The Witch's Stone (21 page)

“Not quite,” she told him, barely recognizing the low, thick voice as her own. She reached under his sweater, pushing the hem up. He helped her pull the sweater over his shoulders. As it landed in a pile on the floor, she ran her hands over his taut chest, traced the grooves between his lean stomach muscles with her fingers. He sucked in his breath and the flesh beneath her touch bunched, tiny goose bumps stippling his skin.

“Much better.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, but her smug grin fell away under the heat of his indigo eyes. How was it possible that she had inspired this kind of heat, this kind of want in him?

Caid watched the emotions sweep across her features, from a cocky sort of confidence to doubt, like a cloud casting a shadow over a sunny field. Everything was there in her face, naked and real. Humbling.

Something flickered in the vicinity of his heart, but he did his best to ignore it, continuing the game, instead. “Still no’ quite right, though.”

He opened her fly, sliding the zipper down with exquisite slowness, never letting his gaze break from hers. As he curled his fingers over the waistband of her jeans, any trace of doubt vanished from her face.

Hunger filled her eyes now.

His fingers splayed her flat stomach. Every part of her was soft and smooth. He could have lost himself just touching her.

He slid his hand into her panties and pressed a finger into her tight, wet heat. With a gasp, she tilted her head back and he lowered his mouth to feast on her neck.

She rode his fingers, her hips rocking against his hand, tiny whimpers and gasps escaping her lips. She was so much hotter than he’d expected her to be, and the discovery played havoc with his already tenuous control.

With his free hand, he tugged her bra down, exposing one small, plump breast. He brought his mouth to the tip, flicking her hardened nipple with his tongue, then tugging it with his teeth. She cried out, the convulsions of her orgasm tightening around his fingers.

He had to get inside her. His erection, hard almost to the point of pain, pressed against his jeans. Then her mouth caught his in another brain-scrambling kiss.

Half-crazed for her, he somehow managed to edge them closer to the unmade bed and lowered her to the mattress. She lifted her hips so he could slide off her jeans and underwear, then shed his own clothes, tossing them aside.

“Hold on,” he muttered and snatched the box of condoms from the bed where he’d tossed them when they’d first walked in. He tore open the box, dug out one of the packets and ripped the packaging with his teeth. Hillary’s hungry gaze remained fixed on his actions. She watched with rapt fascination as he slipped the latex over his erection.

He covered her body with his, his mouth moving over skin at an almost frantic pace. Her breath hitched and she arched her hips up, pressing herself against the tip of his cock.

Now. It had to be now. He couldn’t have stopped if he had a gun to his head.

He thrust into her, groaning as her velvety heat closed tight around him. Hillary whimpered, her teeth nipping at his chest.

He began to move inside her, slow at first, reveling in the feel of her, then gradually picking up speed. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper. His hips pumped forward and back almost of their own accord, driving inside her fast and hard.

“Oh, God, Caid.” Her fingers gripped his hair as she came again.

His name on her lips, combined with her tight contractions around his cock were all he could bear. He stiffened, groaning as his own release shuddered through him.

Once spent, he collapsed on top of her. Damn, that was good. Better than he’d thought it would be. Better than he wanted it to be. He shoved the thoughts aside, determined to enjoy the moment.

Hillary realized she’d been wrong. She
was
meant for flings. And hot, blinding, mind-numbing sex was not the stuff of fiction, but wondrous reality.

Caid’s ragged breath whispered against her ear, his pounding heart matching her own frenzied rhythm. She could have stayed right where she was for the rest of her natural life and been quite happy.

“Am I crushing you?” he asked, lifting himself a little and gently brushing his lips over hers.

“A little,” she admitted.

He rolled off of her. “I’ll be right back.”

He strode from the room, probably to dispose of the condom, and she watched his tight backside as he left.

Now what?
Should she stay here, sleep in his bed? Or was that presumptuous? Should she just head back to her own room? Or would that be rude?

Her other sexual experiences had all been within the confines of a slowly developing committed relationship. There were certain behaviors and expectations to be met. But what she’d shared with Caid certainly wasn’t committed, nor was there a relationship except for a strange sort of friendship and business agreement. And now sex.

She hated awkward moments.

“Bloody hell, this house is cold,” he muttered, returning. He slipped beneath the covers and she sat up. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest and he ran a knuckle along the back of her arm. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

With pale light seeping into the room from the hall, she could just make out a glimmer of a smile.

“No.” She lay down, resting her cheek on his chest. His hand stroked her hair as his lips brushed a feathery kiss over the top of her head. Something fluttered dangerously close to her heart.

Not good, she thought, snuggling into the security of his embrace, as sleep slowly overcame her.

From the attic window, Hillary watched the witchlights dance and titter in the darkness. They circled and swirled, grew dim, then shone with a sudden brilliance.

An oily fear crept over her, but of what she couldn’t say. The emotion was as intangible as it was overwhelming. And the longer she watched the tiny orbs, the more intense the sensation became.

She stood, mesmerized with her hands pressed against the cold glass. Laughter, faint at first, then growing to a high pitched cackle, as if from a storybook witch, filled her head. She turned away from the window, her heart pounding, desperate for escape.

She fled down the stairs, but the laughter stayed with her, growing louder until it reached a screaming crescendo, then went silent as she burst through the door at the bottom of the stairs.

But instead of Glendon House, she was home.

She unlocked the front door for the police and started toward the dining room. The light from the front hall reflected in the tiny shards of mirror glittering on the floor. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze fell on the bright pool of crimson slowly working its way toward her.

Not again. Please not again.

But her feet kept her moving forward. Legs crept into her circle of vision. Her gaze traveled up, following the still length of him until reaching the slack features of his face. A scream bubbled deep in her throat as her eyes locked with his wide, brilliant blue stare.

The dead man was Caid.

Trembling, she took a step back. Something cold and sharp dug into the palm of her hand. When she looked down, she clutched a long, sleek splinter of glass. Her wide eyes reflected in the mirror until a tiny, red rivulet cut through her image like a jagged crack.

At last, the scream tore loose, shrill and piercing.

“Hillary.”

Dead. Caid dead.

Hands on her, pulling her away from his limp form. She struggled against them, sobbing.

“Hillary.” The voice punctured through her dream haze. Caid’s voice. “Wake up, love.”

The warmly lit dining room and Caid’s pale, waxen features dissolved, replaced by darkness and his shadowy outline.

“Caid,” she croaked.

“Aye.”

Without another word, she threw herself into his arms. He held her tightly, soothing the shivers wracking her by stroking her back and hair. She ran her hands over his warm, living skin. When her palm came to rest over his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart thudded against her touch. Alive.

“You were dead,” she whispered, snuggling deeper against his warmth. “In my dream you were dead and it was my fault.”

“I’m fine. It was just a dream,” he murmured. His lips brushed her temple. “My God, Hillary, where do these nightmares come from?”

Hillary couldn’t stop shaking. She felt cold to her soul. She should have told him about Randall before sleeping with him. He had the right to know that she was a half-crazy murderess before getting mixed up with her. “You wanted to know what happened to me, what Bristol knows, I want to tell you. I should have before…”

“In the morning,” he said, gently smoothing her hair. “Wait until morning, then you can explain everything to me.”

“But--”

“It’ll wait until it’s at least light out.”

“Okay,” she nodded, her body sagging with relief.

She lay down and rolled onto her side. He lay down next to her, wrapping his arm around her middle and pulling her back against his chest. His body heat seeped into her skin, making her drowsy.

Closing her eyes, she drifted off with the feel of him wrapped around her. She would enjoy this moment while she could…

Because once he learned truth, everything would change.

When Hillary’s breath turned deep and even, Caid pushed himself up, glancing at the clock next to the bed. 4:37. He wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Not with so many questions circling inside his head.

Without thinking, he smoothed the hair away from Hillary’s cheek and pressed his lips to her soft skin. What gave her the nightmares? What left her terrified and clinging to him? He wanted her to tell him, but not while she was still trembling from the remnants of her dream. He wanted her to come to him in bright light of day, with all her faculties in place.

It shouldn’t matter to him, but it did. And that alone was enough to keep him awake.

He stood and drew the covers over Hillary’s naked form. Fresh lust stirred within him along with a wave of relief. It was just good sex, nothing more. He liked her well enough, wished good things for her, but that was all.

Still unconvinced, Caid left the room, determined to lose himself in his work, but stopped in the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He was becoming as addicted as Hillary. He’d probably wind up hooked by the time she left. A strange pang gripped his heart, but he refused to acknowledge it.

With a yawn, he walked to the back door, waiting for the coffee to brew. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool glass. When he opened them again an orangish glow flickered beyond the grayish forms in the garden.

Dawn at last. He yawned again, stretched and turned away from the door. Then froze.

Since when did the sun come up in the west? Or flicker for that matter?

He opened the door and stepped outside. The cold, damp air, combined with a deep sense of foreboding, sent a chill rippling through him. Bright, orangish-pink light rose above the forest treetops on the far side of the field. The glow quivered and brightened like an ember in the hearth.

Fire. Good Christ, a fire!

His stomach dropped. The nearest building past the trees was Joan’s inn. He turned and yanked open the door. With the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears, he ran through the kitchen, down the hall and upstairs.

He burst into his room and flipped on the light. Hillary sat up in the bed, squinting against the sudden brightness.

“What is it?” she asked, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear.

“A fire.”

She sprung from the mattress as if the flames were beneath her. “A fire, here?”

“No. Sorry, no.” He was panicking and had to pull it together. “At Joan’s, I think. I’m going over to see if she’s all right.”

He went to the window. Smoke, visible now as night turned to morning, rose up over the trees. Hillary joined him and gasped.

“I’m coming,” she said.

Fear gave his insides a good twist. “No, stay here.”

“Now is not the time for some caveman power struggle.”

“Nor is it the time to fight for the feminist cause. Someone has to call the fire department, paramedics, in case someone’s been hurt…” his voice trailed off.

She started to argue, but he shook his head. “If someone’s trapped and needs help getting out, I’ve the physical strength. Dinnae try and argue, it’s a fact and you cannae change it.”

“You’re not going inside?” Though it sounded more like an order than a question.

“I’m sure it willnae come to that, but just in case. Does she have guests the now?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

They left the room together and hurried down the stairs. He grabbed his jacket from where he’d left it, draped over the newel post, and shoved his arms through the sleeves as he wriggled his feet into his shoes.

“Where will I find the number for the fire station?”

“Just dial 999, that’s the number for emergency here.”

She nodded, and as he turned to leave, she gripped his sleeve and stopped him. Her eyes locked with his.

“Be careful.”

“I will,” he promised, then pressed his mouth to hers. Fear and hungry desperation exploded between them.

“I will,” he said again, as he stepped out into the cool morning air.

Hillary stood where she was and watched the door close behind him. She pressed her fingers to her lips.

Let him be okay.

The image of his lifeless eyes from her dream flashed before her. What if he didn’t come back? Her heartbeat kicked up and her throat tightened. She gave herself a mental shake. There wasn’t time to worry.

After phoning to report the fire, she went to the kitchen and peered out the back window. The glow seemed to have dimmed some, but a steady stream of black smoke billowed up over the trees.

“Let them be okay,” she muttered aloud.

This was nuts. She was going over there. She’d called the fire department just like she’d said she would. There was no reason for her to sit here and worry.

She stood, went upstairs and changed. As she left the room, something moved at the edge of her peripheral vision. She turned to look, but a sudden clang filled her ears and shimmering pain exploded at the side of her head.