Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil

by Nancy Atherton

  “Mmm,” I murmured. “You’re warm.”

  “That was the general idea,” said a voice.

  The voice did not seem to be my husband’s.

  “Bill?” I ventured hopefully.

  “No Bill here, I’m afraid,” said the voice. “Will an Adam do?”

  I opened my eyes and found myself staring at a not unattractive but wholly unfamiliar collarbone. When I lifted my gaze, I saw a tousle of black curls framing a pale, heart-shaped face I’d never seen before. The stranger’s eyes, dark as a Gypsy’s, sparkled like wine in the firelight and his lips were close enough to graze my brow.

  “Adam Chase, at your service,” he said, his breath ruffling my hair. “And you would be?”

  “Lori,” I croaked. “Lori Shepherd.”

  “I don’t usually object to women falling into my arms, Lori Shepherd, but you gave me quite a fright.” Adam Chase propped himself up on his elbow, taking care to tuck the blankets in between us. His action underscored the interesting fact that we were both as naked as guppies. Confusion must have suffused my face because he added, “Body heat. It was the only way I could think to thaw you.”

  “Oh,” I said, at a loss. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” said Adam. “Do you think you could manage a bit of broth?”

  My stomach, as if on cue, rumbled. “I was supposed to take high tea at Wyrdhurst,” I murmured dazedly.

  “Were you? What a pity. It’s well past teatime now.” Adam swung his legs over the side of the narrow iron bed and contrived to pull on a pair of black jeans without revealing more than an inch or two of lean, well-muscled haunch. He reached for a black sweatshirt that had been slung over the back of a worn brown leather armchair and held it out to me.

  “Your clothes aren’t dry and I don’t want you to take a chill.” He hesitated. “Can you dress yourself or shall I—”

  “I can manage,” I blurted, then blushed, embarrassed by my overreaction. It wasn’t as if my rescuer would see anything he hadn’t seen already.

  Adam seemed to understand. “Of course,” he said gravely, as I took the sweatshirt from him. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  His parting words were slightly facetious, because there was no kitchen, as such. Once I’d hauled myself into a sitting position and drawn the sweatshirt well past my hips, I saw that the cottage was nothing more than one large room, its sections defined by furnishings rather than walls.

  The kitchen corner featured a wall-mounted cupboard above a stone sink with a single spigot. Beside the sink, a pine countertop held a pair of gas rings, a cutting board, and a clay flowerpot bristling with utensils.

  A modest pine table and a pair of beechwood chairs made up the dining room. Above the pine table hung a brass oil lamp, which Adam lit on his way to the kitchen.

  The area to the right of the front door had been set up as an office, with a five-drawer kneehole desk, a swivel chair, and a pair of heavy-laden bookcases. The desk held a portable typewriter, miscellaneous papers, and a jam jar filled with pens and colored pencils.

  The corner opposite the office must have served as the bedroom. Shirts hung from pegs above a small chest of drawers, and a nightstand stood beside an empty space where the iron bed would have stood if it hadn’t been pushed close to the fireplace, for my benefit. The leather armchair, and the ottoman that went with it, had been thrust from their traditional spots before the hearth to make room for the bed.

  My clothes—all of them—dangled from the edge of the simple plank mantelpiece, anchored there by a row of smooth, fist-sized stones. My suede boots sat at a little distance from the fire, where they would dry without splitting. They’d be stiff by morning, though, thanks to the mud.

  “We’re a bit isolated here.” A match flared and Adam bent low to light the gas rings. He placed a saucepan on one, a teakettle on the other. “I’ve no telephone, and my car is in the village at the moment, undergoing repairs. I’ve a bicycle”—he motioned toward a sturdy mountain bike leaning just inside the front door—“so I could have ridden into town for help, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

  As he stirred the contents of the saucepan, a series of fuzzy images took shape in my mind—gray fog, silver rain, and a muddy brown track swept away by a savage torrent.

  “The only thing left,” Adam was saying, “was to build up the fire and sandwich you between its warmth and mine.” He lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips. “Purely for medicinal purposes, you understand.”

  I felt the cold rain soak my sweater as the Range Rover sank from view, and shuddered violently.

  “My God,” I whispered, shrinking back against the pillows.

  The spoon clattered to the countertop and Adam’s face appeared above mine, his brow furrowed with concern. “Lori? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s gone,” I told him, as the memories flooded back. “My car, my luggage,” I moaned, grief-stricken, “and Reginald.”

  “Dear Lord…” Adam knelt beside me, put a firm hand on my shoulder, and said calmly, “Was someone else in the car with you?”

  “No,” I said. “Reginald’s not a person. He’s a”—I blushed crimson—“a rabbit, a pink flannel rabbit. I know it sounds childish, but I’ve had him ever since I was a baby. He’s…he’s…”

  “An old friend?” Adam suggested.

  “That’s right,” I said gratefully. “I have to find him. And I have to call my husband. He’ll be worried sick about me.” I tried to push the blankets aside, but Adam gently pinned me to the pillows.

  “Lie still,” he ordered. “I’ll get word to your husband as soon as I can. I’d go now, only I don’t fancy my chances, cycling to the village phone box on a dark road in a force-nine gale. I fancy yours even less.”

  A flurry of raindrops pelted the windowpanes and I flinched.

  “Relax,” Adam soothed. “You’re safe. The hut’s been here for more than a hundred years. It’s stood worse storms than this.”

  I looked past him, noted the depth of the windowsills, the thickness of the walls, and was comforted. The hut was as snug as a cave.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  Adam sat back on his heels. “We’re in a fishing hut on the banks of a small stream not an hour’s drive from Newcastle. We’re a half-mile from the village of Blackhope and within shouting distance of Wyrdhurst Hall.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “I’m not. If you’d walked a bit farther, you’d’ve bumped into the gates.” The teakettle’s low whistle climbed to a shriek and Adam stood, announcing, “Dinner will be served in five minutes, Mrs. Shepherd.”

  “It’s Ms. Shepherd,” I corrected. “But I prefer Lori.”

  “Then you must call me Adam.” He drew me into a sitting position, propped the pillows behind me, and returned to prepare the teapot. “Are you a friend of the family?” he asked, over his shoulder.

  “The Hollanders?” My stomach voiced its approval as simmering broth’s savory aroma wafted my way. “I’ve never even met them. Mrs. Hollander’s uncle hired me to do a rough survey of the books in her library.”

  “She’s a Byrd by birth, isn’t she?” Adam asked.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Her uncle’s Dickie Byrd, the industrialist.”

  “Then at least one of the rumors is true.” Adam took a stoneware bowl from the cupboard. “The only one, I’ll wager.”

  “Rumors?” My ears pricked up. “What rumors?”

  Adam shrugged dismissively. “The usual nonsense. You know how country people are about newcomers.”

  As an American living in a small English village, I knew exactly how country people were about newcomers. If the villagers in Blackhope were like my neighbors in Finch, Nicole and Jared Hollander would be subject to all manner of speculation.

  “Are you a local?” I asked.

  “I’m a writer,” Adam replied, not quite answering the question. “I rented the fishing hut to serve as my sanctuary while I’m fi
nishing up my latest book.”

  “No telephone.” I glanced at the portable typewriter. “And you don’t use a computer, so you can’t get E-mail.”

  Adam twirled his spoon in the air. “I’m beyond the reach of editor, agent, and publicist. It’s pure bliss.”

  He strode over to a bookcase and removed an oversized, slender volume. I thought it was one of his works and expected him to show it to me. Instead, he carried it to the pine table, where he covered it with a thin white tea towel.

  “I haven’t a tray,” he explained, arranging dishes on the towel-draped book, “so Ladlighter’s Illustrated History of the Ypres Salient will have to do.”

  “Ypres,” I repeated, trying to wrap my tongue around the awkward syllable. “That’s from the First World War, isn’t it?”

  “Full marks, Lori.” Adam looked impressed. “It’s a town in southwest Belgium. The soldiers called it Wipers, and yes, it played a significant role in the Great European War. A quarter of a million men died there.”

  “Do you write about the, uh, Great European War?” I asked.

  “I write about its repercussions.” He carried the makeshift tray to the bed, and placed it on my lap. “Dinner is served, madam.”

  The bowl of rich brown broth had been augmented by a mug of sweet, milky tea and a thick slice of buttered brown bread. My hands were so trembly that I could barely lift the mug to my lips, and after watching me spill a spoonful of soup down the front of his sweatshirt, Adam took up the task and fed me like a baby. By the time he’d spooned up the last drop, my hands had steadied and I was able to finish the tea on my own.

  I rested against the pillows while Adam rinsed the dishes, extinguished the oil lamp, and donned a heavy, cobalt-blue ribbed sweater. The sweater came as something of a relief to me. Adam Chase wasn’t a big man, but he had an athlete’s build, and the rosy glow of firelight on his sculpted abdominals had been more than a bit distracting.

  After adding a few lumps of coal to the fire, he swung the leather armchair around to face me. “I suggest you get some sleep,” he said, easing himself into the chair.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?” I asked.

  “I can wait until morning, but if you can’t…”

  “The road was washed out,” I interrupted. “One minute I was driving straight up the side of a mountain and the next I was hanging over the edge of…nothing. I jumped out of the car just before it took a swan dive into the fog.” I heaved a remorseful sigh. The canary-yellow Range Rover had been a Christmas gift from Bill, and now I’d gone and dumped it in some godforsaken ravine. Along with Reginald.

  “Do you remember what road you were on?” Adam asked.

  “I’m not sure it was a road,” I replied. “It was unpaved, about two inches wide, and nearly vertical.”

  Adam pursed his lips. “You must’ve turned onto one of the military tracks. It doesn’t happen often. They’re quite good about gating them. Didn’t you see the warning signs?”

  “I couldn’t even see the side of the road,” I told him. “Are we on an army base?”

  “More of a target range,” Adam answered. “The army uses the high moors for artillery practice.”

  “Well,” I said, with a crooked grin, “that’ll make it easier for my husband, when he calls out the army to find me.”

  Adam leaned his head against the back of the chair. “He won’t have any trouble finding Wyrdhurst.”

  “What’s it like?” I asked.

  “Imposing,” he said, after a judicious pause. “It’s haunted, of course.”

  I laughed outright. “Ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties?”

  “And things that go bump in the night.” Adam winced. “Appalling, isn’t it, in this day and age? But I have it on good authority that the ghost of Josiah Byrd walks Wyrdhurst’s corridors by night.”

  “Whose good authority?” I challenged.

  “My mechanic’s,” Adam said gravely, though his eyes were dancing. “Mr. Garnett is quite an expert on the man who built Wyrdhurst. Apparently, old Josiah was something of a terror. Still is, according to Mr. Garnett.”

  “If Josiah Byrd built Wyrdhurst Hall, he must have died ages ago,” I protested. “Don’t tell me the villagers still live in fear of him.”

  “People here have long memories,” said Adam. “They weren’t pleased when the house was restored and reopened. I think they were rather hoping it would decay into dust.”

  “Ghosts don’t frighten me.” Firsthand experience had taught me that the undead were more helpful than hurtful, but I couldn’t explain my curious relationship with Aunt Dimity to a man I hardly knew. He’d suspect a serious head injury or, worse, a touch of lunacy.

  “They frighten Mrs. Hollander,” said Adam. “Or so I’ve been told. The villagers think that’s why she’s not entirely happy in her new home.”

  “I’d blame the fog,” I said firmly. “Would you want to spend the first months of your marriage in a place with such rotten weather?”

  Adam was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the fire. Then he said softly, “If you’re with the right person, I don’t think the weather matters.” He looked toward me. “Do you?”

  The loose ringlets tumbling over his forehead gleamed like ebony in the fire’s glow, and his eyes were as dark as night. I felt a warm flush rise from the soles of my feet to the tips of my ears and averted my gaze, but didn’t reproach myself. It seemed hardly possible for a woman to awaken naked in a man’s arms without feeling stirrings of some sort. Besides, I knew I’d never act upon those stirrings. I was deeply in love with my husband.

  “How long will you stay at Wyrdhurst?” Adam asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I heard myself saying. “As long as it takes, I guess.”

  “I’ll cycle there first thing in the morning. The Hollanders will come to fetch you, I’m sure. But now”—Adam pointed a finger at me—“you must sleep. We can talk again tomorrow. If you need anything in the night, I’ll be right here.” He put his feet up on the ottoman, slouched comfortably in the chair, and closed his eyes.

  A spurt of rain splashed down the chimney and sizzled on the coals. I slid under the blankets and turned onto my side to watch the fire, wondering why I hadn’t told Adam the truth. I knew exactly how long I would stay at Wyrdhurst Hall: one week. I’d no reason to stay longer, every reason to return home to my husband and sons.

  Yet they seemed far away at this moment. And Adam was very close. I peeked over the blankets at the pale, heartshaped face. “Adam?” I whispered.

  “Yes?” came the patient reply.

  “Thank you. You saved my life.”

  “You took ten years off of mine,” he retorted, and turned his face to the shadows.

  Smiling sheepishly, I curled into a ball and plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  It was still dark out, and still raining, when I felt a hand caress my forehead and heard a soft, now-familiar voice say, “Lori? Wake up. Your husband has called out the army.”

  CHAPTER

  A gray wisp of morning light revealed a tall, rangily built young man standing just inside the peacock-blue front door. His close-cropped hair was as fair as cornsilk, his face beet-red from exertion. He was dressed in a camouflage-print field uniform and holding a black beret that seemed to be soaking wet. His boots and trouser legs were liberally daubed with mud, and a dripping olive-drab rain poncho hung over the beechwood chair.

  “Lori Shepherd,” Adam said, standing aside, “Captain Guy Manning.”

  Captain Manning stepped forward. “I’ve been sent to find you, Ms. Shepherd. Your husband became alarmed when you failed to arrive at your destination yesterday afternoon.”

  “He had good reason.” Adam folded his arms across his chest. “Ms. Shepherd’s car was swept away by a landslide on one of your roads.”

  Captain Manning favored Adam with an expressionless stare. “I’m aware of the situation, sir. I discovered the landslide late last night.”
>
  “Then you must also be aware of the fact that one of your gates was left open,” Adam said.

  “The matter is under investigation, sir.” Captain Manning’s grave gray eyes focused on me. “Do you require medical attention, Ms. Shepherd?”

  “No,” I said, pushing myself into a sitting position. “But what about my husband? Is he at Wyrdhurst?”

  “Your husband is awaiting news of you at your home in the Cotswolds, ma’am.”

  When the officer pulled a cell phone from his breast pocket and offered it to me, I all but snatched it from his hand and hastily dialed my own number. Bill answered halfway through the first ring.

  “Lori, are you all right?”

  The raw fear in his voice brought home how close I’d come to losing everything. I had to press a hand to my mouth, to keep from blubbing.

  “I’m fine, Bill.” I swallowed hard and made a snap decision: I’d tell my husband the whole truth as soon as we were together, but for now I’d tone it down. There was no point in worrying him long-distance. “My car…ran off the road, because of the fog, and I…lost my cell phone. I lost my way, too, so I…spent the night in a fishing hut. An officer, Captain Manning, just found me.”

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Bill demanded.

  “I’m sure.” I hesitated. “The Rover’s sort of…totaled.”

  “Damn the Rover!” Bill cried. “It can be replaced. You can’t. Do you want me to come up there?”

  “There’s no reason for you to come up here,” I said flatly. “It was a silly little mishap. I’m far more embarrassed than hurt, and incredibly sorry for scaring you.”

  “Not your fault,” said Bill. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Here, I’ll let you speak with Will and Rob.”

  I don’t know what Adam and Captain Manning made of the babytalk that ensued. They stood at a discreet distance—from me and from each other—until I’d finished my conversation. Then they turned, in unison, and stared.