The Witch's Stone (13 page)

“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.

It shouldn’t bother him. While he listened to his father lecture about failing at something else, Caid would know that his mother had paid, and all behind his father’s back. He should feel elated that he would be pulling one over on the miserable old man. But he didn’t.

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 his 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.

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.

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.