The Witch's Stone (9 page)

Why would it return for rude and moody Caid? Granted, he was attractive and he did have that accent. She’d always been a sucker for an accent.

So what? He still wasn’t her type. Obnoxious with a questionable past. No, she preferred quiet men, thoughtful, professional.

It was geography, nothing more.

Being here, in another country, had given her some space from the events of the past two years. Now things like desire were returning. Her interest in Caid was based on proximity. He was the only man around. If she were surrounded by attractive men, no doubt he would be the last man she’d choose.

The same was probably true for him. He had admitted that the only reason she was even here was to help finance his renovations. And she’d only accepted because she needed the journals to write her book.

All the more reason Caid was a poor choice for a romantic interlude. She couldn’t afford distractions. He was simply a means to an end.

She was simply a means to an end, and he’d be wise to remember that. As hot water ran down his skin in a sad sort of piss trickle from the badly stained showerhead, Caid closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

Hillary’s image floated before him, her eyes dark and haunting, her lips parted, waiting to be kissed. Caid popped his eyes open and shut the hot water off entirely, letting the cold spray hit his skin like tiny shards of ice.

There, that would teach him.

Satisfied his libido was back under control, he turned off the water, pushed back the cracked, yellowed curtain and stepped out of the cast iron tub.

Messing about with Hillary would be a mistake. She wasn’t his type. He had no patience for temperamental bossy women--who no doubt after a decent shag would spoil the moment by looking to
define their relationship
. Or wonder
where they were headed as couple
. He rubbed his skin vigorously with a worn towel. For him, a shag was a shag. Good fun for both parties and nothing more.

Hillary was the commitment sort. He knew one when he saw one. Probably controlling, too. Look how bossy she was just now. She thought there was a bloody madman in the house and she still needed to lecture on the pros and cons of their chosen search pattern.

Aye, well, the hell with that. He’d no’ be foolish enough to tangle himself with the likes of her. He just had to remember to look past the pretty package. Past the long smooth frame. Past the perfectly curved backside. Past those misty eyes.

And for God’s sakes, stop thinking about her in her underwear.

He yanked on a pair of jeans and a heavy blue sweater before leaving the bathroom. When he would have gone back downstairs, the sound of shuffling paper from the other end of the hall stopped him.

He followed the noise until he reached Agnes’s room. Hillary sat cross-legged in the middle of the bare wood floor, a thin hardcover book open on her lap. A tiny smile played at the corners of her lips.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

She looked up at him, the smile still in place, and he wished he’d just continued downstairs. With her expression open and unguarded, she was quite lovely.

“I think this was your aunt’s room.”

He cleared his throat before he spoke. “It was.”

“This is a book of accounts.” She lifted the book to show the word in gold emboss on the faux leather cover. “But she didn’t record financial accounts. It looks like a long list of people who’d slighted her.”

He chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. “I suppose the whole list consists of my father’s name.”

“Not in this one, but she has a whole box full. This book seems fairly current. Look, I’m in here.” Again she turned the book so he could see, but from where he sat he could only make out scribbles on the page.

“What does she have written beside yer name?”

“Miss-Too-Big-For-Her-Britches couldn’t find the time to speak to me on the telephone. And after all I’ve done,” she read. “It looks like I was forgiven, though, there’s a line through it. Maybe after she’d convinced me to pay more to stay here.”

“Am I in there?”

“Not so far. When did you last speak to her?”

“When I was ten.”

“Judging by the number of people she has written in here, she probably didn’t have time for old slights. Listen to this one about Bristol. Pudding Constable thinks I’m a crazy old woman.”

“My God, everyone she ever met must be in those books.”

They laughed as she closed the ledger and set it back in the box.

A means to an end, he reminded himself, not liking the easy conversation, or that she looked so damn pretty covered in dust, her hair pulled away from her face in a sloppy twist.

“What are you doing in here, anyway?”

His tone must have been sharper than he intended. A hint of wariness filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I never thought to ask if you minded.”

“I dinnae.” He felt like an ass. “I just wondered why you wound up here instead of with the journals.”

“I haven’t found them yet. I tore apart that study.” She hesitated, as if uncertain. “I hope that was all right?”

“I promise you, I’ve no emotional attachment to anything here.”

She nodded. “Anyway, the journals aren’t in the study. But they were special to Agnes, so I thought maybe she’d bring them up here. Keep them close to her.”

“A reasonable assumption. Any luck?”

“Not yet, but there are plenty of places to look. I did wonder if your father might have taken them with him?”

“He might have had he been on his own, but there’s no chance Alex would have let him. Besides, he didnae know about our arrangement.”

She nodded and stood, stretching as she did. “When I went through the study, I found some papers you might be interested in. I put them in the top drawer of the desk. And I piled stuff that I thought you’d throw out near the door. You might want to go through it again, though.  Maybe you’ll want some of those things, after all.”

“Thank you.” Bossy and controlling, she was just trying to hide it beneath layers of helpful and nice, but he wouldn’t be fooled. “I think I’ll fix myself something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“No, I ate something just before you got back. I saved some of the stuff Joan sent over. The basket’s in the fridge.”

“Ta.” Oh, she was a clever one.

She dreamed of Randall again. Or at least the nightmare started off about him. But this time, when she came down the stairs, instead of finding Randall lying dead on the dining room floor, she found the fireplace poker gleaming bright and hard in a growing puddle of red.

“Hillary.” The whispered voice woke her abruptly, dragging her from the dream, leaving her disoriented in the nearly pitch black room.

“Wake up Hillary, yer dreaming, love.” A gentle hand stroked her hair.

Caid.

“I’m awake,” she murmured. Heat stole into her face. Thank God for the dark. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I couldnae sleep. Then I heard you crying.”

“I had a nightmare.” Her eyes started to adjust to the dark and she could make out the shadowy outline of his profile.

“Aye, you did.” His voice was so smooth, so gentle. Part of her wanted to run and hide with embarrassment, but another part of her wanted to curl against him, absorb some of his warmth and strength.

She sat up, forcing him to move back, and fought the tremors rippling through her body. She reached for the lamp next to her bed and flicked the switch, filling the room with weak light. A cold, damp sweat slicked her skin and her thin cotton tank-top and striped pajama bottoms clung to her as she kicked herself free of the blankets tangled around her legs.

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” she muttered without meeting his eyes.

“You didnae. Are you all right?”

She nodded and Caid thought she was anything but. She still shook badly and her eyes were a little wild and glassy. He wanted to reach for her, but feared she would break if he did.

“What was the dream about?” he asked.

She shook her head and knelt next to her suitcase. “I don’t remember.”

He frowned and she looked away, searching through her neatly folded clothes. She pulled a faded red sweatshirt over her head before leaving the room.

With a sigh, Caid fell back onto the bed. Her sweet feminine scent drifted up from her still-warm blankets. Something coiled tight inside him.

He should sell this heap as it was, take what he could get for it and run. Hillary could have the journals, then he’d send her packing, too.

But that was a stupid knee-jerk decision, and he didn’t make those anymore.

No, he’d stick with his plan, and in the meantime, he would just stay away from Hillary. Avoid her whenever possible.

A good place to start would be by getting off her bed.

It was nearly noon when Hillary emerged from Agnes’s room, frustrated and disillusioned. She’d spent most of the morning searching through the clutter for Roderick’s journals, and still hadn’t found them. Every day that went by without them was a day closer to having to return home empty-handed, the whole trip a waste of time and money. 

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t really eaten today. Unless she counted a cup of the world’s worst instant coffee--which she didn’t.

She went downstairs to the kitchen, passing the study on her way. The sharp, rhythmless clack of fingers on a computer keyboard seeped through the closed door. Relief drew some of the tension from her shoulders.

Caid was back and busy at work. She’d have a little more time to figure out what she was going say to him.

Miraculously, she’d managed to avoid him for most of the morning. He’d been gone when she woke, leaving her a brief note in the kitchen that he’d driven to the village for groceries.

Just thinking about last night’s performance made her face hot. She must have looked absolutely pitiful. The memory of his warm hand stroking her cheek, his body heat so close to her on the bed sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with nerves.

She had to stop thinking about him like that.

Besides, she had more pressing concerns; like how to deflect any questions her behavior last night might have inspired. She didn’t even want to think about Caid’s reaction if she told him about Randall.

For a moment, Michael’s narrowed, accusing stare, his face tight with suspicion, flashed in her mind. Cold fear tangled around her insides like an icy ribbon. She didn’t want to see that same expression clouding Caid’s face. And she didn’t want to analyze
that
feeling, either.

Maybe she’d be able to get away with pretending nothing had happened last night, and if that didn’t work, a short “thank you for your kindness” should be sufficient. If he persisted in asking her about the dream, she would shrug him off. Everyone had nightmares from time to time. He need not know hers were recurring because she’d killed a man.

What if she had the dream again? This had been the second night in a row.

She gave herself a mental shake. No point in worrying about something she couldn’t change. Instead, she continued on to the kitchen and fixed herself something from the now well-stocked fridge and pantry. 

She’d just taken a huge bite of her ham sandwich when the warbly doorbell chimed. Still chewing, she hurried down the hall to answer it, but Caid had beaten her there. He held the door and stepped aside so Bristol could enter.

“Thanks for coming,” Caid said, shaking the big man’s hand.

“Hullo Hillary,” Bristol said.

She could only half-smile and nod, while trying to swallow the ridiculous amount of food in her mouth.

“Hungry?” Caid muttered from beside her. His brows drew together in a mildly disgusted frown.

She gulped the mouthful down, wishing she’d had the chance to pour herself something to drink and the forethought to bring it with her. “Yeah. So?”

So much for the awkward moment she’d envisioned. Everything was back exactly as it had been. And thank goodness. So why the tiny kernel of annoyance? She should be relieved to find Caid as surly as ever. Just like nothing had happened. Just like she wanted.

“When did you call Bristol?” she asked.

“This morning, before I left.”

Caid led Bristol into the study and Hillary followed. He’d been hard at work while she’d been upstairs. All the books had been pulled from the shelves, the deep wood paneling gleamed, and fresh paint covered the walls. The chilly breeze wafting through the open window couldn’t completely mask the caustic odors of paint and wood polish.

But somewhere along the way, despite his hard work, Caid had wound up at the desk, typing on his laptop. For some reason, the image made her smile. Maybe because she’d found herself doing the same thing back when she and Michael had been renovating the farmhouse.

A sudden pang gripped her heart, as sometimes happened when she thought of life before Randall.

“I understand you had a bit of excitement yesterday,” Bristol began, lowering his girth onto the settee. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Caid leaned against the desk and folded his arms over his chest. “Hillary heard someone in the house.”

“You did?” Bristol asked.

“Yes. I was upstairs going through some boxes when I heard footsteps followed by a loud bang. At first, I thought Caid had come back--”

“Caid wasnae here? You were alone?”

“That’s right.”

“It must have been a wee bit upsetting to be in this house on yer own after finding Agnes no’ so long ago.”

She didn’t like the implication. Why was it so much easier to believe she was somehow emotionally unstable, than someone had actually broken into the house? “I was fine.”

Bristol nodded “Go on.”

Hillary described the previous night’s events. When she finished, Bristol frowned. “You think whoever was in yer house left the poker on the kitchen table?”

She sighed inwardly. It sounded so silly when he put it like that. “Yes. I ate dinner in the kitchen about half an hour earlier, and there was no poker.”