The Witch's Stone (19 page)

“No.” Bristol chuckled. “I had to rule her out as a suspect in the event Agnes’s death hadnae been an accident.”

“I see.” What sort of details would Bristol have uncovered during a police investigation?

“I thought she might have said something considering yer relationship.”

Caid fixed his pointed stare on the policeman. “And what relationship would that be?”

“I…well…I assumed…”

“Is this yer less than subtle way of asking if we’re sleeping together? The answers is no, we’re not.”

“I wondered, that is, you presented a very united front inside.”

“Wonder no more.” Certainly, not united enough for her to tell him everything she knew.

“That’s a shame.”

“A shame? One moment ye’re warning me against her, the next ye’re telling me to sleep with her?”

Bristol scowled. “You misunderstand. I think she’s a lovely girl, but everyone has a past.”

Too true, and Hillary’s was proving to be quite a mystery. Caid kept the thought to himself.

“Did Hillary tell you that she believed ye’re aunt had been murdered?”

“Aye, but I had to pry the information from her.” Just like everything else.

“I thought so. There was no evidence that Agnes’s fall was anything besides a terrible accident, but I’ll be sure to send over the report for you to read for yerself.”

Caid nodded and stayed on the step until the heavy man’s car had pulled away and turned down the long drive. Even once Bristol’s car had vanished from sight, he waited, gathering his thoughts before going inside.

Before facing Hillary.

Caid returned to the study, where Hillary waited for him. Her gaze met his, and the perplexed frown marring her features deepened with concern.

“What is it?” she asked, sounding wary, hesitant.

She was right to be wary. Tension hummed inside him like an electrical charge gathering power.  He wanted release, an outlet.  The urge to drink pulled tight inside, leaving his mouth dry and skin itchy. God, to lose himself in the bottle for just a little while. To quiet his thoughts, the emotions storming inside him. He hadn’t craved like this in years.

“Why didnae you tell me Willie’d had a row with Agnes?”

“I should have,” she said softly.

Her admission surprised him, stealing some of the heat from his tone. “Aye, you should have, but you didnae. How could you no’ have told me about that, especially after last night?”

She moistened her lips before speaking. “I was afraid I’d sound paranoid or crazy. That I was letting what happened…” Her voice trailed away and her eyes rounded as if she’d said too much.

“Finish.”

She shook her head, eyes still wide. “It’s not important.”

“I think it is. Does it have anything to do with whatever it is Bristol knows about you?”

The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin pasty and dull. She grasped the edge of the table as if to steady herself. Would she be sick? Pass out?

“What did he tell you?” Her voice, barely more than a whisper, shook.

Whatever Bristol knew, she sure as hell didn’t want him to find out.

His heart rate kicked up and his stomach twisted. “What is it ye’re no’ telling me?”

“I should get back to work.” She dropped her gaze to the floor and made a beeline for the door.

Caid moved to block her path. “I think you owe me the truth.”

Her eyes, bright with unshed tears, met his. “I’m sorry, Caid. I can’t.”

She pushed past him and he didn’t try to stop her.

The hell with it. Whatever had happened to her wasn’t his problem, and neither was whatever had happened to Agnes. The only thing that actually
was
his problem, was getting rid of Glendon House. The sooner, the better.

Hillary spent most of the day tucked in the attic, avoiding Caid and leaving him to clean up the rabbit remains on his own. Guilt nagged at her, and not just for leaving him with the mess. She should have told him about Randall. This was his home he was letting her stay in. He had the right to know he was renting a room to a woman who had killed a man.

She looked away from Roderick’s faded scrawl and squeezed her eyes shut. The image of Caid, his eyes dark with furious accusation, filled her head. The expression entirely too much like Michael’s in the months before she’d finally left.

If Caid knew the truth, would he doubt her? Would she catch him watching her with a slight frown marring his features? Would he ask her seemingly benign questions while trying to catch her in a lie?

She opened her eyes and gave herself a mental shake. Comparing him to Michael was hardly fair. She and Caid weren’t married, weren’t lovers, hell, they were barely friends. They’d shared a couple of kisses, nothing more. The first one had been out of spite, and the second…the second had reduced her to a mass of quivering sensation barely capable of coherent thought.

She sighed and pressed her fingertips to her eyes as if to blot out the memory.

She should tell him.

Her insides shriveled with the mere thought.

She would tell him, but not yet. She’d wait until she was through with the journals, then if he tossed her out, at least she’d have her work.

She dug back into transcribing Roderick’s self-important outlook on the day’s events. An excellent distraction from thinking about Caid. She read for close to an hour before finally coming across a somewhat interesting entry about a neighbor’s child drowning in a nearby river.

A loud crash from downstairs jerked her attention away from the book. What was that?

She hurried to the top of the second story staircase where Caid’s creative usage of four letter expletives came floating up. As she started down the steps, mounds of paper and boxes piled by the front door came into view, then a clutter of mismatched chairs and settees, stained rugs and torn, faded draperies. And then the man himself. Shirtless, thin lines of sweat cut through the grime coating the tight, lean muscles of his chest and stomach. His jeans, once blue, were now a strange beige-gray combination from the caked on dirt.

Still cursing, he raked his fingers through his damp hair, shook his head at the pile of broken china figurines at his feet and tossed aside a rotted cardboard box open at both ends. He limped a little when he walked.

“Are you all right?” she asked, descending into the turmoil.

He nodded. “Aye. The bottom of the blasted box gave way.”

“You’re limping.”

“My leg’s a bit stiff, is all.”

“Can I help?” she offered, hoping to ease them both back into their quiet camaraderie.

He knelt and carefully pushed the broken ornaments into a pile. “Staying out of my way would be a help.”

She rolled her eyes. Clearly, he was still mad.

Shaking her head, she moved past him toward the kitchen, but the state of the rooms she passed stopped her. In complete chaos, each looked worse than when they’d been piled with Agnes’s junk.

“What are you doing? I thought the real estate agent was coming today,” she said.

He jerked a shoulder. “She’s put me off. The client she planned to bring is no longer interested in viewing Glendon House.”

Perhaps her refusing to tell him about Randall wasn’t the only thing that had him in a snit. “Why not?”

“A rather large drawback from living in a village like Culcraig; word travels. The agent and the client heard about our gift this morning, and you werenae the only person Agnes told when the same thing was happening to her.  It scared them off.”

Hillary made a slow sweep of the chaos around them. “That still doesn’t explain all of this. What are you doing?”

He scowled. “What does it look like? I’m cleaning the place out.”

Oh, well, obviously
. “Can I give you some advice?”

“If I said no, would you refrain?”

It was her turn to scowl. “No.”

He sighed. “I didnae think so.”

“You’re going about this all wrong.”

“Of course I am. No doubt ye’re an expert on this, as well as everything else.”

“Fine. Do it all yourself, then.”

He pushed past her into the kitchen and she followed, watching as he yanked a garbage bag from a box under the sink.

“You’ll need two,” she said.

He stood ramrod straight, his eyes glittering like an arctic sea.

Exasperation made her sound waspish. “The sharp edges will cut through the plastic.”

“Is it ingrained, then? This unfortunate need you have to ply others with unwanted advice.”

“I suppose it is, when I see them doing something stupid.”

“You are the bossiest woman I’ve ever known,” he muttered, pulling out another bag. “I know now why ye’re divorced. Bloody nag, nag, nag.”

His words were like a slap, the hurt sudden and surprising. She turned away, opening the fridge, feigning interest in the contents.

“I’m sorry, Hillary,” he said quickly, as if sensing he’d gone too far.

She shrugged. “You’re absolutely right. This is your house. I have no business telling you what to do.” She wanted to tell him to take his apology and shove it, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Why had what he’d said bothered her so much, anyway? Because she’d spent the better part of the day agonizing about whether or not to trust him with her deepest secret, afraid she’d lose whatever she thought was growing between them. Clearly there was nothing between them. How could she be so damn delusional?

“I’m no’ right.” He put his hand on her arm and tried to turn her to face him.

She jerked away, instantly annoyed with herself. She didn’t want him to know that she was angry, to think that anything he said or did could affect her.

“Hillary, please. I’m pissed off about this morning, Bristol and the house, but I shouldnae said what I did. I’m sorry. I really didnae mean it.”

“Apology accepted.” She forced a fake smile and closed the fridge. Her appetite had shriveled, but he didn’t need to know that, either. She removed a tin of cookies from the cupboard and took three. “I can’t be bothered to fix anything.”

He eyed her warily. “Me, either. What were you going to say before? About the house?”

“Don’t humor me, Caid. That
will
piss me off.”

She turned and strode down the hall, sidestepping the mess. As she started up the stairs, he followed. 

“I’m no’ humoring you.”

She didn’t slow her pace. “I think you are, because you don’t feel good about what you said. But you’ve apologized, and it’s fine, really. Now, I’ve got a lot of work to do, and clearly you do, too.”

“Wait.” He gripped her wrist and stopped her at the top of the stairs. He stood a few steps lower than her. “Dinnae walk away. If ye’re angry, tell me. If I hurt you, say so.” Something akin to pleading touched his voice, but rather than sympathy a slow, hot fury throbbed inside her brain. She yanked her hand from his and backed away from him.

“You want me tell you if I’m angry?”

She winged one of the cookies. He ducked the crumbling projectile, and when he stood straight once more his features were drawn in a sort of wary confusion. The whole thing would have been funny if she weren’t so mad.

“I am. I’m fed up with your moods. Christ, one minute you’re funny and pleasant to talk to, the next you’re kissing me like I’m the last woman on earth and then you’re acting like complete jack-ass. Did what you say hurt me?”

She let another cookie fly. This one clipped his shoulder. His eyes narrowed.

“Yes, it did. And for you to stand there and tell me that Bristol and the house are getting to you, like that’s some kind excuse. Bristol made me mad, too, but I don’t verbally attack you.”

She let the last cookie go and caught him square in the forehead. His nostrils flared. As he brushed the crumbs off his nose and cheek, she turned and started to her room. His footfalls behind her made her stop and look. He took the last of the stairs two at a time, his gaze dark and intent, and fixed on her.

She wouldn’t be intimidated. She faced him, folding her arms over her chest, but her resolve slipped a little when she saw the thin, curved welt on his forehead. Oops. Who would have thought a cookie could leave a mark?

She opened her mouth to apologize, but snapped it shut again when he backed her against the wall. His arms caged her on either side of her head, his palms pressed against the cracked plaster, his body mere inches from hers.

A sort of nervous flutter tickled low in her belly and her breath caught in her throat. Still, there was none of the edgy panic coursing through her, making her tremble and desperate for escape whenever someone got too close. Instead, longing, deep and aching, pooled in her lower belly and spread to her tingling limbs.

“It’s no’ just Bristol or the house,” he murmured, the straight line of his mouth over hers, his breath a whisper against her lips. “It’s you.”

Bracing himself on one hand he trailed the fingers of his other down the side of her face. She shivered and closed her eyes.

“All I think about is touching you.” His lips brushed hers. “Tasting you.” He leaned forward, pressing his jean-clad erection against her pelvis. “Being inside you.”

Yes, yes, yes!
her mind screamed, but the circuit connecting brain to mouth seemed to have fizzled out. She let out a ragged breath and opened her eyes. His were fixed on hers. His body remained rigid, inches away, waiting. She wanted him against her again.

Touching her.

Kissing her.

Filling her.

Wordlessly, she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down until his mouth was on hers. She’d expected fast and devouring, instead he drew on her lips in a slow, drugging kiss that left her weak.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured.

A tiny thrill shot through her. “As long as I have?”

He smiled slow, almost predatory, and her belly tightened. She couldn’t remember wanting anyone the way she wanted him right then. His mouth covered hers again, hungrily this time, driving any semblance of clear thinking out of her head, and turning her very bones to liquid.