by Dawn Brown
So, he still wasn’t speaking to her. Fine, she’d just ignore him right back.
As she started a pot of coffee, she could feel the weight of his gaze, but pretended not to notice. The rain pelting the windows and the gurgling of the coffee machine were the only sounds in the kitchen.
At last, he stood and took his plate to the sink, then left the room with his cup and book. Some of the tension ebbed away once he’d gone, and she sank into one of the rickety kitchen chairs while she waited for the coffee to brew.
She didn’t like this new animosity between them. Nor the niggling doubt that she’d crossed the line by bringing up his drinking.
Oh, get over it. It wasn’t like they were friends. They had a business relationship and whatever civility went with sharing accommodations with a virtual stranger. If he wanted to sulk, she’d let him.
She stood and poured herself a cup of coffee, then went to the attic, locking herself away with the journals. She spent the better part of the day poring over the first book, doing her best to transcribe the faded text onto her computer, and then, at last, pay dirt.
That strange woman returned today. I spotted her as I took a turn about the grounds. She hid at the edge of the woods, watching me. She was as ragged as ever, but at least clean. When I approached her, she held her ground and met my gaze with an insolence I found completely unacceptable. This time when I demanded she tell me who she was, she replied. Her name is Anne.
Hillary’s breath hitched in her throat. Anne. At last she’d found her.
She is Radcliffe’s tenant and would answer no other questions beyond where she lived. She claimed to fear for me. That a curse hung over me and she would do what she could. Have you ever heard such nonsense?
A curse. Was this what had led to the talk of witchcraft? Was this why she’d been accused of murder and vandalism? Was that one simple statement what had caused a town to vilify and eventually murder her? And who was Radcliffe?
Hillary closed the book and ran her fingers over the cover, worn smooth from use and time. In these pages lay moments and incidents, small and uneventful on their own, like fine woven strands of a spider’s web, becoming more intricate until reaching the pinnacle of that fateful night.
For a moment, she thought of Randall. She and Anne were not all that dissimilar. How was she to know that a young man’s dreamy stares in her classroom would end in his grisly death and her arrest? And how could Anne have known that something as small as mentioning a curse in conversation would lead to a group of men dragging her from her home, and stringing her up?
Too tired to continue, she pushed the book aside and started downstairs. Once on the main floor, the scent of fresh paint mingled with the caustic odor of some sort of cleaner stung her nose. She passed a small parlor, cleaned and painted, the ancient furniture shoved into a heap in the middle of the room.
Caid had been hard at work this morning. But outside the closed study door the now familiar staccato of his fingers on the keyboard drifted through the heavy oak.
She lifted her hand to knock, but stopped herself. They were barely speaking. She doubted he’d appreciate being interrupted just to answer her questions about the name Radcliffe. Besides, as he’d reminded her on several occasions, he’d only been a boy the last time he’d been to Culcraig. Odds were, he wouldn’t be able to help her anyway.
She glanced at her watch as she continued down the hall to the kitchen. At nearly five o’clock, the historical society would be closed. Not that they’d be much help; Hillary was still waiting for that pinched-faced biddy to let her know about viewing records from the year Anne had died. So who, then?
Joan.
The answer seemed so obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of her earlier? Joan specialized in village history. And if Hillary made the trip now, she might get something to eat besides canned soup for dinner. That alone would make the trip worthwhile.
There was another car in the gravel lot when Hillary arrived. Guests. Of all the bad luck. With Joan hard at work making her customers comfortable, she’d likely be too busy to answer Hillary’s questions. She should have called first.
Still, Hillary couldn’t quite bring herself to turn around and head back. All that waited for her at Glendon House was a meal with lousy food and grunts and scowls for conversation--provided Caid emerged from his den at all. At least at the inn there was the possibility of a real meal and a discussion made up of full sentences. Hillary parked her car and got out.
As she pushed open the front door, the fragrant smell of dinner made her stomach growl.
“Hello,” she called out.
Joan poked her head from around the corner. “Hillary, what a nice surprise. Come in, come in.” She ushered Hillary into the parlor. “Have you eaten?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Hillary said.
“No trouble at all. Yer being here is actually a stroke of good luck. I’ve a young couple from Manchester staying with me, but they’ve made other plans for dinner and told me at the last moment. I’ve too much food for one person. You must stay.”
“I will, thank you,” Hillary said, pleased to hear Joan’s guests wouldn’t be joining them.
During dinner, Hillary enjoyed the easy conversation with Joan, a pleasant change from Caid’s moodiness.
“So how are things with Caid?” Joan asked, as if reading her mind. “Are you both getting on all right?”
“We’re getting along fine,” Hillary lied.
Joan’s lips thinned and she measured Hillary with shrewd eyes. “And where is he tonight?”
“Working on his book when I left.” That was true at least. “I didn’t want to disturb him.”
“And how is yer work coming?” Joan asked.
“Better now that I’ve found the journals. I had my doubts that I ever would.”
“That’s good news. What have you learned of Anne and Roderick so far?”
“Not a lot,” Hillary admitted. “Roderick comes across as self-absorbed, and his few meetings with Anne have been strange, but relatively uneventful. There was mention of the name Radcliffe. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Aye, it does. Charles Radcliffe owned the cottage where Anne Black lived. He was her landlord. According to legend, Old Charley was absolutely terrified of Anne, and when he tried to evict her, he was suddenly struck blind.”
Nodding, Hillary worked the story over in her mind, sorting fact from legend. “He blamed Anne for his affliction?”
“That he did.”
“Why wasn’t he among the men who hanged her?”
“As I said, Anne terrified him from the start, but once she blinded him, he never spoke against her again, even after she died.”
“Do any of his descendants still live in Culcraig?”
“His son, Tom, was hit by a car this past October on his way home from the pub. A terrible thing, that.”
“How awful. Who hit him?”
“No one knows. The driver never stopped. Such a shame, but no’ a surprise. Poor old Tom was a notorious drunk. Harmless, but a drunk just the same. His grandson never forgave himself for the accident. After all, Tom had his last drink at Willie’s place.”
“Willie, who owns the pub?”
“Aye. You’ve met him?”
“Just once.” Of all the lousy luck. “I thought his last name was Innes.”
“It is. His mother was a Radcliffe. You seem disappointed.”
Now, why would that be? Just because her best lead had threatened bodily harm if she pursued her research. Oh well, it wasn’t Joan’s fault. “I am a little. I don’t think Willie would be too eager to answer my questions.”
“I’m no’ surprised. He and Agnes had a horrible row when he heard she had someone coming to read Roderick’s journals.”
“They argued?” The memory of Willie’s hard eyes boring into hers while he leaned over the table at the pub sent a shiver creeping up her spine. “When?”
“About a week or so
before you arrived.”
And a few days later Agnes was dead? Coincidence? Could Agnes’s accident not have been an accident at all? Could Willie have pushed her down those stairs, maybe hoping to stop Hillary from working with the journals? That seemed like an excessive reaction.
“Why was he so against me writing about Anne?”
“To be honest, yer book has put a number of noses out of joint. There’s more than a few in Culcraig who believe Anne got what she deserved.”
Again Hillary felt that connection with Anne, the connection of the wrongfully accused. “They believe the woman deserved to be strung up from a tree? What was it about her that incites such animosity even today?”
Joan leaned forward, her eyes bright, her expression serious. “For some, Anne’s legend is good for tourists--a few brave men protecting the village from a horrible witch. To say that Anne was simply a woman murdered by a mob of frightened men takes some of the mysticism from the tale, making it ordinary and ugly.”
“And for the others?”
“Well, they fear Anne’s final curse to this day, and they’re afraid yer book will stir her words to life once more.”
Nonsense. What rational person would fear a curse from a woman who had died nearly a century ago? “Anne wasn’t a witch. There’s no such thing.”
“I think you’ll soon learn that where Anne’s concerned, nothing is as it seems.”
“So which camp is Willie in? Superstitious or worried about tourist dollars drying up?” And would he be willing to kill to protect against either?
“Hard to say, really,” Joan mused. “He did lose his granddad, and there’s--”
She stopped speaking abruptly, her lips forming a tight, thin line, as if catching herself just in time.
“There’s what?”
“Agnes’s fall just before yer arrival. People blame the curse.” Joan rose and started to clear the table, her gaze fixed on the task at hand. The woman wasn’t being honest. She was keeping something from Hillary.
The urge to press Joan pounded in time with her pulse. She wanted to know what Joan wasn’t saying, but she bit back on the questions bubbling inside her. Joan had been the only person willing and able to help her so far. She wouldn’t risk damaging their relationship.
Hillary stood and started to help gather the dishes.
“Dinnae be doing that.” Joan waved her away. “You shouldnae be helping with the washing up.”
“It’s the least I can do. Thank you for dinner.”
“I should be thanking you. I enjoyed the company. You must come again and bring Caid with you. We’ll all have a nice wee blether. Does he know ye’re here?”
“No,” Hillary said, thinking it highly unlikely Caid would go anywhere with her. “I didn’t want to disturb him.”
“Oh, dear. I hope he isnae worried.”
She snorted before she could stop herself. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that.”
Caid paced the length of the foyer, the soles of his shoes scraping against the rough wood floor. Where in hell was she? He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten o’clock.
When he’d emerged from the study three hours earlier, he’d been struck by the quiet and the darkness. Not a single light had been turned on. Perhaps Hillary was still locked away in her loft. Funny how he’d come to think of it as hers. He’d pushed the thought away and went upstairs, but when he’d reached the loft, he’d found the room locked and silent. Uneasiness had settled over him.
Spite, he thought, storming from the foyer to the study. He dropped into the overstuffed chair behind the desk. She was trying to make him worry. A childish attempt to remind him that she was angry. Well, he wouldn’t be drawn into her games.
Now who was being manipulative?
That she’d called him that still pissed him off. Almost as much as the knowledge that she might have been right.
Concentrate. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to read his last paragraph on the screen, but the words blurred meaninglessly before his eyes.
What if it wasn’t spite? What if something had happened to her? He leaned back in the chair, tilting his head to look up at the cracked ceiling. If something had happened to her…
The solid clunk of the front door opening made him sit up straight. He leapt from his chair and hurried to the closed study door. As her quiet footfalls approached, he yanked the door open, taking delight when she jumped in surprise.
“Gave you a bit of a fright, did I?”
She pressed her hand to her chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
He didn’t reply, just continued to glare at her. Her hand fell away and she eyed him suspiciously.
“Something wrong?”
“Where were you?”
“Out.” She turned and continued on toward the kitchen.
A steady pulse throbbed in his forehead. He’d been worried sick, and she was walking away? Not bloody likely. He marched after her.
“Aye, so I gathered. Could you no’ have left a note? Or told me you were going? Did it no’ occur to you that I might wonder where you were?”
“Actually, no.” She fiddled with her blasted coffee machine. “Being an adult and all, I guess I didn’t realize I was answerable to you.”
“Someone’s been breaking into this house, coming and going as they please. I dinnae think a note letting me know where you were is too much to ask. I’d have left one for you.”
“You’re right.” She turned and faced him, those soft, dark eyes locking with his. There were times when she literally stole his breath away. “I should’ve told you where I was going. I didn’t think about it, and that was wrong. I apologize.”
He didn’t detect sarcasm. Some of his anger ebbed away and he conceded, “I may have overreacted because I was worried. Where were you?”
“I went to see Joan.”
A bolt of panic flashed through him. Was she planning to leave? “What for?”
“I needed some information about a local family and I stayed for dinner.”
“She fed you?”
“Yes, and very well, too.”
“Now ye’re just being cruel.”
She turned back to making coffee, a slight smile pulling at her soft, full mouth. “Does this mean we’re speaking again?”
“No, I’m just bored.”
“You certainly know how to flatter a girl. Are you having some?”
“Aye, I’ll have a cup.”
She nodded, added another two scoops of grounds to the basket and started the machine.
“How was your day?” she asked, leaning back against the counter. She held her right hand with the left and absently smoothed her palm with her thumb..
“I’ve had better,” he told her. “I didnae get much done. Spent most of the morning on the phone trying to sublet my flat.”
“Any luck?”
“There might be a few people interested. I have to get my belongings out, so I’ll be away tomorrow, and probably spend the night. Fortunately, I dinnae have much.”
She nodded and turned to the coffee, which had finished brewing. He didn’t like leaving her alone, but thought better than to verbalize his concerns. Having found himself on the receiving end of her cutting remarks before, he had no desire to find himself there again. Nor did he want to disturb the uneasy peace between them.
“How do you take it?” she asked, pouring the steaming black liquid into a mug.
“I’ll do it. Sit down.”
He rose and stood next to her while adding cream and sugar to his coffee. She ignored his suggestion to sit down--not that he was surprised--returned the cream to the fridge instead and brushed against his back as she did. A shimmer of unseen energy tingled over his skin. He turned and caught her hand to stop her from moving away.
Her eyes went wide and dark like a forest lake. He could have drowned in them. Her soft, powdery scent with the barest hint of floral wrapped around him, teasing his senses. He wanted to kiss her. To pres
s his mouth to her full, parted lips. To taste her. She’d intrigued him from the start, and wanting her had gnawed dully at the back of his brain for days.
But having her this close, so that he could feel her body’s heat mingling with his own…
The thud of the cream hitting the floor jarred him from him his thoughts. He glanced down as thick, white liquid glugged out over the stone slab.
“Damn it,” Hillary muttered, squatting and righting the carton. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”
He snatched a dishtowel from the counter, hunkered down beside her and started mopping up the mess. “It doesnae matter.”
“The stone is porous.” She stood and soaked a cloth at the sink, then returned to his side. “If the cream soaks in, it’ll stink.”
He snorted. “What’s a wee bit of soured cream compared to the usual dank, musty stink of the place?”
She smiled, but didn’t look up from mess she was wiping. Her hair fell across the delicate lines of her jaw and cheekbone. His fingers itched to push the silky strands away. Despite the benign conversation, the tension from a few minutes ago thickened rather than abated. He forced his gaze back to the mess on the floor.
“That should be good enough,” she said, sitting back on her haunches and eyeing the dark spot on the stone. The faint jagged line of the scar on her hand peeked out from the cloth, drawing his attention. He’d noticed it before, and noticed the way she shut down when he drew attention to the mark.
As she stood, he did likewise, gripping her hand once more. He took the wet towels from her and tossed them into the sink, but didn’t release her. Instead, he ran his thumb over the hardened flesh marring her palm. Her hand fisted instantly.
“What happened?” he asked, lifting his gaze to hers. Her eyes looked huge against the paleness of her skin.
“I cut it. Not a big deal.” A soft rasp edged her voice.
“How? It looks like it was bad.”
She didn’t answer, but tried to tug free of his grip. Instead of letting her go, he pulled her closer, then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. She shivered beneath his touch, tilting her head and giving him better access to her soft, pink mouth.