by Dawn Brown
“Fabulous.” Finding herself the subject of gossip and speculation once more chilled her. Bad enough her interest in Anne Black and Roderick’s journals were under a microscope, but what if someone learned about Randall?
“I’m glad to see you didnae let Willie and those other fools chase you away. He’s all talk, you know? Empty threats an’ all.”
Goose bumps studded Hillary’s skin. Was Sarah right? Had everything Willie said that day in the pub merely been the act of a bully showing off in front of his friends? Or was the man capable of more? Could he have broken into Glendon House, left the poker on the table as some kind of warning, to chase her off, maybe?
The idea that he had been the one in the house with her, alone and isolated, left her light-headed.
“Are you all right?” Sarah’s voice softened with concern. “You’ve gone so pale.”
Hillary forced a smile and gave a careless wave. “I’m fine. Late night, that’s all. I’m just tired.”
Sarah crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. “Has he done something?”
“No,” Hillary said quickly. “No, of course not.”
Sarah eyed her shrewdly. “I’m no’ convinced. Have you been to the police?”
Even if Willie had been the person she’d heard inside the house, she had no proof. Hell, she couldn’t prove anyone had even been in the house, let alone who that person was. If she went to Bristol and Bristol went to Willie…
What might the man do if she were wrong?
Or if she were right?
Besides, anyone could have broken into Glendon House, and Bristol already didn’t consider her the most credible witness. He’d likely take her less seriously if she went around accusing people randomly and without proof. No, Willie Innes was one sleeping dog she’d do well to let lie.
“There’s nothing to go to the police about,” Hillary said, pleased to hear a little strength return to her voice, then tried for a change of subject. “Maybe you can help me with something. I’m looking to buy a coffeemaker.”
Sarah stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Well, you’ll no’ find one at any of the shops along here.”
“But you know where I could find one?”
“Aye, I do.” She wrote directions on a square of notepaper at the counter, then handed them to Hillary.
“Thanks,” Hillary said. “I guess I’m lucky to have run into you.”
Sarah chuckled. “I’d say so. But you must remember, if you need anything, you’ve a friend here.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
And she did, more than the other woman could ever know.
Caid stood in the open doorway and watched the builder’s truck rattle and shimmy down the long drive before disappearing into the woods. A cool sweat coated his skin as panic’s talons curled tight around his insides. The builder’s long and expensive list of must do’s replayed in his head, while the dim realization that he’d never leave Glendon House set in.
What had he been thinking, taking on this mess? The electrical was dangerous, the plumbing rotted, the roof needed sorted. Mould, rot, decay. The list went on and on.
His own meager earnings wouldn’t be enough to pay for all the repairs, even with the money Hillary was giving him. Not to replace virtually everything in this wreck and still maintain his flat in Edinburgh.
He went back inside, closed the door and leaned against it, his gaze sweeping from one side of the foyer to the other. This dump would eat the better part of his life.
That was it. Decision made. He’d sell the house. List the bloody thing today and take what he could get for it.
And while he waited for someone of questionable sanity to make an offer, he’d continue to do what he could to get the place into some semblance of order. He’d have to give up his flat, but he could live with that. It was just a flat, after all.
So why the crushing weight pressing down on his chest?
He returned to the study, settled behind the desk and turned on his laptop. He should be making the necessary calls to sublet his flat, and find an estate agent to help unload this heap.
He would, after a few more pages.
His fingers flew over the small keyboard and the world around him ebbed away. When the doorbell chimed out of tune, he stopped and glanced at the clock on the credenza. Nearly two o’clock. It must be Hillary back from the village--and locked out.
Annoyed, he drummed his fingers on the desktop. Was it too difficult for her to remember to take a key? Christ’s sakes, she’d been as bothered by their intruder as he had. Surely she would know he’d be keeping the doors locked.
The bell rang again. He cursed, stood and marched down the hall, ready to let loose a day’s worth of frustration, but when he yanked open the door the words died on his lips.
“Mum.”
She regarded him with eyes the same shade as his own, wary and annoyed. “Kincaid.” Her tone was cool, formal.
“What are you doing here?” He didn’t see his father in the drive or at the car. Good. A visit from that man was the last thing he needed. One from his mother was bad enough.
“May I come in?”
“Dad’s no’ with you?”
“No. May I come in?” Impatience edged her voice.
“Aye.” He nodded and stepped aside. She moved past him and strode into the hall. The door closed behind him, blotting out the daylight and leaving them alone in the dim foyer.
“Is there somewhere we could speak?”
What was she doing here, alone, without his father? “The study’s no’ bad, or the kitchen.”
Without another word, she turned and entered the study. She lowered herself onto the cracked, leather settee and sat stiff.
“What do you want?” he asked again, leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.
“You’ve done a lot of work, I see.”
He didn’t reply, but waited for the inevitable zinger. She didn’t disappoint. “Still, no’ as much I would have expected.”
“I could take you around the rest of the house so you could make your criticisms more specific.”
“That’ll no’ be necessary.” Her cool eyes surveyed him, measured him. Only once had she regarded him with something other than indifference, but instead of the hurt or gratitude he’d expected, there’d been rage. A brilliant fury directed at him--of all people. He hadn’t understood. At fourteen, he’d been quite naive.
“What brings you to my home?”
She sighed. “Yer reaction the day the will was read made me wonder if you might be willing to let Glendon House go.”
His heart accelerated and he struggled to keep his features as bland as hers. “Aye, I would. If the price was right.”
“I’d be willing to pay a reasonable sum, but yer father couldnae know about our arrangement.”
Aye, God forbid the old bastard think he’d had to pay for it. “I’m to tell him it’s a gift, then, out of the goodness of my heart?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly and for the first time Caid sensed hesitation. “He’d no’ accept a gift.”
“Then what will you tell him? That I’ve fallen off the face of the earth?”
“You’ll go to him and ask that he take the house from you. Tell him you cannae manage the work involved.”
Anger, fast and furious, surged through his veins. “Tell him I’ve failed at something else? Beg and grovel for him to save me from my own incompetence? Oh aye, he’d love that, now wouldnae he?”
“Dinnae be difficult. I’m willing to pay more than a fair sum for this house. You’ll know the truth. Why should it matter what he thinks?”
Why indeed? Accepting the offer would have him back in Edinburgh by the end of the day. His father already considered him barely above something he would scrape off his shoe. Telling him he couldn’t manage the house would only cement that belief.
And in that lay the crux of his dilemma.
The clunk of the front door opening cut through the silence. His mother frowned.
“I’m back.” Hillary’s voice floated in, light and lovely. “Caid, are you there?”
“In the study,” he called.
“I had to drive around most of Culcraig, but I finally found it,” Hillary said as she moved into the doorway, clutching a large box with a picture of a coffeemaker on the front. “No more instant--”
The wide smile on her face faltered as her gaze fell on his mother. “I’m sorry, I’m interrupting.”
“No’ at all.” Caid turned to his mother. Her eyes glittered like blue ice. She turned her fury on him and a perverse sort of joy filled him. At last, something other than indifference.
“What is she doing here?”
“That’s right, you’ve met Dr. Bennett havenae you? I’ve decided to honor Agnes’s agreement, allowing her to work with Great Granddad’s journals. The arrangement has proven advantageous to us both. Isnae that right, Hillary?”
She didn’t answer. When he looked at her, her mouth was set in a tight line. “This is clearly a private matter. I’m sorry to have interrupted.”
With a parting glare aimed at him, she turned and left.
“I’ll no’ have her here. I want her out and away from those books. We can only hope that yer father hasnae heard about this.”
“If I agree to your offer, the journals will no’ be included. I’ll give them to Hillary. I had an agreement with her, and I willnae break it."
“Unacceptable.”
“Aye, ye’re right,” he said, hating the stubborn pride pushing the words out. “The entire situation is unacceptable. I’m done playing the part of eternal fuck-up to feed his ego. If you want the house, make me an offer. A legitimate one.”
“This is so typical of you.” The words spewed from her mouth like venom. “You were never satisfied unless you had everything and everyone in an uproar. You were exhausting as a child, and now ye’re still that spoilt, selfish boy, only in a man’s body.”
“I’ve said all I’m going to about this. You have my terms.” Whatever delight pricking her anger had ignited was fading, leaving him tired and hollowed out.
“This is yer father’s birthright. Dinnae think you can keep him from it.”
“If you wantae buy my house, then you will meet my terms.”
“Ye’re making a mistake, Kincaid. And you’ll be sorry you did.” She stood and marched across the room, stopping at the door. After a deep breath, she faced him again. The bland expression had been fixed in place once more. “I’ll see myself out.”
He nodded, but said nothing as she left. A steady throb had developed at the base of his skull. What had he done? He’d been as good as gone, but pride had reared its ugly head.
So now, here he was, exactly where he’d started out. Trapped in a huge house ready to fall in around him.
“Sorry about that,” Caid said as walked into the kitchen.
Hillary pressed her lips together. Furious, she feared what she might say if she opened her mouth. Her fingers fumbled with the plastic basket as she struggled to put the coffeemaker together on the table.
Returning to Glendon House, she hadn’t been prepared for awkward family dysfunction, nor to be thrust into the middle of it. What a child Caid had been back there, waving her like a red flag before his mother. There had been no thought about her feelings or his mother’s, only his own gratification.
“Can I help?” he asked, slipping onto the bench opposite her.
“I can manage,” she bit out.
He eyed her warily. “Is something wrong?”
“Why should anything be wrong?” Ass.
He shrugged. “Why is it women always answer a question with a question instead of just explaining why it is they’re angry?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She slammed the basket down on the table before she winged it at his head. “I suppose it’s just our way of reconfirming how thick the opposite sex can be when it comes to recognizing their own moronic behavior.”
“I behaved like a moron?” His eyes darkened and a furious pleasure welled inside her.
“An immature moron, actually. The way you treated me and your mother was inexcusable.”
“How I treated her?” he sputtered. “Were it up to her, you’d be out on yer backside with no journals!”
“Don’t try to manipulate me.”
“By telling you the truth?”
“Here’s some truth for you. I will not be your latest weapon to stick it to your parents,” she said, trying to ignore the hurt quivering under layers of anger.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“You don’t drink anymore, and you can’t use that to get to them, so you’ve decided to wave me under their noses. Well, let me make something perfectly clear. I will not be used. Not in your little family feud, or anything else. Understood?”
“Aye.” His eyes, the color of cobalt, held hers. Then, without another word, he stormed out of the kitchen.
Hillary finished putting the coffee machine together and brewed herself a pot while replaying her argument with Caid in her head. She shouldn’t have brought up the drinking, it was a low blow. Even if it was true. His behavior where his parents were concerned was like a small child misbehaving to gain their attention.
The good news was that little performance seemed to have evaporated any attraction she’d foolishly felt. And there was no point in dwelling on the hollowness inside her. Maybe she was just hungry.
With a cup of real coffee in hand, she left the kitchen and started toward the stairs. Outside the study, she hesitated. The sharp clicking of Caid’s fingers moving furiously over the keyboard seeped through the closed door.
Venting had taken the edge off her anger. Maybe she should knock and force a resolution. They were living under the same roof, after all.
Why bother? This was a business arrangement of sorts. Perhaps some distance was better.
She climbed the stairs to her room and the journals. Standing in the doorway, she really took in the small space. Wardrobe, bureau and bed, there was nowhere for her to work. She needed a real workspace. A desk, decent light and, with any luck, a comfortable chair.
A quick search and she realized that these items might be harder to find than she’d thought. The study was her best choice, but Caid had already taken up permanent residence. The kitchen table was another option, but she’d have to pack her work up every time she and Caid wanted to eat.
There was that beautiful mahogany desk in the attic.
Within an hour, she’d shoved most of the clutter to one side. She found a floor and desk lamp--they cast a warm glow, giving a certain coziness to the room--and a throne-like armchair that, while a bit on the heavy side, was comfortable to sit on. Even the gabled window across from her offered a lovely view of the garden and forest between Glendon House and Joan’s inn.
Now, fresh coffee in hand, Hillary settled behind the desk and opened the first volume of the journals.
She worked until the room darkened and long shadows lengthened on the far walls. Standing, she stretched--her back making an alarming popping sound--and glanced at her watch. Good Lord, she’d been at it for nearly four hours and barely transcribed a quarter of the first book.
Roderick’s handwriting was small and faded, and she often had to reread lines in order to be sure she was correct. Now, with bleary eyes, all she’d really discovered about Roderick Douglas was that the man had a love of lists--he made them for almost everything--and an ego so large she couldn’t imagine it fitting into this house.
In his painfully dull entries, dealing mainly with his investments, there was an almost self-righteous indignation in h
is tone, a sense of superiority.
She moved to the window and peered out over the darkening garden and the forest. Anne’s stone stood out stark and pale against the tangled trees.
The Witch’s Stone.
Poor, persecuted Anne. What had she done to invite such a terrible fate?
Hillary returned to her desk and worked long into the night, until her eyes grew tired from the faded print and her wrists ached from hovering over the keyboard. She was about to put the book down and turn in for the night, but the next entry caught her eye.
I was forced to chase a trespasser off my land today. A woman, in ragged dress, yet young beneath the layers of filth. She didn’t speak, but watched me from the edge of the wood. After a time, I approached her. When I spoke, she did not reply, whether from inability or disinclination I cannot say, but I found the experience unnerving. Her stare was empty. I insisted she leave my property or face charges. She gave me a slight smile. I do not mind confiding that the expression chilled me. There was something wrong with the woman, and I hope to never see her again.
Hillary looked at the date. October 3, 1914. Anne had been hanged in April 1915. Could this woman, who had so disturbed Roderick, be Anne Black?
Goose bumps raced over her skin and she shivered from a sudden chill. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end with the sense that she was being watched.
She lifted her gaze to the window, even though she knew she was too high up for anyone to see in.
With her heart beating rapidly against her chest for no good reason, she stood and moved closer to the window. In the dark, she could see nothing of the garden below, just the shadowy outline of the trees. Something bright caught her eye. A tiny light danced and bobbed along the edge of the forest.
Joan’s witchlights?
Nonsense.
Still, her skin crawled and the feeling of someone watching remained.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Hillary found Caid sitting at the kitchen table with his tea and a novel, a plate dusted with toast crumbs shoved to one side. He glanced up as she entered, but said nothing and returned his attention to the book.