by Dawn Brown
Joan did love her spooky legends. Not that Hillary minded. She’d always found local folklore fascinating. She enjoyed comparing the similarities and differences from one region to another, the mix of fact and hearsay.
The question was, how much of Anne’s legend was fact, and how much was simply a good tale for the tourists? Without those journals Hillary would never know.
A woman named Anne Black had been tried and acquitted of arson and vandalism charges in 1915, but what had driven a group of men to turn vigilante and string her up despite the court’s decision?
While belief in witchcraft was not unheard of in some rural areas of Britain even into the early twentieth century, Hillary had never heard of a case coming to such an extreme end. Agnes had promised that Roderick’s journals would explain everything, but the odds of actually getting to see those journals were growing slim.
A flash in the gloom caught her eye and she stopped walking. A small light, there for an instant, then it was gone.
What the hell?
Another flash, this one a little left of the first. She narrowed her gaze. A round yellow glow shone through the trees like the beam from a flashlight.
Was there someone else in the woods?
The light disappeared.
Her heart rate kicked up and a shivery cold, slick and horribly familiar, settled over her. She struggled to pull herself together. So what if she wasn’t alone? Surely, other people walked in this forest. But rational thinking did little to calm the swell of panic expanding inside her chest.
The light returned, closer this time. There had to be someone out there, coming toward her, but she couldn’t see anyone.
“Hello?” she called out.
No answer, and the light vanished again.
Hillary turned to start back to the inn, but froze. Another light had appeared directly behind her, so close she had to squint against the brightness. She peered into the forest murk, but couldn’t see anyone past the bright yellow glow.
“Very funny,” she shouted, forcing her voice to sound mildly annoyed rather than filled with the terror coursing through her.
No answer.
Two people, one on either side of her, and neither of them spoke. Surely, if she were dealing with a couple of hikers one would have said something by now. She started away from both lights, remembering Agnes, bloody and broken.
As she walked, the sensation of being watched slithered up her spine. With her jaw clenched tight, she struggled to keep from running. Ahead of her, the trees thinned. She could make out the large stone walls of a house. Where was she?
A branch snapped to her right.
Close, too close.
She picked up her pace to a half jog, glancing over her shoulder as she came to the edge of the trees, then struck something solid. The impact sent her stumbling backward. A tiny yelp escaped her as she slipped on the wet ground. She landed with a splat on her backside, jarring her entire body.
A fresh wave of panic washed over her. She tensed, waiting for whoever had been following to pounce.
Nothing.
On a trembling exhale, the tension gripping her eased. She glanced around to be sure she was truly alone, and her gaze fell on a small woman pushing herself up from the muddy ground.
“I am so sorry.” On rubbery legs, Hillary stood and scrambled over to the woman. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Dinnae worry yerself, I’m fine,” the woman said, sitting back on her knees. Hillary guessed the woman to be close to her own age of thirty-two, maybe a few years younger. Mud and bits of yellow grass clung to her brown corduroy coat. The wind whipped her dark red hair about her head as she peered up at Hillary. “You must be the writer.”
Hillary shook her head. “History professor.” Not anymore. “I’m Hillary Bennett.” She held out her hand.
“Sarah Miller.” She took Hillary’s hand and let Hillary help her up.
“I’m so sorry about this.”
Sarah smiled. “Just a wee bit of dirt, really. No harm done. Ye’re here to write about Anne?”
Hillary frowned. “You know about that?”
“Aye, Culcraig’s a small village, and with what happened to poor Agnes…”
Of course, no doubt people were talking. Nausea swirled in Hillary’s belly at the idea that she was once again fodder for gossip.
“So are you writing a book about Anne?”
Sarah’s question interrupted her dark thoughts. A book had been the hope. Who knew what the reality would be? “I came to see Agnes’s journals. If there had been any truth to her claims, I might have considered something more.”
“That Anne was a witch?”
“That Anne was hanged as a witch.”
Sarah chuckled. “One and the same, really. Did you see the journals?”
“No. Do you actually believe Anne was a witch?
“Anne had a gift. She tried to help the people of Culcraig, but they were ignorant to her ways.”
A very different version of the legend Hillary had heard so far. According to most of Culcraig, Anne had been in league with the devil, cursing her neighbors, and bringing death and destruction to the whole village.
“What gift was that?”
Sarah sat on a boulder next to her. “She could see curses, and lift them.”
More local lore. Were she not cold, soaking, and deeply embarrassed, she might have enjoyed hearing more. “That would make Anne a cunning woman. She would have been revered in the village. They never would have hanged her as a witch. She would have been their protection from witches.”
The corners of Sarah’s mouth pulled into a slight smile. “Ignorance and fear make people do horrid things. What were you running from the now?”
Heat stung Hillary’s cheeks. “I wasn’t running.”
“Nor were you walking.”
“I saw someone with a flashlight and I thought they were following me,” she admitted. Her cheeks burned hotter. It sounded weak, even to her.
Concern darkened Sarah’s eyes. “Who did you see?”
“I actually didn’t see anyone. Just the flashlight.”
“Hmm.” Sarah’s lips thinned. “Perhaps it was Anne following you.”
Great, Sarah was making fun of her. Well, no more than she deserved for sending the poor woman sprawling into the mud.
“I think I’ll head back. Sorry about that.” She pointed to mud streaking Sarah’s coat. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned.”
“You dinnae believe me?” Sarah’s smile widened as if she knew the punch line to a joke she’d yet to tell. “Look around you, Hillary. Do you no’ see where you are?”
Hillary’s gaze followed Sarah’s sweeping arm. The stone dwelling she’d seen as she burst from the trees was now clearly visible over the wide expanse of tangled grass.
Glendon House.
“And this.” Sarah pointed to the gnarled tree next to the boulder, ancient and brittle, without so much as a bud to hint at life within the twisted branches.
“Are you trying to tell me that this is the tree where Anne was hanged?”
Sarah nodded and she patted the pale rock beneath her. “It’s The Witch’s Stone.”
“To mark the place of execution.” Hillary couldn’t keep the awe from her voice as she placed her hand on the cold, smooth stone. Could this actually be the location of Anne’s death?
Sarah chuckled. “Still so sure it wasnae Anne you saw in the woods?”
At that moment, Hillary wasn’t sure of anything.
Caid signed the registry and gave Joan his credit card. His eyes stung in protest as he forced them to remain open. He'd managed a little sleep in the car, but Alex had insisted on talking to him a good portion of the drive. Now his head and shoulders ached with exhaustion.
"It's sorry I am about Agnes," Joan said, as she ran his card through the little black machine for confirmation. She smiled at him, at least he thought she did. The corners of her mouth naturally turned down so even whe
n she smiled she looked to be frowning. "Such a shame. It's good you've come home to see her laid to rest, though. Family should be together at a time like this."
Caid wasn't so tired that he missed her probing. Raised in Edinburgh, Culcraig had never been his home. As a child, there’d been a few dutiful visits to Glendon House, but Agie had hated his father, so she’d made their stay as unpleasant as possible.
Perhaps it was his father's proprietary view of her home that had made her such a misery to be around. Caid imagined his father demanding explanations for any missing or moved items had irked the old woman.
Well, if she’d left the house to some religious cult that would show him, wouldn’t it? The idea pleased Caid immensely.
As for his family being together during this difficult time, surely Joan noticed he was registering here, while his mother, father and brother stayed together at Glendon House.
"I've read yer books," Joan continued. "And I think they’re marvelous."
"Thank you." He offered a hint of a smile.
"It makes all of Culcraig proud to know one of our own has such a talent."
"That’s kind of you to say, but I think--"
"Oh, this blasted machine," Joan snapped. "The slightest weather and it acts up."
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!
Chapter Three
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 feelin
gs 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.”