Her Dear and Loving Husband by Meredith Allard Read Free Book Online

as an invitation to come closer, she stepped near him and stood on her toes so she could see into his night-dark eyes, such a contrast to his pale complexion, like a black-white pattern in a painting. He stepped back too quickly, a man-sized jumping bean, and he turned to study the brick arches of the Lyceum as if he had never seen them.
    “Yes,” he said finally, “I believe that ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem. I’ve never been more sure of it.”
    He opened his mouth to say more, but he shook his head and walked away at such a fast pace he left Sarah trailing behind. She didn’t mind. She slowed her steps, hoping he’d disappear into the distance so she could slip down Washington Street and find her way home. Alone. She was being too foolish about this man, she decided. He was too unpredictable. Suddenly, he flipped the switch back to bright and slowed his long strides, waiting for her to catch up. 
    “There I go again,” he said.
    Sarah laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, tinged with low, hollow tones.
    “Please,” he said. He extended his arm, a courteous gesture from olden days when gentility was the norm, and again, despite her concerns, Sarah felt the invisible pull toward him. She slid her arm through his.
    “There’s a whole tourism industry in Salem centered around the metaphysical,” he said, continuing their conversation as if they hadn't suffered an awkward moment. “There are tours guided by parapsychologists that are supposed to highlight places in the city haunted by the supernatural—ghosts, werewolves, vampires.” Sarah saw that amused smile again, though it disappeared quickly. “Have you ever been to Danvers?” Sarah shook her head. “It used to be known as Salem Village, the epicenter of the witch hunt hysteria. There’s a memorial there for the people executed in 1692.”
    “I’d like to see that. One of the reasons I came was because I was told I have an ancestor who died here during the witch trials. I wanted to find some information about her.”
    James stopped walking. He dropped Sarah’s arm and stepped closer to her. “What was your ancestor’s name?”
    “I don’t know.” 
    He looked disappointed. “Perhaps you’ll discover it through your research.”
    He extended his arm again, and again Sarah slid hers through. He slowed his pace, she quickened hers, and they shared a rhythm that matched her fluctuating heartbeat. First too fast, then too slow. It was, come to think of it, a lot like her night with James. First too hot, then too cold. Now it was heating up again. They were already at Salem Common, a nine-acre park used as public land to graze livestock in colonial times. They passed the Salem Visitor’s Center, walked around Washington Square North, and there was the Salem Witch Museum, along with the imposing cloaked statue of Roger Conant, the man who first settled Salem, among America’s oldest towns, in 1626.
    The Salem Witch Museum was housed in a tall brick church with two castle-like protrusions on either side, a Gothic arch in the center of the building coming together at a point like two hands praying. Sarah didn't need to turn around to know James was watching her. He stepped so close she could feel him close to her hair. She kept her eyes fixed on the brick exterior of the museum.
    “There are other museums around town you should visit if you want to learn about the witch hunts,” he said. “The Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street has actors performing scenes from the transcripts of the trials. There’s a recreation of the dungeons where the accused witches were jailed—dark, horrid, illness-filled, rat-infested places. Abominations.”
    Sarah shuddered. She heard his words, they were simple enough, but she hardly understood him, as if he were speaking Russian suddenly, or Vietnamese. Above, the far-reaching sky was clear, no rain, and she realized that the sudden drops of water on her cheeks must have been from her eyes. The