away. Following him, she wailed in his direction and nudged him again, raising her eyebrows meaningfully toward Adam. Nick frowned and shook his head. She jerked her chin in Adam’s direction and glared at Nick until he finally rolled his eyes and dropped his crossed arms.

“Oh, Lord help us!” he cried out with half-hearted enthusiasm. “It’s the ghost of Cynthia Merrithorpe!”

“Wooo-o-o,” she answered, waving her arms in a slow swimming motion, expanding the cloak around her.

“Her spirit has followed me from the sea!” Nick flung one arm over his forehead and stumbled back.

Cynthia glanced toward Adam to find him still frozen in the same spot, though his brow had fallen from shock to confusion.

“Leave now,” she howled. “Or I’ll drag you to my watery grave!”

Adam shook his head. “Miss Merrithorpe, is it really you?”

“Yes, ’tis I! The ghost of Cynthia Merrithooorpe.”

The boy frowned and cocked his head.

Nick dropped his arms. “Oh, for God’s sake, Cyn. Stop making a fool of yourself. He can see you’re not dead.”

Disgusted, she planted her fists on her hips and spun toward Nick. “Damn you, I almost had him convinced.”

“You’re delusional,” he snorted.

“You weren’t even trying!”

“You’re alive!” a broken voice squeaked, and they both turned to face Adam and his amazed smile.

She crossed the room to put her hands on his shoulders. “Adam, you can’t tell a soul.” Whatever else she’d been about to say was cut off by the sudden vise of his arms squeezing her ribs. Skinny he might be, but his arms were already strengthened from years of hard work. She hugged him back briefly before trying to extricate herself.

“Don’t break her back, boy,” Nick called. “She’s only just risen from an untimely death.”

He finally let her go, then stood beaming up at her. “You look right good.”

“Thank you. But you can’t tell anyone, understand?”

“Sure I do!” he answered, then began to chatter at a nearly impossible speed. Cynthia heard the word “ghost” and “spirit” several times, along with the names Tommy and Simon and something about old Mr. Doddy.

She met Nick’s eyes and watched them cloud with worry. Finally, Nick smiled and walked over to clap a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Well, Adam, we could use more help around here. We had to let the maids go for obvious reasons. Do you think your mam would allow you to move in here with us for a week or two? Now that you know our secret, I’m sure Mrs. Pell could make room somewhere.”

Adam brightened even more. “There’s a second room over the stables!”