The Witch's Stone (3 page)

The sound of the front door opening drew his attention from the credit card machine to the woman entering the hall. Her dark, sopping hair clung to her pale cheeks. Her bulky clothes, caked with mud, dripped onto Joan's plush rug.

Joan turned away from the desk, his credit card still in her hand. "Hillary, come and meet Caid."

Caid leaned heavily against the desk, struggling not to snatch his card from Joan’s hand and demand to be taken to a room. He longed for his bed with the same desperation that a blind man longed for his sight.

"Hi," the woman said as she came to join them.

"Oh my dear, ye’re sodden through. Where have you been on such a dreich day?" Joan asked.

A slight blush touched the woman’s cheeks and her eyes, dark bottle green, dropped to her appearance. "I went for a walk and got a little bit lost in the fog. I fell. I'm okay though. I should change."

"I'm Caid." He wanted her attention back on him, but wasn’t sure why. He held out his hand.

"Hillary."

His fingers closed around hers. "Yer skin's like ice, love."

Her eyes darkened with mistrust and she pulled her hand from his grasp. "I'm fine."

"Hillary found Agnes," Joan said. "Agnes was Caid's great aunt."

"I'm sorry," they both said in unison.

Hillary smiled a little. Just enough to intrigue him. She was lovely beneath the wet and mud.

"Are you the literature professor?" she asked.

His stomach clenched as if kicked. "No. That would be my father."

"Sorry. I…um…I should get changed."

"Before you catch a chill,” Joan agreed. “Take a nice, long bath and I'll bring you yer tea, then we'll have dinner and wee blether."

Hillary nodded and started up the stairs. Presumably, to her room.

"No dinner for me," Caid said. "I'm exhausted and just need my bed."

"Can I no’ bring you some tea, at least?"

"No thank you, Joan. Just my room and a good night’s sleep."

"Aye. Well, it's likely been a long day, and tomorrow longer still."

True enough. Simply thinking of the impending reunion made his heart race.

"The machine will probably be working again come morning." Joan handed him his card. "We’ll try it again then."

"Ta." He slid the card back into his wallet.

"Take the green room. First door on the left. Right then, off you go."

Caid nodded, hoisted his computer bag over his shoulder and lifted his suitcase. After climbing the stairs, he found the first door on the right.  He gripped the brass knob and tried to turn, but it resisted. Frowning, he jiggled the handle a bit, and the door swung inward.

Inside, a small lamp glowed softly next to the bed. He dropped his bag and case, and flopped onto the mattress. The room was very pretty and feminine. Though the flowers on the wallpaper and bedspread looked more blue than green to him.

What did he care? The bed was soft and that was all he needed. He toed off his shoes, flipping them from his feet onto the floor, and wriggled up so his head lay nestled in the pile of pillows.

At the sound of a door opening, he sat up. His eyes rounded and the air in his lungs shriveled. Hillary stood in the open doorway to the bathroom, practically naked.

His gaze swept the soft curve her hips, the low dip of her white silk panties then upward to the gentle swell of her breasts peeking out over the edge of her bra. Her hair, still damp from her excursion outside, fell sexy and tousled past her shoulders.

He sat up further, his jeans tight in the crotch and sleep now the furthest thing from his mind. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. Those dark green eyes shone wild and terrified.

Without a word, she slammed the door shut, closing herself in the bathroom. The lock clicked into place.

Bloody hell!

Hillary’s pulse thundered in her ears as she wrapped herself in a thick, fluffy towel. What the hell was he doing there? She might have thought him mildly attractive, but not enough to want to find him on her bed.

And how had he gotten in? She knew she’d locked the door.

“Hullo?” The man’s muffled voice drifted through the heavy wood door.

She drew in a trembling breath and squared her shoulders, determined to keep it together. “Get out of my room.”

"Yer room?" His voice rose in surprise.

Clearly, the man was deranged. "Yes,
my
room? Do you think I walk around half-dressed all over the inn?"

"I wondered. This is the room Joan sent me to. The green room."

"This is the
blue
room.  Those flowers are blue. Are you color blind? " Her initial panic was dissolving quickly, annoyance settling in its place.

"I cannae hear you through the door. Come out so we can finish the discussion a reasonable manner.” Even with the thick wood between them, she could hear the laughter in his voice. "You know, you looked lovely the now."

The jerk was baiting her. Daring her. Annoyance turned to anger.

On a deep breath, she flung open the bathroom door and marched over to the dresser. He stood next to the bed, grinning maddeningly. Gritting her teeth, she pulled a pair of gray yoga pants from the drawer and slid them up under the towel. With her anger simmering just below the skin, she kept her back to him and let the towel fall, then tugged on a hooded sweater and zipped it up the front.

"Get out of here," she said, turning to face him.

He chuckled, the sound grating her nerves. "I was only having a wee bit of fun."

"Really? This is fun for you? And I should be having fun, too? Having a man I've only just met catch me practically naked in my own room? One who refuses to apologize and leave. Instead you hover over me--"

"I'm no’ hovering." He had the nerve to sound genuinely offended.

"While I dressed, did you even attempt to avert your eyes?"

"Well…I…"

"The answer is no."

“I think ye’re overreacting.”

“Am I? How silly of me to not enjoy having you ogle me uninvited.”

"That's no’ what I'm doing at all."

“Do you honestly believe you’re so irresistible that simply seeing you on my bed would have me jumping your bones?”

“It wasnae like that. I thought this was my room. Seeing you in yer underwear was a mistake. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Sure you did.”

“Do
you
think
ye’re
so irresistible then, that every man who meets you is just dying to crawl into bed with you? Let me assure you, that’s no’ the case. When I saw you downstairs, I found you as pleasant to look at as a drowned rat. Sleeping with you was the furthest thing from my mind.”

“Well, good.” Her feelings were not hurt. Just because she had initially found him quite attractive was no reason to take offence. Since then she’d discovered he was a rude, self-absorbed creep with about as much charm as a drunken frat boy.

She bent, lifted his computer bag and thrust it at him. As he pulled the strap over his shoulder, she grabbed his suitcase from the floor. When his gaze met hers, she shoved the case against his chest. He wrapped both arms around it and glared, his blue eyes blazing.

Hillary opened the door and stood aside. "Now get out."

"Happily."

Once on the other side of the threshold, he opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could get the words out, she slammed the door shut.

Done and done.

She brushed her hands together as if wiping away a layer of dust and started to the bathroom to run that bath. The knock&--which sounded more like a kick&--stopped her.

"Take a hint," she muttered, before yanking the door open.

He stood as she'd left him, laptop bag on his shoulder, still clutching his suitcase and glaring. "I’ve left my shoes next to the bed."

With a loud sigh, she snatched both shoes from the floor and for a moment considered throwing them at him.

"Dinnae do it," he said, clearly reading her thoughts.

She shrugged and somehow managed to resist the urge to whack him upside the head with one as she tucked them under each of his arms.

"Would you mind opening the door across the hall for me?" He kept his tone formal and cool.

"Whatever is going to make you go away faster." She crossed the hall and pushed the door open. The room beyond was dark, but even with only the hall light the pale green paint on the walls was clearly visible, as were the tiny white and green flowers on the bedspread. "The green room."

"Aye, so it is."

He moved past her, and, without turning, kicked the door shut in her face.

“Bristol offered to introduce me to James Douglas,” Hillary said to Joan as she settled in the parlor with her tea. A fire crackled in the fireplace next to her, the flames casting long shadows on the far wall. “He thinks that James might be open to letting me have a look at the journals.”

Joan pursed her lips and held out a tray of cookies. “Aye, well Bristol has more faith in the man than I do.”

Hillary shook her head in refusal to the sweets. She was so full from dinner she couldn’t possibly eat anything else. “Why do you say that?”

“James Douglas is a hard man, pretentious and self righteous. He tried to have Agie declared senile.”

“Really?” Hillary’s stomach slid to her feet.

Joan nodded. “Aye, about five years ago. He had her investigated so she’d be forced into an old age home.”

“Why?”
Please let it be out of concern for his poor, aging aunt.

“For Glendon House. After his father died, James felt the house should have been turned over to him. But David was very different than his son. A mild sort, kind and unpretentious. I suspect David was afraid James would toss Agnes out and leave the poor woman destitute. His fear wasnae unwarranted.”

The tiny ember of hope Bristol had sparked fizzled. “Obviously, his plan failed.”

Joan chuckled. “In the end the investigators found Agie as eccentric as ever, but of sound mind. That was it for James, though. She swore he would never be allowed into her home again."

James Douglas sounded like a real piece of work.

“And poor Caid,” Joan continued. “It’s a wonder he’s turned out as well as he has with that man for a father. Especially, after the trouble he’d fallen into.”

“Oh?” Hillary did not want to care, but her interest perked in spite of herself.

“Caid was a troubled lad and lived a wild life. Drinking, drugs, and running with a very rough crowd. He nearly killed himself in a car accident a few years back, broke his leg badly and wound up in a clinic to get off the drink. I’m pleased to see him doing so well for himself."

Hillary nodded and sipped her tea. She didn’t want to hear any more about Caid. She might have overreacted earlier, letting her fears connected to Randall influence her behavior. And the more she thought about it, the lousier she felt. Still, she wasn’t wholly in the wrong. He could have just apologized and left, instead of acting like a complete jerk.

"I've read both his books,” Joan continued. “They're quite good. Page turners. I'm looking forward to his third. Caid tells me it will be out in the autumn."

Hillary gritted her teeth and forced herself to pretend interest. "He writes suspense novels?"

"Aye. Tends to focus on the darker side of human nature. Riveting reading, though. Have you seen anything by him in Canada?"

"No." Hillary shrugged. "But I don't read a lot of fiction."

"I’m sure I've both his books here." Joan stood and went to the bookshelf behind her, bending to read the cracked spines of the paperbacks crammed tightly together. "I keep everything I’ve read. Good to have for guests on a rainy afternoon."

"You don't need to go to any trouble on my account." Hillary didn't have the heart to tell Joan that she'd rather have spikes hammered into her eyes than read anything Caid had written.

"It's no trouble. Ah, here it is." Joan slipped the book out. "This was his first."

Hillary smiled tightly as Joan handed her the novel. She pretended to scan the back before setting it on the table next to her. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. When you finish it, you must let me know what you think.”

“I’ll do that.”

"You and Caid might have a great deal in common."

What was that supposed to mean? "How so?"

"Well, you both write books."

"I write non-fiction for academic circles, he writes paperback novels." Damn, that sounded snotty.

"Aye, I suppose there is a difference." Joan's tone cooled considerably.

"I mean he's a story teller. What I do requires little creativity. The writing is quite dry and of almost no interest to anyone who didn't have an interest in the subject matter to begin with." Did that sound better?

"I'm sure you dinnae give yerself enough credit. I would think writing about the European Witch trials would be terribly interesting." Some of the warmth returned to Joan’s voice.

Hillary saw an opportunity to change the subject and jumped at it. “I think I found the tree where Anne was executed. I met a woman this afternoon who pointed it out to me.”

Joan frowned. “What woman?”

“Sarah Miller.”

Joan pursed her lips. “I know her gran.”

"There was someone else in the woods while I was out walking," Hillary said. Though why she would bring up the creepy people with the flashlights she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she hoped Joan could offer a comforting explanation.

“Really? Who?”

"I’m not sure, all I saw was their flashlights. And when I called out, no one answered "

"May have been the Witchlights."

Annoyance mingled with apprehension. "Witchlights?"

"Aye. Glendon Woods is a haunted place."

Hillary chuckled. "I don't believe in ghosts."

"That's entirely yer prerogative, but you likely saw one or two just the same. The lights have been seen in those woods for hundreds of years. Long before there were torches."

"Sounds like a great story for the tourists." Hillary offered a small smile.