The Witch's Stone (5 page)

After a quick bite at the inn, Caid went to Glendon House with Alex. In twenty years, the exterior had changed remarkably little. The gardens were overgrown and wild, but Caid suspected as Agnes had aged and her finances dwindled, she’d slowly lost the battle to keep the old place up.

Inside was much the same. A thick layer of dust covered the furniture and dark wood paneling on the walls. The air smelled heavily of age and decay.

Alex led him to the study, where his parents had taken up residence. Here, the furniture had been cleaned, the chemical odor of the polish strong in the small space. His father sat on a worn settee, reading a large leather-bound volume from the bookshelves behind him, his small wireless glasses perched at the tip of his nose.

Caid’s mother wrote at the secretary in the corner. Likely, some personal note to one of her pretentious friends, thanking them for attending whatever boring function she’d arranged to fill her dull day.

“Any word from the solicitor?” Alex asked, sitting at the opposite end of the settee. Caid stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall by the door, mentally willing the day to be over.

“No.” James set the book aside. “How goes the writing?”

It took Caid a moment to realize James was speaking to him.

“Fine. Though, I wasnne able to get much done yesterday or today.”

“I once harbored a secret dream that my son would one day become a giant in the literary world.”

And which son could you have hoped that for?

“It seems a sort of cosmic joke that a child I raised would turn out to be a hack paperback writer instead.”

The words, meant to sting, had surprisingly little effect on him. Perhaps James was losing his touch.

“I wouldnae worry on it for long,” Caid said. “You had very little to do with my raising.”

“That’s what you tell people, isnae it?” His mother stood, her usually serene expression hard and accusing. “That you’ve turned out as you have because of yer father and me.”

“I find I have little interest discussing either of you with anyone.” What had he been thinking? Even seeing his father lose Glendon House wasn’t worth this.

Her face relaxed and she once again sat down. His father lifted his book.

He’d been dismissed. James had managed to get in his dig, made sure Caid understood nothing had been forgotten--or forgiven--and now he was supposed to just fade away. Disappear.

Again.

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Caid demanded, suddenly furious. “After eight years, that’s it?”

“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m no’ eager to re-establish a relationship with my twelve-step son.”

This time the words hit like a well-aimed blow to the stomach, taking his breath away.

“Dad,” Alex snapped.

“It’s no’ worth it, Alex,” Caid said. Nothing would ever change between him and his parents. He’d pushed too far, too hard. After all he’d done, there’d never be any going back.

“Are you sleeping with her?” Gone was his father’s superior tone, in its place cool, angry suspicion.

“Who?” Caid asked, confused.

“Hillary Bennett.”

“I spoke to her for about five minutes last night, that’s all.”

“Yes or no?”

“What business is it of yers? As you say, you’ve no interest in yer
twelve-step son
, anyway.”

“You embarrassed yer father in front of that horrible woman and the Inspector.” His mother smoothed her dark hair. “Airing our private business. By now half of Culcraig will be speaking of it.”

“You know what she’s after,” his father continued, ignoring his mother. Caid’s head started to spin until he thought it might explode. “She wants those journals. That’s what she’s doing, cozying up to you.”

“There’s no cozying going on.”

The doorbell chimed, warbly and out of tune.

“I’ll get it,” Alex said. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

“Both of you stop now.” His mother sat next to his father. “There’s no need for Mr. Lawrence to know our personal business.”

“Know this.” James snarled and jabbed a finger at Caid. “If she’s left you Glendon House, I’ll contest the will until my dying day. This house is mine by right.”

Caid rolled his eyes.

Alex returned to the study. A tall, skinny man with thick glasses atop a short stub nose followed a few steps behind. Introductions were made, and Mr. Lawrence sat on the cracked leather settee opposite Caid’s parents.

He opened his black briefcase, removed a legal size envelope and tipped it slightly so the contents slid into his hands. After clearing his throat, he read from the papers before him.

Alex had been named executor with a small trust set aside for him. Agnes left some things that had once been Caid’s grandfather’s to his father.

“Glendon House, its property and all contents, except for the previously mentioned…”

Lawrence lifted his eyes from the papers. James leaned forward, practically salivating.

“…is given and bequeathed to Kincaid Samuel Douglas.”

The breath sucked from Caid’s lungs as if he’d been kicked in the gut. This had to be a joke. What did he want with this crumbling mausoleum?

His mother covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide. His father glared furiously before standing and pacing the room.       “I’ll contest it. This house should be mine.”

Alex snorted. “On what grounds? You yerself had Agnes’s competency verified when you had her investigated.”

James’s face reddened with fury. “This is yer doing. You encouraged her to leave it to him.”

“She wanted Caid to have Glendon House, and more importantly, she didnae want the property to go to you. I merely assured her that I’d see her wishes carried out.”

“It doesnae matter, Scots Law--”

“Agnes had no children of her own. Scots Law doesnae apply,” Alex cut in.

“I should have been given the house when my own father died.”

“Scots Law states that ye’re entitled to half yer father’s estate. You received that and more. If you take this to court, you willnae have a leg to stand on. And if yer planning on trying to drain Caid financially, he’ll have my backing.”

James glared, his eyes nearly bulging from his head. Caid stood and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, panic flooding his system. Why in the hell was Alex arguing for him, anyway?  

“I dinnae want it,” he said, and all eyes turned his way. “What would I do with a dilapidated old house in the middle of nowhere? Can I sell it?”

“Yes, of course,” Lawrence said. “The property is yers to do with as you please.”

“You’ll no’ sell this house.” His father’s voice was like an explosion, shaking the floor where they stood.

“If ye’re nice,” Caid said, struggling for calm. “I’ll sell it to you for a very reasonable sum.”

“I’ll no’ give you a penny for what’s mine.”

“That’s a shame. Well, if you change yer mind…”

“How could you do this?” His mother asked Alex, her eyes narrowing. “How could you do this to yer own parents?”

Alex’s expression was unusually hard. “It’s a bloody house, that’s all. Yer house in Edinburgh is better appointed than this.”

“It’s yer father’s birthright!”

“Good God, we’re no’ the bloody royal family.”

Caid almost snickered. He might have if his voice hadn’t somehow become locked in his throat.

Lord save him, what would he do with this place? The house was practically falling apart. He could sell it, but who would want it? And how long would that take? What had Alex been thinking, helping that crazy old woman leave him this heap? He had enough anchors around his neck.  He didn’t need another.

Caid glanced at the cracked plaster moldings, stained wood floors and ugly faded furnishings. The weight of one very large house-shaped anchor pressed down on him.

James grabbed Caid’s arm and yanked him around to face him.

“It’s mine,” his father ground out, frigid hate swirling in his dark blue eyes, “and by God, I will have it back.”

Bristol dropped Hillary at the inn, honking once as he started down the long drive. She lifted her arm and waved, then turned toward the door.

Behind the big stone lodge, the setting sun leaked through cracks in the black clouds, turning their edges gold. A soft breeze whispered about her and she could almost smell spring.

She used to love that fresh, clean scent. The first hint that winter was over and summer on the way. At one time, it had filled her with a restless sort of excitement. Not anymore. Now, the smell left her cold.

Like everything else since Randall. 

Why did she have to go and think about him? But after that episode in the pub, how she could she not?

Most of the anger and defeat she’d felt had dissipated, leaving only the sad reality that she’d failed. Failed Anne and herself. She’d leave Scotland sometime in the next few days as empty-handed as when she’d arrived. More so. The tiny glimmer of hope she’d come with had been snuffed out, and all she had left was the question,
What now?

She would never be able to convince James Douglas to allow her to read the journals. Most people in the village wanted to see her as far from Culcraig as possible. She had no allies here. The only people who’d been at all helpful and kind were Bristol and Joan.

And Caid.

As much as she hated to admit it, she was feeling more than a little guilty for snapping at him at the funeral. He’d only tried to help, after all. And since that very unpleasant confrontation in the pub, should she really be turning away anyone who might be on her side, even remotely? 

With the thought nagging at the back of her brain, she opened the door. Inside, the air was warm and fragrant with whatever Joan was making for dinner.

Hillary climbed the stairs to her room, but the banging and shuffling from behind the door across the hall stopped her. Caid would likely be leaving tomorrow. She should apologize for being so rude now, in case she didn’t get the chance later.

She knocked twice, and with a muffled curse, the door swung inward, Caid’s lean frame filling the opening. Behind him, his wrinkled suit lay in a heap on the floor. He'd changed into a faded pair of blue jeans and black T-shirt. His suitcase lay open on the bed as if he were in the midst of packing.

"What is it?" he snapped.

Hillary took an involuntary step back. Gone was the mildly bemused humor that usually made up his expression, instead his features were taut with anger. His eyes, the color of the ocean, stormed with emotion.

"Um…I just…um…I wanted to apologize for snapping at you this afternoon."

His straight brows rose doubtfully and he folded his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. "You do?"

"Yes. I was embarrassed, but that's really no excuse for being so rude. Especially when you were only trying to help."

"Aye, I was. Tell me, Hillary, what's brought about this sudden change of heart?"   

Was he making fun of her? "After I had some time to consider the situation from your perspective, I found my behavior, well, lacking. I figured you'd be leaving tomorrow and wanted a chance to tell you I was sorry."

"That's very kind.” His mouth twisted into a smirk. “I'm starting to believe my father had the right about you, after all."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tell me how far would you be willing to go to get a look at those journals?"

She shook her head. "I don't know why I bothered."

As she started to turn away, he shot his hand out and locked his fingers around her wrist. A tiny jolt raced up her arm. "I do. And you still havenae answered my question. So let's see just how far ye’re willing to go."

He lowered his head and before she could say anything else, his mouth closed over hers.

For a moment, coherent thought fled. Caid’s lips, warm and firm, and the small pool of heat forming in her lower belly were all that penetrated her limited awareness.

His free hand cupped her cheek, slid into her hair and cradled the back of her head. With his teeth, he nipped at her lower lip. He stepped forward, pressing himself against her length, sending a shiver through her body. She started to lift her arm, to wrap it around his neck, but the weight of his hand, still clamped around her wrist, stopped her.

Panic burst inside her like a silvery flare.

She shoved him back with her free hand. "Are you
drunk
?"

Caid smiled. "Further than I thought, but no’ as far as I would have liked."

"You're certifiable."

"You kissed me back."

"A momentary lapse in judgment, I assure you." She just wished she could do something to stop the heat climbing her neck and spreading into her cheeks. "Are you always so difficult? I came to apologize."

"You came to make another try for yer precious journals."

"That is offensive on so many levels. But ignoring that, your theory doesn't hold water."

"Really? Enlighten me." His tone and indulgent smile grated on her nerves.

"Frankly, you and your father don't seem terribly close. Somehow, I don't think you have much influence there."

He frowned. "But it's mine."

Why did she feel like she was missing out on a chunk of this conversation? "The journals?"

"All of it. The house, the journals, all of it." He paled a little as he spoke.

"But Bristol said your father--"

"Aye, he thought so, too. Guess you were nice to the wrong Douglas."

"That's why you thought I apologized? Because I found out you inherited everything?"

"Didnae you?"

"No."

"Forgive me if I find yer apology suspect, when no’ three hours ago you were telling me to piss off."

"You can take my apology and stick it--"

"My goodness, and here I thought you were an academic, intellectually superior to the rest of us and above using such common language."

"You have issues," she said, and turned away, shaking her head.